The Lies We Rehearsed Novel – I went to the clubhouse looking for him, a stupid sunflower tucked behind my back—his favorite. The door was open. Atlas was shirtless, jeans low on his hips, his tattooed back slick with sweat. A woman was beneath him on the rumpled bed—dark hair, black lace, legs wrapped around his waist. He drove into her with a punishing rhythm, a low groan tearing from his throat. “You’ll do,” he growled. I stood frozen in the doorway.
The sunflower slipped from my fingers and hit the floor. Atlas turned. His eyes met mine. For one endless second, raw horror replacing the lust. But the woman just smiled, pressing closer to him, her fingers splaying across his chest like she owned him. He opened his mouth—“Flower—” I ran. I didn’t look back. I already knew what I’d see: him, half-dressed, chasing me with the same hands that had just been tangled in her hair.
I made it to my car, hands shaking so badly I could barely turn the key, he was standing in the doorway, chest heaving, her lipstick still on his neck. I drove away with his voice—“Saskia! Please!”—shattering in the rearview mirror, taking every piece of me with it. ——————— The air in “Bloom & Bliss” was thick with the perfume of a thousand dreams. It was a scent Saskia had built herself: the sweet headiness of gardenias, the crisp green of eucalyptus, the romantic whisper of tea roses.
Sunshine, clean and golden, poured through the large storefront window, illuminating dust motes that danced like fairies above her workbench. Saskia hummed, a soft, absent minded sound that blended with the gentle acoustic music floating from the speakers. Her hands, delicate yet capable, were a blur of motion. She was putting the final touches on the Henderson wedding bouquet, a sprawling, elegant cascade of white roses, peonies, and delicate sprigs of lavender.
Each stem was placed with intention, each bloom a promise of joy. A contented sigh escaped her. This was her peace. This tiny, vibrant shop with its exposed brick walls and overflowing buckets of flowers was her sanctuary. And tonight, her happiness would be complete. Her phone buzzed, skittering on the wooden bench beside a pile of clippings. Her heart did its familiar, giddy somersault even before she looked. It was him. >> Atlas: Running late, little flower.
Club mess. See you tonight. A smile, wide and unreserved, spread across her face. She could picture him, his massive frame folded over his bike, those intense, stormy eyes hidden behind aviator shades, the faint grumble in his voice that only she seemed to find endearing. He was a force of nature, a tempest, and he’d chosen her. Her. Saskia, the florist who lived in a world of pastels and pollen. She typed back, her thumbs flying. << Saskia: No worries! I’ll be here.
Finishing up the Henderson wedding order. It’s so beautiful it almost makes me want to… well, you know �� Can’t wait to see you. xoxo She added a flurry of flower emojis for good measure before setting the phone down. Her gaze drifted to the small cooler behind her counter. Nestled inside was a single, perfect sunflower, its bold yellow face turned toward the imagined sun. His favorite. Her surprise. A silly little gesture to celebrate six months since he had first walked into her shop, all leather and intimidating silence, and bought every crimson rose she had. “For my mother,” he’d grunted, looking utterly uncomfortable. She had later found out he’d given them to an old widow who lived next to the clubhouse.
That was the man she knew. The one hidden under the rough exterior and the intimidating MC patch that read President. He was loyal and fiercely protective. He made her feel safe. Cherished. She tied a silver ribbon around the stem of the wedding bouquet, her movements sure and final. The shop was quiet, peaceful. She had no idea that forty five minutes away, in a loud, smoke filled clubhouse, her Atlas was already moving on to the evening’s “club business.” She had no idea what