“I had an early morning meet-up with my friend, Ava, from the Rescue Center, who told me she knows someone who confirmed the Spagarellis’ neighbors tried to notify authorities of the abuse but the lead got kicked around and no one followed up. I’m sending you the contact info now—we need to call ASAP. I don’t think they even interviewed this guy, did they?”
Excitement hit. A new witness could be critical, especially with a messed-up report that never got properly filed. His phone dinged and he checked his sources. “No, he’s not even on this list. I’m on it. Great work.”
“Thanks.”
“You got roses.”
She paused, as if just processing her surroundings. Slowly, she turned her head, studying the explosion of perfect, full, fragrant blooms. “Hmm, seems I did.” She plucked the card from the envelope, read it, then tucked it into her desk drawer. He watched her face, probing for any type of emotion, especially happiness, but it was like she wore a mask.
He kept talking. “They’re beautiful. You must’ve made a memorable impression last night.”
She arched her brow, crossed her arms in front of her chest, and regarded him coolly. “Think so?”
He threw up his hands in mock surrender. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Sure you didn’t. It’s nice to feel appreciated. Remembered.”
He jerked back slightly, her last word a stinging slap. “You’re right. God knows you deserve to be treated like a queen. I just wonder if he knows you well at all.”
A scathing laugh filled his ears. “He knows me just fine. Enough to know how much I love flowers.”
“Yeah, but not roses.” Her gaze narrowed but he rushed on. “You love wildflowers. A bunch of loud, bright colors in different shapes that never seemed to match. But when you put them together, they became extraordinary, like broken pieces suddenly whole.” He smiled. “You mixed them with weeds, but refused to term them that. You said they were proof of how raw beauty is better than any hothouse flower that looks perfect but dies too soon. Remember?”
He waited for her to toss a biting retort and leave. Instead, a haunted expression flickered over her face, as if he’d suddenly broken through a wall. “Yeah. I remember.”
A deep ache of wanting spread through him. His gaze locked on hers, and he dove deep, looking for the woman he knew and loved, urging her to give him a sign it wasn’t too late. “Do you also remember when I stopped the car on our way to Minnewaska? I spotted that field filled with so many yellow and purple flowers it looked like a painting. I pulled over, raced up the hill, and picked you that bouquet.”
“You got stung by a bee.”
Owen laughed, shaking his head. “I did. Hurt like a mother. But your smile when I handed you those flowers filled me up for days on end. Sometimes, I still fall asleep at night remembering your smile and the way you made me feel I could take on the world because you loved me.”
Her eyes widened, and she spun away, as if desperately needing space. “Don’t.”
“Sorry. I don’t mean to upset you.” A few beats of silence settled between them. “It was probably stupid anyway. Can you imagine receiving a bunch of daisies with the grass still hanging from the roots? I should have given you what you always deserved—roses, stargazer lilies, something beautiful and elegant and timeless.” Emotion choked him, but he kept his voice neutral. “This guy at least sees that in you.”
He prepared for the steely silence he probably deserved and tried to focus on the work. At least he could do this. Right a wrong. Save an animal. Make a small difference. It seemed to be the only thing left that soothed his soul and gave him purpose since her.
“Owen?”
“Yeah?”
“I hate roses. They’re full of pretense.” He held his breath, afraid to break the fragile connection, sensing something critical was about to be revealed. She still didn’t look at him, but her voice had softened. “I took some daisies from that bouquet you gave me that day and kept them. Pressed them into my favorite book.”
“The Art of Racing in the Rain?”
Her body shuddered. “Yes.”
Owen couldn’t take it anymore. He got up and walked over to her, standing a few inches behind. Buzzing waves of energy shot from her figure, but she kept her head down, refusing to face him. “Chloe, I’m begging you for one thing. Have dinner with me. Just once. Let me say what