No rain, No flowers.

10

The next morning, my nerves coiled tighter with every passing second. I stood in front of my bedroom mirror for what felt like hours, adjusting, checking, and second-guessing every detail. My fingers combed through my hair, typically an untamed cascade of curls, now smoothed and shining, falling in a heavy, dark curtain down my back. It had taken extra time to tame its wildness, but seeing it drape over my shoulders with a sleek sheen made the effort worth it. I curled my lashes carefully, framing my hazel-green eyes that contrasted against the soft flush of my cheeks.

For my outfit, I chose my favorite jeans—the ones that hugged my curves snugly, accentuating the lines of my waist and hips, with just enough stretch to make my legs look nice and toned. A simple black tank top fit comfortably beneath an oversized taupe cardigan, its soft knit fabric providing coziness against the autumn chill and gently complimenting my tanned skin. The look was effortless, comfortable, and maybe just a touch flirtier than I'd usually choose, but it felt right.

As I gave myself one last look in the mirror, smoothing down a stray curl, my phone vibrated, jolting me. I swiped the notification away quickly and slipped the phone back into my bag, trying to calm my nerves. Just as I turned to leave, the door to Scarlett's room swung open, and there she was, her sharp blue eyes already assessing me with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.

We both paused, surprised to see each other, then started down the hallway together.

"Isn't it a bit early for you to be going out?" she asked, arching an eyebrow and folding her arms in exaggerated suspicion as we approached the front door.

"Could ask you the same thing," I shot back with a half-smile, trying to keep my voice casual as she continued to study me.

Scarlett shot me a playful smirk as she pushed open the door, letting in a fresh wave of morning air. "I've got an actual reason to be out—meeting Vincent for coffee," she quipped, giving me a pointed look. "But you? I didn't even think you'd be up yet."

Before I could respond, the smooth hum of an engine grew louder outside. My heart skipped a beat as Anthony's sleek black BMW glided up to the curb. There he was, stepping out of the car with an unhurried grace, his movements fluid yet purposeful. The sight of him took my breath away—black jeans, a fitted sweater that hugged his broad shoulders and chest. Every inch of him radiated confidence, as if he belonged to a different world, one where every glance, every step was designed to captivate.

Scarlett's eyes went wide, her jaw dropping in exaggerated disbelief. "Well, well," she muttered under her breath, barely loud enough for me to hear. I didn't blame her. Anthony looked like he'd walked off a runway, but with an edge—a ruggedness softened only by the tousled curls framing his face and the dark stubble along his jaw that gave him an alluring, almost dangerous charm.

"Good morning," he greeted, his voice low and rich, like velvet brushing against bare skin. He acknowledged Scarlett with a polite nod, but his gaze settled on me, lingering in a way that made my pulse stutter. His eyes traveled over me, slow and deliberate, as though memorizing every detail. I felt the heat of his scrutiny everywhere, like a spark flickering to life just beneath my skin.

"Ready?" he asked, his tone warm yet commanding. I barely managed a nod, glancing back at Scarlett, whose arched eyebrows promised a thousand questions later. Her smirk didn't help my nerves as I slid into the passenger seat, closing the door with a soft click.

Inside, the smell of leather and a faint hint of his cologne—a complex mix of spice and cedar—wrapped around me, intimate and heady. The car's quiet cocoon felt charged, like stepping into a storm just before it breaks. My heart pounded as he pulled away, his hand gripping the wheel with a controlled ease that belied something simmering beneath. The silence between us felt thick, and I couldn't shake the awareness of every inch of him, so close I could feel the heat radiating from his body.

He broke the tension with casual conversation, his voice a soothing murmur as he asked about my work, the pastry that I've spent the entire week prepping for his event. The deep timbre of his voice was almost hypnotic, pulling me in with each syllable, making it harder to think clearly. I clung to the safety of work talk, answering mechanically, grateful for anything that kept my mind grounded, but it was a losing battle.

His fingers flexed subtly on the wheel, and I found myself mesmerized by his hands—strong, confident, every movement precise yet unhurried, like he was savoring the restraint. It was in the slight clench of his jaw, the way his eyes flicked toward me as if he were studying my reaction, holding back just enough to leave me wanting more.

I cleared my throat, desperate to regain control. "Where did you live before this?" My voice came out softer than I intended, betraying the unsteady thrum of my pulse.

"London," he replied, his eyes flicking to the road. The way he said it was almost careless, yet it hinted at a world far removed from mine—one of sophistication, late nights, and smoky cocktail bars. I could picture him there, commanding every room, his presence magnetic and impossible to ignore.

"London," I echoed, feeling a mix of fascination and intimidation. "It sounds... extravagant."

His eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief as he turned to me. "Extravagant? Is that what you think of me, then?" His voice dropped, teasing but with an edge that made my skin prickle. I couldn't look away, trapped under the intensity of his gaze.

"I don't know," I stammered, forcing a smile that felt thin and shaky. "I imagine you have some... ruthless corporate side, sweeping in and making everything 'Remington approved,' or something like that."

A small smile tugged at his lips, but his eyes remained steady, holding me captive. "Maybe you're not wrong," he murmured, his voice soft, almost seductive. "But I'd like to think there's more to me than just that."

The car slowed to a red light, and the quietness of the moment felt charged, humming with possibilities. He didn't look away, his eyes dark and unreadable, yet full of something that made my skin tingle. Every nerve in my body felt alive, attuned to the intensity of his gaze, the way his presence seemed to fill the space, leaving no room for doubt or restraint.

"I like your honesty," he said softly, his voice laced with something that felt like a challenge, daring me to meet him halfway.

He was leaning closer, and the space between us felt almost unbearable, like the pull of gravity intensifying. His gaze drifted to my lips, lingering for a second that felt like an eternity, and a shiver traced down my spine. My grip on the seat tightened, my breath catching in my throat as his eyes returned to mine.

"You seem nervous, Rose," he said, his tone almost a whisper, but the weight of it settled over me, leaving me feeling bare, exposed.

"I'm not—" I tried to answer, but my voice faltered, betraying the thrill and tension bubbling beneath the surface. His lips curved into a small, knowing smile, as if he could see through every wall I was trying to keep up.

The light changed, and with a small, reluctant sigh, he turned back to the road, his eyes finally releasing me from their hold. But even as he drove on, the memory of his gaze, of every charged second, lingered between us—a silent, unspoken promise of everything we both knew was waiting just beneath the surface, waiting for the right moment to finally break free.

"Good," he murmured, his hand flexing again on the wheel, and I could sense it—the control he was exerting, the struggle to hold back. "I like that about you. That you can't quite hide what you're feeling." His voice was low, coaxing, like a current drawing me closer, and I found myself leaning in, drawn to him in ways I couldn't explain.