Chapter 8
Ethan Park was late.
Ten minutes late. And I was about to leave when he ran into the coffee shop, breathless, holding a bouquet of daisies.
"I am so sorry," he said. "My meeting ran over. I tried to call. My phone died. These are for you."
He handed me the daisies. They were slightly crushed. He was slightly flustered. And I found myself laughing.
"You brought me flowers?"
"Marcus said you liked daisies. Is that true? If it's not, I'm going to fire him as my wingman."
"They're my favorite," I said. "How did Marcus know that?"
"He said you have them on your desk. He noticed. Marcus notices everything."
I smiled. "Sit down, Ethan. You're forgiven."
We talked for three hours.
He was an architect. Divorced, no kids. Kind. Funny. Genuinely interested in my work. He didn't know the details of the Hawthorne case—just what he'd read. And he didn't ask me to relive it.
He asked about my foundation. My family. My favorite books. My dreams.
When we left, he walked me to my car.
"Claire," he said. "I had a really good time. Can I see you again?"
I looked at him. Warm eyes. Open face. No hidden agendas. No masks.
"Yes," I said. "I'd like that."
We started seeing each other. Slowly. Carefully. He never pushed. Never rushed. He respected my boundaries. He never once tried to control me.
Three months later, he met my family. My mother loved him. My sister loved him. Even my grumpy old grandfather shook his hand and said, "He's a good one. Don't mess it up."
Six months later, we moved in together. A small house with a garden. He designed it. We planted daisies.
Clara—no, wait. That's not my name. I'm Claire. And I was happy. Genuinely, deeply happy.
But I wasn't naive. I'd been burned once. I kept my own bank account. My own name. My own life. Ethan never asked me to give any of it up.
He loved me for who I was. Strong, independent, stubborn me.
One night, we were sitting in the garden, drinking wine, watching the sunset.
"Claire," Ethan said. "I have something to ask you."
My heart stopped. "Ethan—"
"Not that. Not yet." He laughed. "No, I was going to ask—would you be interested in joining the board of a nonprofit I'm involved with? It's called Fresh Start. We help women who've been incarcerated get back on their feet. We need someone with your expertise."
I exhaled. Laughed. "You scared me."
"Sorry. But will you? Join the board?"
"Yes," I said. "Of course."
He smiled. And then, because he's Ethan, he added: "For the record, when I do ask you that other question, it'll be somewhere much more romantic than this garden. And I'll be much more nervous."
May you like
I kissed him.
And I thought—maybe. Maybe one day. I wasn't there yet. But I was getting closer.
