Chapter 68 They’re Your Favorite
'HOURS LATER'
The office on the fifteenth floor of the downtown Seattle tower was quiet at 6:02 p.m.— most associates already gone, lights dimmed in the open-plan bullpen, only the soft hum of the HVAC and the occasional ping of an email landing in an inbox. Andrew’s shared office— two desks pushed against opposite walls, a narrow window overlooking the rain-slicked streets below— felt smaller in the late-afternoon dusk. Papers were stacked neatly on his desk, laptop closed, coffee mug cold and ringed with dried oat milk.
Andrew stood, rolled his shoulders once— crack of joints— then began packing. Notes into the accordion folder, pen clipped to the cover, Henry’s prosecution file slid carefully on top. He zipped up the black leather briefcase, then glanced across at Freddy— another intern who shared the office with him.
Freddy sat hunched over his own desk— blond hair falling into his eyes, tie loosened, sleeves rolled— typing furiously on his laptop.
Andrew cleared his throat. “I’m done for the day. I'm heading home.”
Freddy looked up— blinked once— then smiled, tired but genuine. “Yeah, same. Waiting for Emma to pick me up. She’s on her way.”
Andrew nodded— small smile. “Alright. Tell her I said hi.”
“Will do.” Freddy leaned back, chair creaking. “See you tomorrow.”
Andrew was already at the door— hand on the handle— when Freddy called after him.
“Hey— good luck with the memo. Henry’s gonna grill you Thursday.”
Andrew laughed— short, dry. “Thanks for the pep talk.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
The corridor was empty— fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, carpet muffling his steps. He passed empty offices— glass walls reflecting his silhouette— reached the elevator bank, pressed down. Doors slid open. Empty car. He stepped in, leaned against the mirrored wall, exhaled long and slow as the numbers ticked downward.
By 8:15 p.m., back in Bellingham, the air had turned crisp, carrying the sharp, clean scent of salt and pine. Andrew stood on the curb of a busy street, his briefcase strap slung across his shoulder. He waited patiently for a break in the traffic, his mind had already shifted from case law to the bouquet a few blocks away— the flowers plans to surprise maggie with tonight.
Once the road cleared, he crossed with long, easy strides, heading toward a small, boutique flower shop that stayed open late for the romantic and the apologetic.
Inside, the shop was a riot of colors and scents. A woman in her mid-fifties, a kind-faced Latina with warm brown eyes, looked up from a half-finished wreath behind the counter. "Good evening, sir. What can I help you find tonight?"
"A bouquet of red roses, please," Andrew said, leaning against the counter. "Something classic."
The woman nodded knowingly. She stepped out from behind the counter, disappearing into the refrigerated section. She returned moments later with three different arrangements, each varying in the tightness of the buds and the greenery used. She laid them out on the counter. "Take your pick."
Andrew’s eyes skipped over the first two and settled on the third— a lush, deep crimson arrangement with delicate baby’s breath. "Maggie would love this one," he muttered to himself, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"A good choice," the manager said, whisking the other two away. "That will be $85."
"Perfect," Andrew replied.
"Card or cash?"
"Card." Andrew reached into his briefcase, pulled out his wallet, and handed over his debit card. The transaction was quick, and as she handed the card back, she gave him a wink. "Thank you for the patronage. You’ve got good taste."
"No worries. Thank you." Andrew said, gathered the roses carefully in his arm. "Have a nice day."
"You too, sir!" she called out as the bell chimed over the door, signaling his exit.
'MOMENTS LATER'
The heavy oak door of their apartment clicked shut, sealing out the noise of the city. Andrew stepped into the entryway, the scent of the roses preceding him.
Maggie was curled up on the velvet sofa in the living room, the glow of her phone illuminating her face. As she looked up and saw him, her expression shifted from idle scrolling to a radiant, genuine beam. "Hey," she said softly.
"Hey." Andrew walked over, leaning down to press a lingering, soft kiss to her forehead.
Maggie looked at the vibrant red petals in his hand, her eyes widening. "Are those for me? Are we celebrating something I forgot?"
Andrew smiled, holding them out. "They’re for you, and we’re celebrating nothing except the fact that I should probably buy these more often. I appreciate you, sugarbum."
Maggie blushed— a deep, rosy hue that rivaled the flowers— and took a long sniff of the bouquet. "Thank you, Andrew. They’re beautiful."
"Of course they're your favorite," Andrew said, heading toward the bedroom to drop off his briefcase. "I also happened to pick up a bottle of Schrader Cellars."