You Had Me at Hockey (Bears Hockey #2) - Kelly Jamieson Page 0,86

the best classes I’ve had. And I feel better after. I may not be able to walk tomorrow, but right now I feel good.

I pick up a breakfast bagel sandwich and a coffee on my way home, where I shower for the first time in days. And with shampooed hair and my Flowerbomb lotion rubbed into my skin, smelling of jasmine, roses, orchids, and freesia, I feel even better. Not great, but better.

Since I have no intention of leaving my condo again for the foreseeable future, I dress in my softest black leggings and a big gray hoodie. I’m about to bite into my sandwich when my phone buzzes. It’s the doorman downstairs, Bowen. He’s bringing up a delivery.

Huh. Okay.

I open the door and I can’t even see him behind the enormous bouquet of pale pink roses.

“Whoa.” I step aside and let him carry them in. “Just set them on the counter. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiles. “They’re beautiful.”

They are. I stare at them for a moment and then notice the small envelope. I pluck it out of the greenery and open it.

Roses are red, violets are blue.

I screwed up and without you I’m poo.

I have to read it again. I crack up laughing, but my laughter is almost a sob. I don’t even need to see the name beneath the bad poem: Josh.

I carefully lift the vase out of the cardboard box and set it on the counter. The flowers are gorgeous—the exact color of pink I love, not hot pink or bubblegum pink, but a soft blush pink. I stare at them for a long time, my chest burning.

What does this mean?

Is this an apology? Does he want to get back together?

Is that what I want?

I nibble on my bottom lip. I don’t know what to do. Send him a thank-you? Ignore him? Tell him I miss him like I’d miss my liver if it was sliced out of my body?

Gross.

I move the flowers onto the credenza in the living room. They look perfect against the gray wall with my gray-and-pink décor.

I gaze at them while I sit on my couch and eat my sandwich and drink my coffee. I’m just finishing when I get another call. It’s Bowen in the lobby again, with another delivery.

This one’s in a box, wrapped in glossy black paper with a pink bow.

I open it slowly to find a bottle of Möet & Chandon Rosé Impérial.

Holy shit.

I’ve never had the stuff. I could afford it, but wow, that’s a splurge for a bottle of wine.

There’s another card inside.

Roses are red, violets are blue.

I’m an idiot and I need you.

Stupid tears. I press the edge of my hand beneath my stinging nose.

I check the time. It’s two o’clock. I don’t even know where he is. Is the team home from Columbus? What is he doing?

I hold my phone in both hands.

Then I send him a text: I’m not drinking this rosé alone.

I don’t get a response right away, so I set down my phone.

So much for my plan to get back to normal today. I was going to get caught up and edit some video but now all I can do is pace around and think of Josh, my mind spinning in useless circles.

An hour later, my phone rings again. It’s Bowen.

“Another delivery?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay, bring it up. Thanks, Bowen.”

Now what? I hop around, nerves jittering, stomach fluttering like hummingbird wings.

I rush to the door to answer the knock. But it’s not Bowen…it’s Josh.

He’s holding a small pastel-green box in both hands. But it’s his face my eyes are glued to—solemn. Handsome. Intense. His eyes brim with emotion.

Our eyes meet and he doesn’t move a muscle. We gaze at each other in a protracted trembling moment of questions and nerves and…hope.

“Are you the delivery?” I ask, my voice husky.

The corners of his mouth twitch. “Yeah.”

“Oh.” I swallow. “Come in.” I step aside and he walks in.

“These are for you.” He turns and hands me the box.

I take the box, instantly recognizing the Ladurée decoration and logo. “Oh…” I set it on the counter and carefully open it to reveal a dozen pink macarons. “Are they Marie Antoinette?”

“Yeah.”

“My favorite.” My heart has climbed into my throat.

“I know.”

“Thank you. And for the flowers. And the wine. I…” I look up. “And for the poems.” My lips quiver into a smile. “No poem with these?”

“I kind of ran out of creativity.” He rubs the back of his neck, his forehead wrinkled. “How about this? Roses