The thought of doing it myself crossed my mind for exactly one second. Giving a call to those florists, or asking our temp receptionist to do it, was not exactly rocket science. But then I realized that there was a fine line between being considerate and a pussy, and hell if I was gonna hop over to the unfortunate side just to please my PA. Sue still worked for me. I had three deals waiting on my desk, a hundred unanswered emails and four business calls I needed to set up. I was not going to spare her feelings and drown in more work. At the same time, this had to be done.

“Oh?” she asked, tucking the iPad under her arm on a pout. “Any message to go with it?” And if eyes could speak, I would be showered with a message full of profanity and physical damage threats.

I told Sue what the cards should say—plural, one for each bouquet—and even though I didn’t mention my name, I had no doubt Rosie would know who was behind this gesture. She fucking better. I made a mental note to ask her if Dr. Dickface still kept in touch with her. If so, I needed to pay him a visit, make sure he understood that I was taking over from here.

Sue slid her forefinger over her iPad, finally making the necessary arrangements as I’d asked her, before lifting her gaze back to me.

“Every rose on the block?”

“Every rose in Manhattan,” I amended.

“That could cost you a pretty penny.”

“I have a beautiful bank account, Sue,” I flashed her a cocky smile. “I can fucking afford it. Anything else?”

“Yes, actually. Can I ask you something, Mr. Cole?”

Again with the Mr. Cole. This chick wasn’t going to let this one go. I rubbed my palm over my chin and sat back. “Go for it.”

“What does Miss LeBlanc have that the rest of the human population doesn’t?” she inquired, meaning I’d never sent anyone flowers, let alone an amount that could potentially fill a whole forest. I smirked, because the answer was so fucking simple, yet so fucking complicated at the same time.

“My heart, Sue,” I said. “She has my heart.”

What makes you feel alive?

Verbal foreplay.

The chase.

The hunt.

But most of all…the part where I surrender.

Rosie

Let me guess, you slept with Sue.

Dean

I think we’re going to have an easier time if I give you a list of the women I haven’t slept with in Manhattan than the other way around.

Rosie

Remind me why I’m having sex with you again?

Dean

Because no other man knows that in order to give you an earth-shattering orgasm, you want your nipple to be pulled at the exact same time I pinch your clit. Because you like me, maybe even love me, although I am willing to wait until you admit that to yourself. I can go on, shall I?

Rosie

God, Dean.

Dean

God and Dean are synonyms. Save battery power. Choose one next time you text me. What do you want to have for dinner?

Rosie

I made plans with Elle.

Dean

Not my favorite dish, but it’s not going to tamper with our plans. Elle can join us. I’ll book us a place at The Red Hill Tavern for eight.

That was before he sent me flowers.

Although, to be completely honest, calling what he did sending me flowers was like calling the Pacific Ocean a small puddle. There were a thousand—maybe more—roses in all colors arriving in chunks. Vans double-parked in front of the café, and honestly, I was starting to get a little irritated with the amount of tips I had to pay all the delivery guys.

“If I swoon any harder over your boyfriend, I will give birth to a freaking ovary right here and now,” Elle threatened, plucking card after card from the dozens of reds, whites, and pinks that filled the café with the alluring scent of freshness and nature. They all had one word and said the same thing.

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

Mine.

A harem of customers vocally wondered what the occasion was, and when Elle answered them, they begged me for a picture of my boyfriend. After I showed them his Facebook profile picture—of him puffing on a cigar, his legs crossed over his office desk in a sharp suit in black and white, they proceeded to tell me that if I won’t marry him within the next year, I was a hopeless idiot, because the man is obviously perfect.

I tended to agree.

Millie and I spent last night talking on the phone for three hours. She was on her honeymoon in the Maldives sipping virgin cocktails in a swimsuit, but still found the time to humor me. Mama and Daddy made zero effort to patch things up with me, and I didn’t reach out to them either—not until they gave up the stupid idea of me moving back to Todos Santos—but I loved hearing all about Millie’s cravings and how her lower abdomen was hard and swollen. Or how she caught Vicious almost shedding a tear at their ultrasound appointment they had, even though he said that he had something in his eye.