Page 61 of Wallflower
I reach across the bed to touch the reason for my wonderful night, but my arm sweeps over the empty space where Chord should be. I sit up, and my stomach flips at the sticky note on the sheets.
You were too beautiful to wake. Back soon.
With a moan of blissful relief, I roll over to his side of the bed, bury my head in his pillow and breathe him in, but it’s no better than the smell of his jersey on my body. Tampa, he told me, because he has better memories of his time there than he does with Calgary, and he doesn’t have his Fury gear yet. I prefer his Tampa jersey, anyway. It’s so worn and comfy, and I adore the idea that a twenty-something Chord wore this once upon a time, and it was significant enough for him to keep.
I check the time on my phone, and when I see that it’s already ten a.m., I shove aside the conscientious voice that says I should have started work an hour ago. Instead, I throw back the covers and go looking for Chord.
A quick check of the house, the porch, and the pool tells me he’s not only not in my bed but also not anywhere on the property. My assumption that he’d beback soonfrom his morning workout was obviously wrong.
I check the garage and his sports car is gone, so I return to my bedroom and pick up my phone but stop short of actually calling him. He’s probably gone out to get us breakfast or something, and I don’t want to bethat girl, so instead, I swipe to check my messages—I have none—then, out of habit, open my social media account.
I’ve all but given up on making anything of it now that I’m only designing for myself, but when I open the app, I’m stunned to see notifications for nearly five hundred new followers. I flip through my feed to see if I’ve been hacked. No. Everything is thesame as it was, but then I notice I’ve been tagged in a dozen or so posts.
I’m too confused to be alarmed, but panic flickers in my pulse as soon as I navigate to one of the images. It’s Chord at The Slippery Tipple, carrying me out of there in his big strong arms. His face is hard and cold, mine is buried against his neck, and there are my boots dangling from his hand. In the background, other customers have their phones raised and pointed at us.
I scroll through to more tags and more pictures. A few more are from that same night—I don’t remember sittingonthe bar, but there I am with Chord slipping off my shoes like I’m some sort of drunk Cinderella—but the rest are from our trip to San Francisco. Chord holding my hand on the street. Chord guiding me into his car with a hand on my lower back. Chord looking at me with a small smile on his mouth. Me gazing at him like he hung the moon.
I’m almost afraid to read the comments, but I swipe my thumb against the screen anyway. About halfway down the thread, someone identifies and tags me as the woman in the pictures, and that explains the boost to my follower count.
Maybe I should be happy about this, but I’m not. Something about it feels icky and exposed.
I tap to open my profile info and debate the idea of replacing my bio picture with something anonymous. I’ve almost uploaded a blank white circle when I hear the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. I drop my phone on the bed and dash to the window to see Chord’s sports car pull up to the front of the house.
One of the knots in my chest unravels and I smile to myself as Chord gets out of the car. But weirdly, the passenger-side door swings open at the same time, and someone else steps out.
I gasp and spin around, rushing down the hallway and almost tripping on the stairs in my hurry to get to the front door. I flingit open and throw myself through it, skipping down the porch steps and straight into the open arms of my dad.
“Well, that’s a warm welcome, Blossom.” He chuckles before dropping a kiss on my head and tightening his embrace. “I’ve missed you too,” he murmurs against my hair.
I pull back and look at him with a kind of wonder, then concern. When things are good, my father is young and fit and, if not vibrant, he’s at least got energy. But in the three weeks since I last saw him, he’s lost a little weight, and there are shadows under his eyes. It’s not drastic enough that anyone else would notice it, but my relief at seeing him gives way to a pang of sadness—and a little fear.
I offer Chord a grateful smile, but he hangs back with an expression that’s part satisfied and part… entertained. His blue eyes dance as they sweep down my body and back up again, which is when I realize I’m standing in the driveway, ignoring the sharp stabs of stones underneath my bare feet because I’m so happy to see my dad—and I’m wearing nothing but Chord’s jersey.
If it were possible to self-combust from embarrassment, this would be the moment for it to happen. Every inch of my body bursts with shame, and I tug at the hem of the shirt to try and give it more length. When that doesn’t work, I shift from foot to foot and attempt to smooth my bed hair.
Dad rubs his jaw to hide a frown just as Chord shakes his head and closes the door to the car.
“Perhaps we should have called first,” Dad says. “Given you a chance to, ah… freshen up.”
“No, it’s okay. I, um…”
I throw a pleading glance toward Chord, and he moves just close enough to keep a respectable distance. I don’t know where to look—at Chord, at my dad—so I settle on somewhere awkward between the two.
“I thought you and your dad could catch up over a cup of coffee before I take him around to his accommodation,” Chord explains.
That gets my attention. “His accommodation?”
“Yeah.” Chord gives Dad a friendly nod, which he returns with an appreciation and humility that breaks my heart. “I asked Mr. James—I mean, Luke—if he might have some time to help me on the ranch this summer. Those fences are taking a lot longer than I expected, and with team training kicking off this week, I’ll feel better knowing that the work is getting done even when I can’t be out there doing it myself. Charlie was able to find an empty cabin for a few weeks at least, and Luke mentioned he was available to stay a while.”
Dad scratches an eyebrow and tilts his head so he’s not looking straight at the daughter wearing the rich and famous hockey player’s jersey and not much else. “Chord mentioned there might be other things that need doing. Handyman-type things here and there, and I didn’t have anything urgent keeping me at home. You don’t mind your old man hanging around for a few weeks, do you, Blossom? I promise not to get in your way. You’ll hardly know I’m here.”
“No! I love the idea. You’ll be a huge help. Let’s go inside and talk about it, and then you can get settled in.”
I grab Dad’s hand and blink away the sting in my eyes as I throw Chord a look of gratitude.Thank you, I mouth. He responds with a straight-faced wink that makes me giddy.
“Luke,” Chord says. “You go on in and make yourself comfortable. The kitchen is easy to find—follow the hallway, and you can’t miss it—and Violet will be in soon. I just need to have a word with her first.”
I squeeze Dad’s hand. “I won’t be long.”
