I chewed on my lip, her words hitting a chord. She thought I was ready. Was I ready?

“Yeah, you’re right, we should . . . talk,” I said and hung up just as I pulled into the shopping center close to my apartment.

I parked my car and started heading inside when I caught sight of the florist. Plants were displayed in the window and I walked toward the display before I even realized what I was doing.

“Well, since I’m already here . . .”

A bell rang when I stepped inside the shop and the overpowering perfume of nature hit me immediately. A middle-aged blonde woman stood by the counter, offering me a friendly smile as I looked around.

“Can I help you with anything?”

I scratched my head, no idea what I wanted to buy. Plus, the place was tiny and there were shelves and flowers everywhere. I felt all big and cumbersome in the small space, like if I wasn’t careful I’d end up knocking something over. “Uh, yeah,” I said and gestured to the collection of plants by the window. “Which of those is easiest to keep alive?”

She obviously thought my question was odd, but she didn’t comment on it. “Well, the spider plants. You see the ones with the long floppy leaves, they tend to be fairly low maintenance.”

“Great, okay, I’ll take one of those.”

I couldn’t explain it, but I suddenly felt self-conscious, like this florist woman somehow knew I was a lowlife recovering alcoholic who could barely even keep a plant alive. It was part of my recovery. I needed to learn to look after other things than just myself. So far, I had failed. But now, for some inexplicable reason, I was more determined to succeed than ever. An image of blue eyes and red hair flashed in my mind.

Yeah, I knew the reason, all right.

The florist walked over to the window and picked up one of the spider thingies, then made quick work of wrapping it and ringing up the purchase. I thanked her and walked out of the shop with a renewed sense of determination.

This plant was going to survive if it was the last thing I did.

Chapter Seven

ECassChoosesPikachu: TheContainerStore is having a sale!!! I’m having difficulty *containing* my excitement… get it? #SeeWhatIDidThere?

*Eilish*

Disorder was my kryptonite.

After Patrick was born, keeping my place clean and tidy felt like the only thing over which I had any control. I couldn’t control when (or if) I slept, but I could control whether or not my sock drawer was organized by sock length, thickness, then color.

“I’ll just tidy up a bit,” I whispered to myself, proceeding with extreme caution. I knew Connors was gone for the rest of the afternoon, I’d overheard Alice in the office say he’d taken time off.

Alice, the lead admin on the top floor, had allowed me to use one of the shared office spaces so I could do my charting for the past week. She’d shown it to me during my first day; it was a welcome and quiet alternative to Connors’s dodgy physio room. As well, according to Connors, I still didn’t have privileges. I wasn’t going to make a fuss over it; if motherhood had taught me one thing, it was to pick my battles. If there’s a workaround that’s almost as good, do that.

So I’d been using the gym and locker room, no big deal.

But maybe if I straightened the place out, ordered and restocked the supplies, and demonstrated that I could be an asset, he would relax a little and stop freaking out every time I neared the physio room.

Or maybe he’s got an unknown object stuck so far up his arse, he’s just going to be a fecking wanker for all eternity.

. . . shame on me.

“That was unkind, Eilish,” I muttered, stepping into the therapy room and flicking on the light. As soon as the space was illuminated, I took a step back. The sight before me was—as it had been the week prior—daunting. And disgusting.

Plus, I thought I spotted what looked like Jenna McCarthy’s lunch container, open and empty on his charting area.

He stole her lunch!

“That forking freak,” I said before I could catch myself. I scrunched my face and shook my head. “Stop it. If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”

Fine. I’ll just think it. He’s a fecking freak and a fecking slob.

“Best not to think about it,” I told myself, pushing those thoughts—and the usually dormant portion of my personality—to the back of my mind. “Just clean it, organize it, and take inventory.”

The sound of footsteps from behind had me leaning out of the doorway and peering into the hall. I spotted William Moore coming my way. I’d learned over the last seven days that the tall American flanker was basically the nicest, most polite person on the face of the earth.

His eyebrows lifted high on his forehead and he slowed as he approached. “Hi, Eilish. How are you?”

“I’m well. And you?”

“Good, good. And your son? Patrick is his name, right?”

“That’s right.” I smiled quizzically at the big guy. “How’d you know that?”

“Sean was telling us about how he’d bought him a tuxedo.”

A trickle of fear between my shoulder blades had me standing taller. “Who? Who was he telling?”

“Just me and Ronan.”

At that I relaxed and smiled my relief. Ronan was the team captain and—as an aside—also happened to be the spitting image of Colin Farrell. “Yes. He likes to buy Patrick suits and matching pocket squares. I’m running out of closet space.”