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He loves my story. He believes in Cecilia. Likes her. Gets her.

And if he values Cecilia, he values . . .

No. I can’t make assumptions.

I stand up, and with it, my resolution is clear.

Sam or not, I am falling for my mystery man.

Chapter 14

There are flowers on my desk.

Big, floppy pink flowers spiraling out in a dozen directions, supported by bright-green leaves and baby’s breath. The room smells like I’ve walked into a Bath & Body Works.

It’s just before lunch, and I’m returning to my desk after dropping by Yossi’s office to talk about Charles Henry, the new acquisition I gained after Giselle’s departure to the first floor (where she still files her nails during work hours). The flowers weren’t here thirty minutes ago. And yet here they are now. Waiting patiently for me.

On Valentine’s Day.

I take a tentative step toward them while trying to manage my expectations. I have no boyfriend. My mother and father, for all their merits, are too busy handling a catering event at the nonprofit downtown today to send me a pity bouquet given my single status and my sister’s looming wedding date. So that leaves . . .

I dare not think it.

I just reach for the card.

I open the gold-sheen envelope and, with nearly shaking fingers, pull out the card. The message is typed beneath the header of Enchanted Florist, and reads: And tonight I’ll fall asleep with you in my heart.

I stare at the words.

So honest. So raw.

He’s just come out and said it. Taken the leap.

And I realize we’re jumping ahead to a new level in all this. The level where we’re openly putting aside the games and bravely asking the question: What do you think—not about scenes and characters and settings . . . but about us?

I feel my face flushing and wish with all my heart in this moment Lyla was here to talk this over with instead of taking the day off to work an event at the Dolly Parton–inspired rooftop bar for Valentine’s Day.

But as she’s not, I guess I’d have to say . . . yes.

I’m ready to take a step forward.

Although I chatted around and found out Sam and Giselle broke it off a couple of months ago, there is still risk involved. To openly accept a date with Sam again would be considered mutiny. Giselle might not be my boss anymore, but she is still scary.

Clever scary when she wants to be.

The worst kind.

The poisons-your-yogurt-in-the-community-kitchen worst kind.

I’m just sitting at my desk, spinning the card in my hand as I think through all the ways she could make my life anywhere from unpleasant to no longer existent, when a knock at the open door startles me.

I turn.

“Ferris. Hi,” I say, sweeping the card into a drawer and shutting it.

“Hello,” he says, smiling broadly. He steps inside as his eyes move over the flowers on my desk. “So . . . Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“You too,” I reply quickly, standing so that I’m in front of the flowers. I don’t know why, but I feel the need to conceal them from him, to get them out of the forefront of conversation as much as possible. For one thing, I have no desire to explain my mystery situation. For another . . . Why, exactly?