Chapter 2 - The Man Behind the FlowersI found out Adrian had investigated Theo three days after the roses arrived, and not because Adrian admitted it.
He would have taken that secret to the grave if Lily had not stolen his tablet.
Technically, she claimed she had borrowed it. Lily had a very flexible relationship with the concept of ownership, especially when the object in question belonged to her older brother and promised even the smallest possibility of embarrassing him.
I was in the breakfast room replacing a vase of white roses when she came sliding through the doorway in silk pajamas and socks.
“Claire.”
The way she said my name immediately made me suspicious.
“No.”
“I haven’t asked anything.”
“You have the face you make before asking something that will eventually require a lawyer.”
She pressed the tablet against her chest. “Would you consider it deeply romantic or deeply disturbing if a man ordered a private background report on another man because he sent you flowers?”
The vase nearly slipped from my hands.
“What?”
Lily’s grin widened.
Behind her, the breakfast room door opened.
Adrian walked in.
I had never seen a human expression disappear so quickly.
Lily turned slowly toward him, still holding the tablet.
“Oh,” she said brightly. “Good morning.”
Adrian stopped.
His gaze traveled from Lily to the tablet, then to me.
He did not ask what she was doing.
That told me everything.
I put the vase down.
“Did you investigate Theo?”
Lily quietly moved toward the nearest exit.
“Stay,” Adrian said.
She froze.
“I actually have a very busy—”
“Lily.”
She dropped into a chair with theatrical resignation.
I folded my arms. “Adrian.”
He walked to the coffee service as though this conversation concerned quarterly tax projections.
“I requested basic information.”
“You had a file.”
“A concise file.”
“That distinction does not improve things.”
He poured coffee.
His hands were perfectly steady.
Mine were not.
For almost two years, I had worked at Whitmore Manor as something between a household coordinator, event planner, personal assistant, and occasional referee between Adrian and the rest of humanity. Adrian trusted me with contracts, guest lists, charity dinners, household expenses, and Lily’s disasters.
But my personal life had always remained mine.
Until a thousand roses arrived.
“What exactly did you want to know?” I asked.
“Whether he was legitimate.”
“He owns flower shops.”
“So did several people investigated for financial crimes last year.”
Lily covered her mouth.
I pointed at her. “Do not laugh.”
“I’m not.”
She absolutely was.
I looked back at Adrian. “Theo sells peonies to brides and sends free arrangements to pediatric wards.”
Adrian lifted his coffee.
“That does not exclude financial misconduct.”
“You sound insane.”
“I sound cautious.”
“You sound jealous,” Lily corrected.
The silence that followed was astonishing.
Adrian slowly put down his cup.
Lily visibly regretted existing.
I should have laughed.
Instead, something uncomfortable moved beneath my ribs.
Adrian Whitmore did not get jealous.
Jealousy required attachment, and attachment was something he spoke about as though it were a contagious disease.
His father had taught him that.
Everyone who had worked for the Whitmores long enough knew some version of the history. Richard Whitmore had built the family fortune by treating people as numbers and relationships as transactions. Adrian’s mother had left when he was seventeen after years of a miserable marriage. Richard had died six years later, leaving Adrian an empire and enough emotional damage to populate several therapy offices.
Adrian had responded by becoming harder than his father.
At least on the surface.
“I am not jealous,” he said.
“Of course not,” Lily answered.
His eyes moved to her.
She immediately reached for toast.
I exhaled. “Whatever this is, it stops now. Theo is my friend.”
Something changed in Adrian’s face.
It was small.
Almost invisible.
“Friend?”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t describe him that way before.”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I am asking now.”
“You don’t get to.”
His jaw tightened.
There it was.
The tension I had been pretending not to notice since the roses arrived.
The missing red rose.
The strange comments at dinner.
The way his attention had followed me when I carried the flowers into the library.
I lowered my voice. “Adrian, what is this really about?”
For one second, he looked like he might answer.
Then the wall came back up.
“Nothing.”
I laughed once, without humor. “Right.”
I turned to leave.
“Claire.”
I stopped but did not look at him.
“Did the flowers make you happy?”
The question was so unlike him that I turned around.
Adrian stood beside the breakfast table, one hand resting against the back of a chair.
His expression was unreadable.
“Yes,” I said.
He nodded once.
Then he picked up his coffee as if the answer had not mattered.
But I suddenly knew it had mattered far too much.
That afternoon, Theo called.
I was organizing correspondence in the small office off the west hall when my phone vibrated.
“You survived the floral apocalypse?” he asked.
I smiled despite myself.
“Barely. Mrs. Donnelly is still finding petals in rooms nobody entered.”
“That sounds like a success.”
“That sounds like you owe our housekeeping staff an apology.”
“I sent chocolates.”
“You sent six boxes.”
“I’m learning restraint.”
