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Reading progress update: I've read 63 out of 272 pages.
"Who are you?" I gesture at the bouquet. "Why do you keep leaving me flowers? My name isn't Emma."
"The flowers aren't for you, obviously," he says disgustedly. "I only keep replacing them because you keep taking them. That's why I left a note - so you'd finally get it into your thick skull that they're not there to brighten your designer kitchen." He stops. "It's her birthday tomorrow. That is, it would have been."
Finally I realise, they're not a gift, they're a memorial gesture. Like the ones people leave at the scene of an accident. Mentally I kick myself for being so wrapped up in thinking about Edward Monkford I hadn't even considered that possibility.
Yeah, right, because someone leaving flowers on your doorstep is about a memorial situation almost as often as it's about flowers being sent to you. Oh, wait...
He's a jackass, and she's a fucking pushover.
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