I glance at Thatcher. I thought he’d be looking between Maximoff and Farrow, but his eyes are on me. Butterflies flap in my stomach, and I fumble as I file the florist contact list, then I clear my throat. “Um…” I shake my head. How strange and wonderful it feels to be seen—but for the right reasons. Not maliciously or perversely but adoringly. Lovingly. Protectively. Carefully. I grab onto words that flit past my brain.
