Work Text:
It’s not that he cares. He doesn’t. Genuinely.
It’s just – well, someone could be allergic, couldn’t they?
Not to mention how utterly bright they are in the sea of gray and white cubicles.
But it’s fine. Truly. The flowers don’t bother him.
Okay. They’re a little much. Every week?
Actually, no – scratch that. They’re not enough. That’s what irks him. Her boyfriend (slash-husband-slash-partner-slash-who knows, quite frankly, she’s never mentioned anyone) gives her the cheapest bouquets possible, the kind that sit on a sad display in the supermarket. Not even from a florist!
If he was dating Kate-
If he was dating someone, he would go so much bigger. Two-
No, three-
No, four dozen long-stemmed roses, with an enormous box of macarons and an embossed card.
Kate Any woman deserves that much.
It’s none of his business.
So there’s no reason he should keep noticing. No reason that the saturated tones should catch his eye every time his gaze passes near Kate Sharma’s desk.
(Which is not often – to be clear. She sits in the path of the window, he simply likes to focus on some natural light when he’s stuck, pure coincidence-.)
She has white daisies the week she nails the Bowing proposal and the office buzzes about her success and she can’t stop grinning to herself.
Pink tulips the week it pours rain every single morning and she comes into the office with wet curls plastered to her skin.
Sunflowers the week she fidgets at her desk, looking uncomfortable, and he only finds out why much later when he catches a glimpse of a peacock tattoo behind her shoulder that wasn’t there before.
Orange lilies the week she doesn’t come in for four days in a row and Anthony frets a little until Daphne casually mentions that Kate’s younger sister was in the hospital but it wasn’t serious, fortunately, she’ll be fine.
Kate holds onto them until the bitter end, until the petals curl into themselves and litter her keyboard. Each time, she runs her fingers over the velvet surface almost longingly, sighs and places them gently in her rubbish bin.
Fresh flowers appear the next day.
Anthony doesn’t know why that makes his stomach tighten.
Kate adores flowers.
They were a staple in her home growing up – one of many gestures of love from her Appa to Mary. Never fancy, but they didn’t need to be. Flowers were beautiful pulled straight from the earth; what could anyone add that would make them more special?
When Kate starts her new job and comes to work every day at an extraordinarily bland office, she buys a cheap vase and starts making regular trips to the local bodega. It’s a small luxury in an existence that isn’t filled with many of them. Color and scent and life in a place that has none of those things.
It would be lovely, of course, if she didn’t have to buy them herself. She stares at them wistfully, sometimes, imagining that they’re a surprise from someone who wanted her to have something beautiful.
But that person doesn’t exist, and Kate is a firm believer in not wishing for what she doesn’t have, so she sweeps those thoughts aside like a withered petal and focuses on what she is grateful for – a beautiful family, a job that enables her to care for that family and enough independence to treat herself, even in this small way.
And then, one day, she gets her surprise.
Anthony feels like a world-class fool as he stands in line at the florist, fussing with his watch even though family dinner isn’t for another hour.
It’s competitiveness, he tells himself. Lies to himself. Whoever Kate has been seeing simply hasn’t been treating her right. Perhaps he’s being a rich snob, perhaps this mystery person is providing the best he can, but it’s so much less than Kate should have. Those tiny, half-wilted bouquets are simply no match for a force of nature like Kathani Sharma, for the way she takes everyone in the office to task and pushes them to be better, the way she boils more water than she needs so the next person can use it for their tea, the way she throws her head back when she laughs-
(Maybe he does care.)
(It’s terribly inconvenient.)
(He’ll pretend a little longer.)
Reluctantly admitting that four dozen may be a bit much, he charges two dozen yellow roses – red says love, and it’s not love, nothing like that, can’t give anyone (including himself) the wrong idea – and debates over the card so long that the florist clears his throat rather loudly and mentions that they are closing in twenty minutes.
And after all that, he decides against the card entirely, because anything he says will give him away, will ruin it all, he’s not known for his way with words, not like she is-
Orders the box of macarons with it. Thirty-two, to be exact.
Hands over his card and gives the delivery information. Repeats that it has to be anonymous, so many times that the florist must think he’s stalking this poor woman.
Lays in bed and stares at the ceiling all night, not sleeping a wink.
It’s a rough morning – the tube is packed and her heels are wet from puddles and her coffee is bitter but she downs it anyway, tells herself it can only go up from here.
(A patent falsehood, things can always get worse, but Kate is working on her optimism.)
She has barely booted up her computer when a delivery man announces her name and Kate blinks, confused about what could possibly be delivered to her here. Stands, a little hesitantly, and he deposits two cylindrical glass vases on her desk, filled with yellow roses. A blinding burst of sun on a drizzly day. She stares at them, her mind racing, and all she can think to ask is, “Are you sure?”
