“Tomorrow,” she insists sweetly, “we will pick the flowers for the ceremony.” Groaning, I tip my head back against the wall. “If I pick now, will I be free of these decisions?” “I suppose, but—” “Perfect,” I say cheerily. “Roses.” Ellie gives me a knowing look. “Is that just the first flower that came to mind?” “Maybe, but it seems fitting,” I defend. “I admire the rose and its thorns. Even the prettiest things can bite.” Slowly, Ellie nods in agreement. “Then roses it is.”
