Page 17 of Worth the Wait
“Peonies,” she repeats, her voice carefully neutral, and I can see the exact moment she realizes why I’ve suggested them.
She’s quiet for a long moment, her fingers unconsciously touching one of the rose arrangements on the table.
“They’re beautiful flowers. Expensive this time of year,” she says finally, her professional mask firmly in place but something vulnerable flickering in her eyes. “Are you sure that’s what you want for the centerpieces?”
She’s not talking about logistics or sourcing—we both know her vendors can get any flowers we need. She’s asking if I’m sure I want to bring her favorite flowers into an event that’s supposed to be strictly professional.
“But they’re beautiful,” I say, meeting her eyes across the conference table. “Some things are worth the extra cost.”
As the words hang between us, it’s as if we both know I’m not really talking about flowers anymore.
After all, peonies were her favorite flowers, a detail I’ve remembered for four years despite my best efforts to forget everything about our time together.
I used to have them shipped from Oregon for her birthday, for our monthly anniversaries (all seven of them), for random Tuesday afternoons when I wanted to see her smile. Pale-pink peonies that she’d arrange in the simple glass vase she kept on her kitchen counter, flowers that cost more than her weekly grocery budget but made her happy in ways that justified every penny.
“Cameron,” she begins, then stops, seeming to choose her words carefully. “I think we should focus on practical options that serve Sterling Industries’ needs.”
I take a sip of the coffee, grateful for the caffeine even though it’s grown lukewarm during Lianne’s presentation. The silence stretches until I can’t stand it anymore.
“You’re absolutely right,” I say finally. “The roses then, the traditional arrangement. That’s the right choice for Sterling Industries.”
It’s the safe choice, the practical choice, the option that doesn’t carry emotional baggage or memories of Oregon peonies and kitchen counter vases.
Lianne nods, making notes in her portfolio with movements that are a little too brisk, a little too controlled.
“Excellent. I’ll coordinate with the florist to ensure proper quantities and delivery timing.” She’s back in professional mode, but there’s a tension in her shoulders that wasn’t there before. “Is there anything else you’d like to review while you’re here?”
I should say no. Should let her get back to her work while I go home and sleep off the jet lag that’s making me say things I have no business saying.
Instead, I find myself fighting back a yawn that threatens to crack my jaw.
Lianne notices immediately, her expression softening from professional courtesy to something that looks almost like concern.
“You really don’t have to be doing this, you know,” she says. “I mean, personally reviewing floral arrangements? Most executives at your level delegate these kinds of decisions to their teams.”
She’s giving me an out, a graceful way to step back from the hands-on involvement that’s forced us into each other’s orbits. A chance to return to the kind of arm’s-length business relationship that would be easier for both of us.
The smart thing would be to take it.
“I want to be here,” I say instead, the words coming out with more honesty than I intended. “Not because I don’t trust your judgment or your company’s capabilities. You’re the best at what you do, and I know that. But I want to be involved in this. I want to be part of creating something meaningful.”
Lianne stares at me for a long moment, her dark eyes searching my face for something I’m not sure I’m brave enough to let her find. “Why?” she asks quietly.
It’s a simple question with a complicated answer. Because I’ve spent four years wondering what might have happened if I’d made different choices. Because seeing her again reminded me of what it felt like to want something more than money or family approval. Because watching her work, seeing the passion and creativity she brings to everything she touches, makes me remember why I fell for her in the first place.
Because I’m starting to think that walking away from her was the biggest mistake I’ve ever made.
But I can’t say any of that. Not yet. Not when she’s looking at me like she’s trying to decide whether I’m worth the risk of letting her guard down.
“Because this matters,” I say finally. “The anniversary celebration, yes, but also... working with you again. Seeing what you’ve built, who you’ve become. I missed that.”
The last sentence slips out before I can stop it, too honest and too personal for a business meeting about floral arrangements.
Lianne’s breath catches, and for a moment I think she might say something that changes everything between us. Something that acknowledges what we used to have, what we might still have if we’re brave enough to reach for it.
Instead, she looks down at her notes, her professional mask sliding back into place with practiced efficiency.
“I think we’ve covered everything for today,” she says, her voice carefully controlled. “I’ll have the final floral specifications to you by tomorrow, along with updated timeline documents. And don’t forget we have the wine vendor meeting in Santa Barbara on Thursday.”