He confirms it’s for Kathani Sharma, then nods with a have a good day, ma’am and he’s gone and she’s left to untangle whatever is happening by herself.
There’s a box of something, too – macarons, she confirms with a quick peek. Agatha doesn’t even ask, just plucks one from the tray and jokingly tells her to get back to work before heading to her office.
She can’t find a card. Wants desperately to know who they’re from. Thinks maybe it’s better if she doesn’t.
Glances, as she does countless times throughout the day, through the glass panel that delineates Anthony’s private office from the rest of the cubicles. Kate swears their eyes meet for just a second, but then he’s looking down, focused on a file like there’s nothing out of the ordinary.
He’s not reading the file, but it makes for convenient cover.
Aside from the two hours he is absolutely forced to be in meetings, Anthony doesn’t get much done that day.
Sneaks furtive looks at her desk even when he tells himself not to, tells himself nothing will be different than it was five minutes ago. One of these days, the allure must fade. One of these days, Anthony will not be entirely rocked by the sight of her long, slim, smooth legs stretching out under her desk, by the musical sound of her giggle, by the furrow in her brow when she solves a challenging problem. It must fade – he can’t go on living like this forever.
Her elegant fingers smooth over the petals constantly. As if she’s not even sure they’re real, as if they might disintegrate into dust if she stops appreciating them.
Anthony feels thirty feet tall the entire day.
Kate lingers in his doorway at two in the afternoon, holds out the half-empty box of macarons to him. “Would you like one?”
“Sure,” he says gently, only because it seems rude to say no. Picks the strawberry flavor. “Thank you.”
“Yeah.” Her dark, gold-flecked eyes roam over him inquisitively, and Anthony’s heart catches in his throat. She doesn’t know. She can’t know – everything would fall apart. The flowers aren’t a gesture, just a gift. No strings, no expectations. They work together, for god’s sake – even if he could weather the storm from a wrong move, she might choose to leave, and he’d never see her, not even through a pane of glass that feels more and more like a cage.
Kate offers him a tight-lipped smile and leaves.
The next day, his roses are gone. Replaced by more cheap daisies.
Anthony is livid.
He’s a right arsehole, he knows that, don’t you think he knows that? The flowers don’t mean anything and she’s seeing someone and it’s only sensible that she should cherish those flowers, but not more than his, even though she doesn’t know who they’re from, it’s just ridiculous-
Knowing that he’s lost the plot does not stop him from marching to the florist, ordering three dozen this time. Red, this time, no thought to his prior reservations about the color. Forgoes the card again, because what could he say? You deserve more than this. You are beautiful and kind and stubborn and maddening and you deserve everything.
Or,
I’m sure the person who keeps sending you flowers is lovely, but I have never wished another human being more harm.
Or,
This is hell. Please put me out of my misery.
The red glows against Kate’s skin.
She glows.
Anthony aches.
They last one day.
The only thing left on her desk are the white daisies.
The flowers are far too beautiful to be under ugly fluorescent lighting.
Aside from her self-consciousness over having five dozen roses taking up the limited real estate of her desk, Kate wants to enjoy them every second. No, it is not that easy to carry two – not to mention three – dozen roses on the tube, thank you for asking, but she manages. Gets back to her flat, arranges them on her coffee table and stares at them while she eats dinner. Moves them to her nightstand when she crawls into bed and lets them be the last thing she sees before she falls asleep.
They’re not from Mary or Edwina – she checks. Not from the ex-boyfriend who was texting her a few months ago.
She knows who she wants them to be from as surely as she knows it’s impossible. It’s exactly the kind of try-hard, over-the-top production that Anthony Bridgerton loves (she’s seen the gift baskets he gives clients, the birthday presents for his sisters) but he doesn’t look at her like that, and she should know, given how often she’s looking at him.
He’s gorgeous and sweet and funny even when he doesn’t mean to be – especially when he doesn’t mean to be – and he’s so entirely out of her league that they’re not even playing the same sport. Rich and successful and not actually her boss but miles above her in the hierarchy (for now), and he doesn’t look at her.
She’ll find out who the flowers are from soon enough, they’ll have to come forward, and it won’t be the face she dreams about, but perhaps she’ll be pleasantly surprised anyway.
Anthony doesn’t go to the florist again.
Two rejections are enough.
Kate waits.
There are no more flowers.
She feels a little insane. No one claims them, no one even hints at it.
Kate buys herself more sunflowers. They’re beautiful, cheerful, and she wants to cry every time she looks at them.
