Darcy lifted the potted plant in front of her. “It’s cilantro. Because I’ve liked you for longer than I knew how to say, before I could say it. Before I could say it the way you deserve to hear it. But I have and I do. I like you exactly the way you are, Elle. Boxed wine and glitter and astrology and most of all”—Darcy sucked in a gasping breath—“I love the way you make me hope. You make me hope and you make me happy. You make me so happy, Elle.”
