I may hate the asshole, but Tristan Ferraro has an undeniable air of authority about him that makes him hard to resist.
While I feel guilty about being stupid enough to let him make a fool of me, I don’t think I regret the actual acts.
Not that I’d ever admit that to the smug bastard.
His authority comes from being a criminal, doing as he pleases in the world without any repercussions because of his name and the family he was born into.
Those are the types of people I wanted to take down when I became a prosecutor. Why should anyone be free to do as they please, break the law without consequence, when the rest of the world can’t do the same?
“Kirsten?” Natalie’s annoying voice calls from my intercom again.
“What now?”
“You have a delivery.”
“A delivery? And?”
“It’s flowers. Do you want me to sign for —” She huffs. “He says you need to sign for them personally, so he’s bringing them to your office.”
“Fine,” I agree as I smooth my palms over her my hair, since it feels like my meeting with Bryan set it on end.
The non-descript delivery guy in a Yankees’ hat and black leather jacket places an odd combination of bright orange, pink, and white flowers on my desk. I have no clue what kind they are as the man wordlessly thrusts his clipboard toward me. I sign for them and then reach for the card. The delivery guy momentarily lurks in my doorway while I read one sloppily handwritten sentence.
What was that prick doing in your office?
That’s it. No name.
I immediately know Tristan sent the flowers and exactly who he’s referring to as the ‘prick’. Which means he must have been watching the courthouse this morning. That still doesn’t explain how he could’ve gotten the flowers here so fast…
“Who sent these?” I finally ask when I’m capable of speaking again, but the delivery guy is long gone.
“Natalie!”
“Yes?” she asks from the hallway. When she appears in my doorway, she says, “Pretty flowers. Who are they from?”
“Who do you think?” I huff. “Close the door.”
“But if the phone rings —”
“Close the damn door!” I whisper yell at her. As soon as it shuts, I ask, “Did you tell him Bryan was here?”
“Who? What?”
“Did you tellTristanFerrarothat Bryan was in my office.”
“Oh. No. I swear! He hasn’t called me today.”
Today.
“Then he must be sitting outside stalking me again.”
“He never sent me flowers,” Natalie remarks as she stares at the vase. “Odd arrangement, but pretty. What kind are they?”
“I don’t know.”
She whips her phone from her slacks and snaps a photo. Quicker than it should be possible, she says, “The search says those are orange lilies and pink gardenias. The lilies represent…hatred and the gardenias, ah, folly? Is that like stupidity?”
I consider that information for a second. “So, they mean stupid hate?”