The roses die.
It was clearly a fever dream, a glimpse into something that she was never going to be able to hold on to – but it was nice to be special, just for a moment in time.
“Your desk is empty.” Anthony has no earthly idea what compels him to say it – it’s just been months since the flowers started, and he hasn’t seen her desk bare since then.
He wonders if whoever was in her life is no longer there. Or if he is still there and taking her for granted. Both thoughts feel like concrete in his stomach.
Kate blinks up at him. To be fair, he hasn’t made small talk with her in ages, ever since the evidence of someone else started to appear and Anthony stopped pretending he didn’t think of her as anything more than a coworker.
“Yeah,” she says softly, a little sadly. He wants to brush her curls out of her face and tilt up her chin, make her face him, make her tell him what’s wrong and how he can fix it.
Clenches his fist by his side instead.
Kate chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “I don’t buy myself flowers anymore.”
The words go right over Anthony’s head and then double back, slamming into his skull with the force of an anvil.
She bought the flowers.
It feels like he’s just discovered nuclear fission. Time travel. Immortality. He feels like he’s unlocked the secret to the universe.
For the briefest second, he is soaring. And then he remembers the five dozen roses that disappeared from her desk and never reappeared, probably tossed into the bin outside, decaying like his hopes.
“Oh,” he answers, and locks himself in his office for the rest of the day so he can’t say anything else nonsensical.
Kate is going to burn in eternal shame for this.
It’s the longest of long shots, a Hail Mary that will surely blow up in her face, but she’s just far gone enough to attempt it anyway.
She may have imagined it entirely, the flash of realization that skittered across his features when she revealed that she bought the flowers herself. She’d thought it was obvious, but apparently not.
There is something in his eyes that looks suspiciously like her own hopes reflected back at her and then he deflates, walls going up higher than before, and she can’t read him at all.
But that split second is enough to make her wonder.
Kate goes straight to the florist after work, orders a dozen white roses – she’s not made of money, after all – and fills out the card, and prays she’s not wrong.
Anthony almost thinks the universe is fucking with him when a dozen white roses are delivered to his office the next day. Heat rises in his cheeks – he must be blushing the brightest red – and he tries to ignore the stares and whooping from his coworkers as he fishes out the card.
I know it was you.
Instinctively, his eyes whip up to Kate, who is watching him intently. Her mouth falls open and he realizes – she didn’t know. But now she does.
She tricked him, clever woman.
Kate stands, subtly motioning with her head for him to follow. He does, he has to explain himself, he has to – well, he has to make this right somehow. Hopefully he’ll figure it out on the way.
Anthony doesn’t know where he expects her to lead him but it’s not a supply closet. She tugs him in by his sleeve, locks the door behind them. They’re close enough for the toes of their shoes to touch. The room is spinning, but she seems steady as anything.
“Explain,” is all she says.
“You deserved better flowers.”
It’s a stupid response, but he’s feeling rather stupid at the moment. She was never supposed to figure it out.
Kate stares at him. Right through him, actually. She knows he’s full of it – she’s always known, hasn’t she? It’s what makes her so dangerous.
He gives it up. Kate isn’t going to let it go until he’s told her the truth, so he may as well lay all his cards on the table and allow her to crush him however she wishes. “I was jealous,” he admits.
“Of who?”
“Of whoever was giving you the flowers. The ones you chose over mine.”
Her lips part, and then…and then she is laughing, almost deliriously, clutching her sides through the thin material of her gray shift dress. “You really do like to catastrophize, don’t you?” Kate straightens up, places a hand on his forearm and squeezes, and hope surges through him so quickly he gets lightheaded. “I took them home. I waited for more, but you didn’t send any.”
Anthony knows he looks like a fish, gaping at her, but he has no control over the muscles in his face. “You didn’t throw them out?”
“Who throws out roses? They were gorgeous. I couldn’t stop looking at them.”
“And you’re not upset it was me?” he asks tentatively. She seems the opposite of upset, but he has to make sure before he does something entirely unforgiveable, like kiss her.
Kate grins at him, blindingly beautiful. Runs her hand from his forearm to his shoulder, digs her fingers into the muscle there in a way that makes it suddenly difficult to breathe. “I hoped it was you.”
She draws him toward her, touches her lips to his, and something damn near magical blooms between them.
Kate refuses to stop buying her own flowers, even when she moves into his flat and Anthony swears he could have a thousand roses and tulips and lilies and whatever else she wishes delivered every week. But she does let him send her bouquets at work – gives him requests, even.
And if the next delivery is a special arrangement of her favorites, with a card asking her to please marry him?
Well, it only seems fitting.