Theo Mercer had been my friend for almost seven years.
We met when I worked at a hotel in Manhattan and he was delivering flowers for his aunt. At the time, Theo had one van, too much optimism, and a business plan written on the back of three restaurant napkins.
Now he owned four shops.
He was funny, uncomplicated, and kind in a way that made people automatically trust him.
Which was precisely why Adrian’s reaction made no sense.
“The card caused trouble, didn’t it?” Theo asked.
I leaned back in my chair.
“You could say that.”
“Whitmore?”
My silence answered.
Theo laughed.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Theo.”
“I’m just remembering your description of him.”
“What description?”
“Emotionally constipated aristocrat with excellent suits.”
I closed my eyes.
“I said that once.”
“Twice.”
“I was angry.”
“You were accurate.”
I lowered my voice instinctively even though Adrian was nowhere nearby.
“The flowers were beautiful. Completely excessive, but beautiful.”
“You deserved excessive.”
His tone softened.
Something in it made me sit straighter.
“Theo.”
“Relax. I’m not proposing marriage.”
“Good.”
“Yet.”
I groaned.
He laughed.
That was Theo. He could turn almost anything into a joke.
But after the call ended, I stared at my phone longer than necessary.
Because Adrian had asked what I saw in him.
And for the first time, I wondered if Theo’s gesture had been entirely friendly.
I was still thinking about it when Adrian entered the office without knocking.
He rarely came into my workspace.
“You’re needed in the library,” he said.
“For what?”
“The Harrington Foundation dinner.”
“That isn’t until next Thursday.”
“We’re changing the seating plan.”
I stared at him.
“The seating plan I finalized yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“One of the guests is no longer attending.”
“Who?”
“Theo Mercer.”
I stopped breathing for half a second.
“Theo wasn’t invited.”
“He is now.”
I stood.
“Excuse me?”
Adrian’s expression remained perfectly neutral.
“I’ve added him.”
“Why?”
“You said he makes you happy.”
I searched his face.
“And?”
“I would like to evaluate whether his presence improves the evening.”
My mouth fell open.
“Evaluate?”
“Observe.”
“You’re inviting my friend to a formal charity dinner so you can study him?”
“That is an unnecessarily dramatic interpretation.”
“It is literally what you just said.”
Adrian turned toward the door.
“Seven o’clock. Black tie.”
“Adrian.”
He paused.
“What?”
“You cannot interrogate him.”
“I don’t interrogate dinner guests.”
“Your normal conversations sound like depositions.”
A faint movement touched the corner of his mouth.
Almost a smile.
Then it disappeared.
“Tell him he’s invited.”
He left before I could argue.
Theo, predictably, thought the entire situation was hilarious.
“Absolutely.”
“No.”
“I’m coming.”
“Theo.”
“Claire, a billionaire who hates love has invited the man who sent you roses to dinner. I would cancel surgery to witness this.”
“You don’t have surgery scheduled.”
“Exactly. My calendar is clear.”
“Theo.”
“I own a tuxedo.”
“That isn’t the issue.”
“It fits.”
“Theo.”
“I’ll bring flowers.”
“If you bring a single flower, I will personally throw you into the Hudson.”
He laughed for nearly thirty seconds.
Thursday arrived too quickly.
The Harrington Foundation dinner was one of Adrian’s smaller events, which in Whitmore terms meant forty-two guests, a string quartet, five courses, two senators, three CEOs, and enough old money to destabilize a minor nation.
I spent the day checking arrangements.
By six thirty, I changed into the black dress Lily had insisted I wear.
It was simple, sleeveless, fitted at the waist, and far more elegant than anything I normally wore while working.
Lily found me in the upstairs hall.
She stopped dramatically.
“Oh, Adrian is going to suffer.”
“Please don’t start.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m working.”
“You have earrings on.”
“Employees can wear jewelry.”
“You curled your hair.”
“The humidity destroyed it last week.”
“You’re wearing perfume.”
I stared at her.
She lifted both hands.
“I’m only documenting evidence.”
At seven fifteen, Theo arrived.
And unfortunately for my sanity, he looked very good.
His dark tuxedo fit perfectly. His usually messy brown hair was controlled for once, and his smile filled the foyer before he had spoken a word.
“For the record,” he said, holding out his empty hands, “no flowers.”
“Thank you.”
“I considered bringing one.”
“I would have killed you.”
“That’s why I didn’t.”
He kissed my cheek.
I heard footsteps behind me.
I knew who it was before I turned.
Adrian descended the staircase slowly.
Black tuxedo.
White shirt.
No tie pin.
Expression carved from stone.
Theo followed my gaze.
“Oh,” he murmured. “This is going to be fun.”
“Behave.”
“I always behave.”
“That is objectively false.”
Adrian reached us.
“Mr. Mercer.”
“Mr. Whitmore.”
They shook hands.
