THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 1

Three days following her ill-fated make-out session with Oliver, Naomi finally had something to smile about.

She and Deena had just finished the first tour of the new office, and it was absolute perfection.

Truth be told, she’d been prepared to make the new office earn a place in her heart, but she’d been smitten within seconds. Naomi thought she’d given the design team an impossible task—make the space feel open while still ensuring everyone had privacy to focus.

She knew “open floor plans” were all the rage, and she was all for collaboration, but she also respected that not everybody worked well staring at the person across from them or listening to their neighbor chirping in their ear. The design team she’d brought in had been worth every penny. Each floor was centered around a communal area with conference tables, couches, and multi-person desks, while the perimeter of each floor housed “micro-offices”—individual spaces for employees to close the door and work in silence or take a phone call, but with glass walls ensuring that even the center workspace was lit by natural light.

Naomi’s own office was a bit smaller than her old one, per her request, but it didn’t feel it. The glass desk and white cabinets felt fresh and fun, as did the pop of coral accents to match Maxcessory’s distinctive logo.

Over the past few weeks, Naomi had deliberately pulled back from her usual 110 percent. Partially to see how her team handled it, partially to address the stress of Brayden’s death, and then Walter coming into her life.

But now she was more ready than ever to get back to it. Move-in day for the new office was Monday, which couldn’t come soon enough. She needed something to distract her, needed distance—literal distance—from Oliver Cunningham.

Naomi was humming a Spice Girls song that had been going through her head ever since it came on her Throwback Thursday running playlist that morning, but she stopped dead in her tracks as she got to her floor in the apartment building.

There were flowers sitting at her door. Not a lavish bouquet, but small and elegant with white roses and little sprigs of green.

“Hello there, my pretties,” she said, crouching down. She poked gingerly amid the buds, looking for a card. Not finding one, she picked up the cardboard box covering the base.

“Birthday?”

Naomi’s head whipped around to see Oliver coming up the steps. She hadn’t seen him since Tuesday afternoon when he’d gotten home from work and told her coolly that Janice would be back on Wednesday, and she was off the hook from Walter duty.

Then, as now, he was back to wearing his usual suits. All signs of casual, teasing Oliver were long gone, and she told herself it was better this way, even as a little sliver of her heart wondered what she was missing out on. What they were missing out on.

“No,” she said by way of response, standing with the flowers in hand. “I don’t actually know what they’re for.”

She didn’t mention that for one idiotic moment she’d thought—hoped—they might be from him. But his expression said otherwise.

“Perhaps they’re from last weekend’s date,” he said casually, coming to lean on the wall beside her door. “Or this upcoming weekend’s date?”

There was a clear question in his voice, which she ignored. “I don’t know who they’re from,” she said honestly. “I can’t find a card anywhere.”

He frowned slightly and reached out to search within the blooms. “You’re right. Maybe in the box?”

“Probably.” She started to juggle the flowers in one arm to get at her keys in her purse, but nearly dropped the bouquet. She shoved it at Oliver. “Here, hold these?”

“Every man’s dream, to hold flowers for a woman.”

“They’re probably from Claire or Audrey.”

“Girlfriends send each other flowers?”

“Sometimes. If they need cheering up,” she said, finding the keys at the bottom of the bag. “Say, like if her love life was feeling really complicated?”

“Hey,” he said, his voice sharp enough to have her looking up. “You’re the one who walked out, Naomi.”

“Because your dad caught us and called me the help,” she snapped.

“He’s sick! He doesn’t know what he’s saying!”

“Yeah, well, I got the impression he was pretty lucid at that moment.”

Oliver’s eyes turned angry. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I think the Walter we saw that night was the real Walter.”

He looked away, telling her that she was right. Not that she needed the confirmation. She already knew the real Walter, and it wasn’t the petulant man-child who adorably liked hard-boiled eggs and the History Channel.

