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Behind her, he saw Raul nod toward the flowers and then disappear down a hall.
Still unsure about giving them to her he said, “Do you like the Ansel Adams?”
She stared straight into his eyes and nodded. “Very much.”
She was too far away. He wanted to cross the room and take her in his arms, but there was still the matter of the salon. His headache had lessened, but he didn’t want to bring up anything about business for fear of bringing the migraine back full blast.
He realized the short conversation had come to a lull, and it was his turn.
Before he could think of something to say, she walked towards the couch and said, “What beautiful flowers. Somehow I didn’t expect to see them in your penthouse. I keep imagining you have a beautiful garden in the Hamptons, but I pictured your apartment, I don’t know, sort of stark. It’s not at all what I expected.”
He smiled and motioned to the flowers. “I picked them for you. The vase is yours too. I thought it best accented the beauty of the gladiolas.”
Charisse’s eyes widened, and she touched her fingertips to the petal of a pink flower. “You picked these? Where did you find a garden? I thought you’d been in bed all weekend.”
His headache ebbed by about ten degrees. He held out his hand and said, “Could I carry the basket for you and I’ll show you where I got the flowers?”
Charisse shifted the basket to her other hand and shook her head. As she spoke, she slipped her hand into his. “No offense, but you don’t look your best. I’ll carry the food. Are you sure you want to go for a walk?”
The contact with her was heaven compared to what he’d been suffering. Why had he ever been worried about her coming over? “It’s not very far. I’d love to show you.”