For an absurd second, I thought they might attempt to crush each other’s fingers.
Then Theo smiled.
“Beautiful house.”
“Thank you.”
“I particularly like the roses.”
Adrian’s eyes narrowed.
I closed mine.
Theo continued, “Claire tells me they’re still everywhere.”
“They are difficult to avoid.”
“So was the point.”
“I assumed as much.”
Theo looked delighted.
Adrian looked murderous.
I stepped between them emotionally if not physically.
“The dining room is ready.”
Adrian’s eyes moved to me.
For one long moment, he simply stared.
I suddenly became conscious of the dress.
The bare skin at my shoulders.
The perfume Lily had sprayed on me after declaring my original choice “too responsible.”
Adrian’s gaze lowered briefly, then returned to my eyes.
“You changed.”
“For dinner.”
“Yes.”
He said nothing else.
But Theo saw it.
I knew because his smile vanished.
Not entirely.
Just enough.
Dinner began normally.
For almost eleven minutes.
Then Adrian asked Theo how long he had known me.
“Seven years,” Theo said.
Adrian’s knife paused.
“Seven?”
“Approximately.”
“How did you meet?”
I stared at Adrian from across the table.
He ignored me.
Theo leaned back comfortably. “She yelled at me.”
“I did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“I asked you to move your van.”
“You threatened to have it towed.”
“You blocked the hotel entrance.”
“I was twenty-four.”
“You were irresponsible.”
Theo smiled at Adrian. “She loved me immediately.”
Adrian’s gaze sharpened.
“I did not,” I said.
“Eventually.”
“Theo.”
He grinned.
The senator beside Lily watched the exchange with open fascination.
Adrian took a sip of wine.
“Are you romantically involved?”
The table became silent.
Every single person heard it.
I nearly dropped my fork.
Theo blinked.
Then, slowly, he smiled.
“Adrian,” I said.
He did not look at me.
Theo placed his glass down.
“Not currently.”
Currently.
I wanted to disappear.
Adrian’s expression did not change.
“And you intend to be?”
“Theo,” I warned.
He looked at me first.
This time, there was no joke in his face.
Then he looked at Adrian.
“I think Claire deserves someone willing to choose her openly.”
The sentence landed harder than I expected.
Adrian became completely still.
Theo continued quietly.
“Whether that’s me isn’t really your concern.”
Something electric passed across the table.
Lily stared at her plate.
I knew exactly why.
Because Theo had hit the one place Adrian never allowed anyone to touch.
Choice.
Open affection.
The willingness to admit need.
Adrian smiled.
It was the coldest smile I had ever seen.
“You’re correct.”
He lifted his glass.
“It isn’t.”
Dinner continued.
But everything had changed.
Later, after the guests left, I found Adrian alone in the conservatory.
The storm from earlier in the week had passed. Moonlight covered the glass ceiling, reflecting silver against the plants.
He stood beside one of the rose arrangements.
I almost kept walking.
Instead, I entered.
“You embarrassed me tonight.”
He did not turn.
“I apologize.”
That surprised me.
I stopped beside him.
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“You asked Theo whether we were romantically involved in front of forty people.”
“Thirty-eight.”
I stared at him.
He sighed.
“Forty, including staff.”
“That isn’t better.”
“No.”
Silence settled around us.
Then Adrian touched the edge of a rose petal.
“Is he right?”
“About what?”
“That you deserve someone who chooses you openly.”
My anger faded.
“That isn’t exactly controversial.”
“No.”
He finally looked at me.
There was something in his eyes I had never seen before.
Not arrogance.
Not irritation.
Fear.
“Would you choose him?”
My heart began beating too hard.
“I don’t know.”
His jaw tightened.
“Do you want me to?”
The question escaped before I could stop it.
Adrian stared at me.
For one second.
Two.
Three.
His hand dropped from the rose.
“I have no right to answer that.”
I swallowed.
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“I know.”
“Then answer.”
He moved closer.
Not much.
Just enough that the air changed between us.
Rainwater still clung to the windows from an earlier shower, and the distant lights of Manhattan looked blurred beyond the glass.
Adrian’s voice dropped.
“If I answer honestly, Claire, I may say something I cannot take back.”
I forgot how to breathe.
“Maybe that’s the point.”
His eyes lowered to my mouth.
Then footsteps sounded in the hall.
Adrian stepped backward instantly.
The moment shattered.
Mrs. Donnelly appeared at the conservatory entrance.
“Mr. Whitmore, your London office is calling.”
Adrian closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, the wall had returned.
“I’ll take it in the study.”
He walked past me.
At the doorway, he stopped.
Without turning, he said, “Don’t decide anything about Mercer yet.”
Then he left.
May you like
And for the first time since I had known Adrian Whitmore, I realized that the most dangerous thing about him was not how little he felt.
It was how much he had taught himself not to say.
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