I watch her disappear through the door, focusing as it swings back and forth three times. When it closes with finality, my stomach falls, and I grab the edge of the counter. I lean forward, dropping my head so my eyes are focused on my sneakers. “Shit,” I mutter.

The café door opens again, and I glance up as Ashley comes through it. Her lips thin, and the look in her eye just screams asshole at me. “Not your best move,” she notes.

“Ya think?” I sigh and stand up. “She isn’t on her break, is she?”

Ashley shakes her head, grimaces, then glances over my shoulder as the café door opens.

So much for this fighting for Jessie thing. I can’t even remember to ask her instead of telling her to do something.

I turn my head to look. Oh shit.

“Thanks, Ashley.” I tap the counter and turn, darting past the giggling teenage girls frozen in the middle of the room, staring at me.

“What did I do?” she calls after me.

Nothing, I think, pulling the door closed behind me and jumping on my bike.

Exactly what I did.

I’m such a fucking idiot. Just like Jessie keeps saying. You’d think that at twenty-four I’d have this shit down. That I’d know how to treat a woman with respect—even a little—but no. No, I’m worse than a virgin who’s never even kissed a girl.

Shit, seven-year-olds probably have more respect than me.

And Jessie Law? She’s the girl worthy of respect. Respect I’ve never given her. Not once.

Yet I can’t even fucking ask her to a party without just turning up like an arrogant asshole.

I pull up outside my house. Anger is simmering in the pit of my stomach, but more than that is determination. Determination to respect her and show her that I do, because that’s the reality. I respect the hell out of that feisty little ray of sunshine.

Ella is sitting at the kitchen table eating breakfast, and she pauses when I storm through the house and stop in front of her.

“I need your help.”

“I didn’t know Dracula carried roses,” Sofie says, putting her hands on her hips.

“They’re not even red. And why is there only eleven? Isn’t it supposed to be twelve?”

“I thought so,” I admit. “The florist didn’t agree with me when I told her what I wanted.”

“One red rose, five pink ones, and five yellow ones?” She tilts her head to the side, her witch’s hat falling. She readjusts it.

“Yep.” I grab the bouquet. “I’m going. See you there.”

“Jessie is gonna eat you alive,” she mutters, sweeping past me and pulling the wine bottle from the fridge.

I smile to myself as I walk outside. Hell, she’s so right. We’ve gone from a dozen red roses that meant nothing to some that actually matter. My conversation with Ella this morning is probably the best I’ve ever had with her, and it didn’t even last that long. Mostly, she told me what I already knew, but shit, it sure was good to get a confirmation on it from a chick.

She told me to show Jessie what I mean. So this is it—the flowers. Her tattoos all mean something unique that I never would have guessed on my own, so I’m hoping she’ll get the meaning of the roses, too.

If she doesn’t . . .

I refuse to think about that. I’m not sure I’d even ever heard of half the flowers carefully inked onto her skin, let alone knew what they mean. She has to know what these roses mean—I’m banking entirely on that.

I’ve never hoped for anything as much.

She speaks flowers, so I’m apologizing with flowers.

Pretty smart, if you ask me.

By the time I park outside her house, I’m more than aware that I’m not alone. Two cars have followed me almost since my house, and there’s no doubt that they’ll follow us to the bar in the center of town where the party is.

I ignore them when I get out holding the roses carefully and a flash goes off behind me. The front door opens before I’ve even made it through the gate, and Jessie steps out, her white dress strapless and clingy, stopping at mid-thigh. Her hair is curled and clipped to the side, and balancing atop her head is a halo.

“What are you doing here?”

“Isn’t your outfit incredibly ironic?”

“Question with a damn question,” she shoots back, although I think it’s mostly in exasperation and said to herself.

“You know me.”

“Unfortunately.” She leans against the doorframe and puts her hand on her hip. “Pretty sure I told you ‘no’ when you declared you would come and get me.”

“You’re right. You did.” I go up one step, noticing her eyes on the flowers. “But I’m not here for that. I’m here to apologize.”

“Apologize.”

“Yep.”

“With roses. Eleven roses.” She says the number thoughtfully, her brows drawing together as she glances up at me. “One red. Five pink. Five yellow.”

“Yep.”

“Go ahead,” she says slowly. “Apologize.”

“I’m sorry,” I say simply, then stop. Shit—I can’t even remember what I planned to say. Her eyes are so guarded and hard that every word I muttered to myself this afternoon while I drove to the florist’s has taken a goddamn hike straight out of my memory. Instead the only words that spring to mind are ones made of my desire to take that guardedness straight out of her.

“You’re sorry.”

I rub my hand down my face, dropping my other hand down so the flowers face the floor. “Would you believe me if I told you I had this whole damn speech prepared? That I’d planned this all afternoon like the biggest little bitch in the world? And I’ve forgotten every single fucking word. Shit!” I look up at the sky. “I’m sorry. That’s it. That’s literally all I fucking have to say. Just sorry. It seems so insignificant, because I wanted to justify my behavior this morning, but maybe there is no justifying it. Maybe I really am just a giant fuckin’ idiotic asshole. Or maybe it’s these.” I lift the bouquet back up and pass them to her. She takes them, holding them close to her chest. “Maybe these say all the goddamn words I don’t have. So, there. There’s your apology. A bunch of fucking flowers that are probably smarter than me.”

I shrug and turn away, defeat settling in my stomach.

Jesus Christ.

I’m really not good enough for her.

I can’t even apologize right.

“Aidan.”

I stop at the gate and turn.

“Wait there,” she instructs me, going back into the house and closing the door.

What the hell?

I’m standing here staring at her front door like an idiot, and I can feel eyes on me. Everywhere. The longest minute passes before she opens the door again and steps through, her purse hanging off her shoulder and a pair of silver strappy heels dangling from her fingers.

Jessie runs down the path barefoot, basically on her tiptoes. She stops right in front of me and sucks her bottom lip into her mouth. Her teeth graze across it as she releases it, and she reaches up to push her hair out of her eyes.

They’re not guarded anymore.

She pushes up onto her toes and reaches out. Her fingers brush the collar of my shirt before slipping down the buttons, stopping just below my chest. She leans forward and touches her lips to mine, the shoes held out to the side.

I rest my hand on her waist, dipping my head down to her.

“Thank you.” Her voice is gentle, and as her eyes meet mine, they’re smiling. “For apologizing. And you don’t need to justify your behavior. I already know you’re an asshole, rocker boy. But thank you for trying.”

“Does this mean you forgive me?”

“I was never mad at you, you idiot.” Her red lips curve. “I just wanted you to realize that demanding things ain’t how this works, since you seemed to have forgotten.”

“I think you also said no roses.”

“No thoughtless roses,” she amends. “Flowers are better when they mean something. The best flowers aren’t grabbed at the last minute. But you still seem to have an issue with asking questions.”

I laugh quietly as she drops her hand. I take one of her curls and twirl it around my finger. “Jessie Law, can I give you a ride to the party tonight?”