Starry-Eyed Love (Spark House)

I buzz the delivery person in and wait by the door until they show up in case I need to sign for something.

Instead of being one of my orders that I’ve forgotten, it’s a giant bouquet of white flowers. I sign for them, my heart skipping around in my chest as I carry them into the kitchen and set them on the counter.

I find the card attached to the flowers.

Neat, careful handwriting fills the small note card.

London,

I know days like these can be tough. Thinking of you and your sisters and hoping that you’re sharing memories and taking comfort in each other.

With deepest understanding and empathy,

Jackson

I’m confused. I remind myself that he’s just being thoughtful. That we share a similar kind of loss, one he’s only too familiar with.

“Please tell me it’s not more of your star strips!” Avery calls from the living room.

I carry the bouquet into the living room. “It’s not star strips.”

“Oh wow! Who sent those?” Harley asks as I set them on the mantle.

“Jackson.”

“Jackson sent you flowers?” Avery parrots.

They exchange a look.

“He’s aware we lost our parents today. We were talking about it last Friday. He lost his parents too. Not the same way, but he understands what it’s like. He was being thoughtful. He sent it to all of us.”

“Really? All three of us? Was there a card?” Avery asks.

Harley hops up from her seat and rushes back to the kitchen and reappears a moment later. “The card is not in fact addressed to all three of us. It’s addressed only to London.”

“He mentions both of you, though,” I mutter.

“Not by name.”

“He’s probably being extra nice because he turned me down and feels bad or something.” I cross my arms. “I bet he had his assistant send them.”

Avery grabs my hand and pulls me onto the couch beside her and Harley takes the other side. The springs in the center are starting to go, so both of them slide toward me. “He wrote that card himself.”

“You don’t know that for sure and neither do I because I’ve never seen his writing.” I toss a puffy star on the table. “I’m working on a project with him, and he made it clear that he does not want to date me.”

“Or maybe he realized he made a mistake and this is his way of smoothing things over. The guy flew from New York to Colorado for a freaking meeting and then turned around and went home,” Harley says. “Maybe you caught him off guard when you asked him out.”

“He’s opening an office here. And who knows when he flew in? Him having his assistant send us flowers on the anniversary of our parents’ death does not mean he regrets saying no. He runs a multimillion-dollar company. He can afford to be exceedingly thoughtful.”

“Okay. It’s just him being thoughtful and having his assistant send you a really stunning bouquet of flowers because he knows that today is the anniversary of our parents’ death.” Harley does that thing where she repeats what I’ve just said back to me.

I struggle back to my feet. “I should probably send him a message to thank him.” Even as I think it, butterflies start flitting around in my stomach. Not the nice kind, the anxiety-inspired kind. I leave my sisters in the living room and nab my phone from the kitchen counter, where it’s been sitting all day.

He must be one of those people who pays very close attention to detail. Which makes sense considering how successful he is. But his thoughtfulness today makes me emotional in a way I don’t know how to deal with. I’m used to my sisters being there for me, but I’ve never known someone else who has suffered the same kind of loss. The absence of a parent’s love is something that isn’t explainable. Even with the support of our grandmother, an integral part of who we are was taken from us. We had such loving and wonderful parents. They were involved in every facet of our lives. They were always present, always aware, always there. Until they weren’t anymore.

I take a deep breath and start to compose a message, but decide a call is probably better. It’s the middle of the afternoon. I’m sure he’s in a meeting. I can just leave a quick thank-you message. It’s the considerate thing to do. And I need to get over my embarrassment eventually. This is a good start.

I pull up his contact and have to take a few deep, calming breaths before I hit the call button. I fully expect it to go to voicemail, so I’m unprepared as the low, deep baritone of Jackson’s voice fills my ear.

“Hello, Jackson Holt speaking.”

Just those words make my knees suddenly weak. Or maybe it’s the fact that he unexpectedly answered the call. I drag a chair away from the kitchen island and it makes a horrible screeching sound. “Hi. Hey. Hello. Sorry about that.”