Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75547 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
The new me looks at the roses instead. Two words. No performance. No grandstanding. No claim on anything but responsibility. Mine. Not because I bought you, not because I own you, not because I said so. Because we both said so. Because last night, when the water steamed and my heartbeat climbed into my mouth, he gave me an exit and I made a choice to remain steady with him.
The best part is, I chose it in daylight again this morning. And I’ll keep choosing him, us, this. The mark on my neck is not a secret shame. It’s a signature I signed first.
By two o’clock, I’ve had three separate women ask, with conspiratorial winks, whether the roses are “for something special.” I reply each time, “For a good day.” It feels right.
At three-thirty, a woman in a blue sundress comes in for a mani and pedi. She’s a regular who comes weekly for a manicure and pedicure. She does the basic service because every week she’s going to want a different color and won’t wait to make it worth it for a set of acrylics or to do gel. She looks at the roses, and sighs dramatically. “I told my husband if he ever sends me flowers at work, he has to include cash for the tip jar because all my coworkers will have to listen to me talk about it.”
I laugh. “You’re not wrong.”
She leans in because she’s seen us. “Tell me it’s the biker.”
“It’s the biker.”
She claps her hands once, delighted. “I knew it! My cousin used to date a Hellion. They’re a mess, but they are very hmm.” She searches for a word, settles on, “intense.”
I blink. It hits in that place that’s still learning a new language. Intense. Yes. He is.
By the time closing comes, I am ready to be home with my man.
Absently, I think about Brian and the kind of “big” that used to rule my days—cars, houses, fancy trips, and his control. Then I look at the roses and think about Kellum and the kind of big that matters now: one word in thick handwriting, a hand on my hip at the kitchen counter, a camera over a back door, the long way home on a bike because I asked for wind.
Trina waits until I’m counting out the last twenties to lean in and whisper, “You know you have a hickey, right?”
I choke on a laugh. “Apparently the whole county knows.”
“Good.” She winks. “Let them talk.”
When five hits, I text Kellum a picture of the flowers with a caption that just says you’re trouble of the best kind.
He sends back a period and a heart and then, be there in ten.
My face does that thing again where it tries to split in half with happiness. I’m about to write take your time just to feel like contact with him again when the bell over the door rings, and in he walks, early.
Every head in the room swivels, not subtle. He doesn’t change his position. He just looks at me, looks at the roses, and the corner of his mouth lifts a fraction like he’s pleased with his own work in the world.
“Hi,” I greet, too bright.
“Hey,” he replies, low.
Trina clears her throat. “Sir, we are a professional place of business. Please refrain from—” She waves at my face and neck. “—your obvious deeds.”
Kellum can’t hold back the full smile that erupts like he’s proud of his work. I am, unhelpfully, delighted because I’m proud to be marked and claimed.
I clock out, grab my tote, and we step into evening like the day arranged the lighting just for us. On the sidewalk, he takes my bag without asking, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
It’s the best day. I didn’t know that the best day could be this ordinary, this full of small things. I didn’t know a woman could walk through town with a bouquet and a mark on her neck and feel not shame but joy.
I tuck that away in the place where I keep proof. I might need it later, when the past tries to call me by my old names.
The glow lasts all the way home—until it doesn’t.
We take the long way because I asked for wind, and he gives me that without negotiation. I lean, I breathe, I press my cheek to his back and memorize the steady of him. When we get home, he pulls me in by the hip, steals a kiss that tastes like everything, and says he’s got to run up to the shop to check on a parts order that came in before they close, “twenty minutes,” and I tell him I’ll start a salad because I’m trying to be an adult who eats somewhat healthy on weekdays.
He’s gone three minutes when the first call comes in.