“You know what?” she said tiredly, shoving her key into the lock. “I don’t even mind what your dad said. Whether it was because of the illness or just because he’s a jackass. But I do mind that you didn’t say a word in my defense. The help?”

He dragged a hand over his face, looking as exhausted as she felt. “What would it have mattered? He’d have forgotten in thirty seconds anyway.”

“Yeah, but I would have remembered, Oliver. I would have remembered.”

She reached out to take the flowers, but he held them away from her. Naomi gave him a look. “Really?”

“I was engaged,” he said out of nowhere. “Did you know that?”

Her hands dropped slowly, and she adjusted her purse on her shoulder. “I did not.”

Oliver gave a jerky nod. “A few years ago. We put off the wedding planning when my mom got sick. We talked about trying to do it faster, so Mom could be there, but my mom refused. Said she’d rather miss our wedding than die knowing we’d rushed it. So we waited. Bridget held my hand through the funeral. Waited the appropriate amount of time before diving into wedding planning. Then Dad started showing symptoms . . .”

Naomi swallowed, not at all liking where this was going. And not liking this fiancée one bit.

“We took turns caring for him, and I thought, okay, this sucks, but we’re in it together. But the worse he got, the more reluctant she became to set a date or even discuss wedding details. By the time we got his diagnosis and it became clear this wasn’t a short-term problem, she was just sort of . . . done. Said she loved me, but that this wasn’t what she’d signed up for, that it was just too much.”

Oliver shrugged as though it wasn’t a big deal, but the way he wouldn’t meet her eyes told her it was. Of course it was. What sort of person agrees to marry someone and then bails when the going gets tough?

“Why are you telling me this?” she asked softly.

This time he did meet her eyes. “I told myself then that if and when I got involved with someone again, it had to be someone who understood that Walter and I were a package deal. Someone who wouldn’t bail when things got difficult.”

Well . . . crap.

“And I bailed,” she said softly.

He lifted a shoulder. “I don’t blame you. But he’s not going to be better, Naomi. That stuff he said to you on Monday? Not even close to the worst I’ve heard him say. Not about you, just . . . in general. He wasn’t a nice man before, and now that he’s confused, he’s . . . difficult. I am sorry for what he said, but I also can’t help it. He can’t help it. I understand completely if you want no part of it—you barely know us, but . . . I can’t—”

“Be with someone who can’t handle your dad?”

He nodded jerkily. “But I am grateful for what you’ve done for Dad these last couple weeks. And for me. It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone to come home to who didn’t throw hard-boiled eggs at me. Someone to just talk about my day with . . .”

He broke off and gave a quick shake of his head. “Anyway. Here are your flowers.” He handed them back. He nodded, then turned back toward his own apartment.

Naomi chewed her lip, weighing the wisdom of what she was about to do.

“Hey, Oliver.”

He paused just before entering his apartment.

“Do you want to come in? If you don’t have to relieve Janice quite yet? I could make us a drink. Coffee? Tea?”

He narrowed his eyes slightly, clearly trying to figure her out.

“I liked talking to someone about my day, too,” she admitted, surprised at how vulnerable the admission made her feel. And how true it was.

He hesitated. “I don’t know if—”

“As friends,” she said quickly. “I understand you’re not looking for . . . more. At least not with me. But you still need friends, right?”

He studied her a long moment, then gave her a smile that melted her insides. “Yeah. Okay. Let me change clothes real quick, and I’ll be right there.”

Naomi nodded, then went into her apartment, setting the flowers on the counter, resuming her humming of the Spice Girls song as she gently pulled the arrangement out of the cardboard delivery box.

Her pausing hummed when the box fell away to reveal the base of the bouquet. Not a vase, as she’d thought.

A mug.

As expected, the card had slipped to the bottom of the box, and though she already knew who the flowers were from, the message had her smiling all the same.

It’s no Dom Pérignon, but this is a nice use for a mug, too.

—Ollie

The flowers were so much better than expensive champagne.