Wren stabs a corner of the envelope I gave her into the t
op of my hand.
I look down. Her name has a line of red ink slashed through it. Written under that in the same crimson shade is one word.
Wolf.
“Give this to him,” she says when I take the envelope. “Give him the flowers too.”
I flip the envelope over in my hand. The only thing holding the seal in place is a small piece of blue tape in the center of it.
“I wrote on the back of his note,” she explains, her voice even. “I don’t want flowers. He shouldn’t have sent them.”
“Maybe you should call him?” I suggest quietly.
That perks both her brows. “I said everything I want to say in my note. It’s over. I’m done. I should have ended it weeks ago.”
My gaze lands beyond her shoulder on the blonde woman. The expression on her face must mirror the one on mine. I’m shocked. This has never happened to me.
“You can go.” Wren dismisses me with a flick of her wrist. “I’m busy. Sorry for your trouble.”
I stuff the envelope in my tote and turn my back to her. Taking a deep breath, I march across the studio, wondering how in the hell I got stuck in the middle of this.
***
Liam Wolf didn’t answer my call or respond to any of the three text messages I sent to him since leaving Wren’s studio. I could have waited until tomorrow to get in touch with him, but that comes with a risk.
The risk is that if he reaches out to Wren tonight, he won’t have a full understanding of where his relationship stands.
It’s not my job to give the envelope to him before the clock strikes midnight, but he seems like a decent guy. He deserves to know that Wren wrote him a note when she refused the flowers.
Running my fingers over the screen of my phone, I find what I’m looking for with a quick online search.
Liam’s a grief counselor.
He works in a building on West 54 th Street.
I plug in the numbers for his office phone.
By the third ring I expect it to go to voicemail, but a female voice answers. “Dehaven Center. Good evening. How may I help you?”
Stepping back from the street, I settle in a spot under the awning of a closed deli. It’s not as though I’d need to shout over the noise of the traffic whizzing past, but this conversation feels like it deserves a modicum of respect.
“I need to speak to Liam Wolf.”
I hope that I can convince him to meet me back at Wild Lilac so I can give him the envelope and his credit card. The flowers technically belong to him, so the choice of what to do with them is in his hands.
“Mr. Wolf is unavailable. May I take a message?”
“I have something that belongs to him,” I explain to the woman on the other end of the call. “It’s imperative that I give it to him tonight.”
“Do you know where our office is located?” she chirps back in a happy tone.
Even though she can’t see me, I nod. “I do.”
“If you’d like, you can swing by and drop off whatever it is,” she pauses. “I’ll be sure it gets to him before he leaves for the day.”
This is an answer to my prayer.