He followed her to the kitchen and stopped.
The flowers were on the island.
White and pale pink, a full arrangement in a glass vase that caught the light from the pendants dangling from the ceiling.
He stood there staring at them, realizing he had no idea how to treat a woman as special as Ziggy.
"Do they look familiar?" Ziggy asked, moving around the island. "Because you sent them."
He gripped the counter. His chest burned. It hurt to breathe. "What?"
"You." She pointed at the arrangement. "Sent them." She picked up a small envelope from the counter and held it out. "There's a card."
He took it between his fingers.
You're the best. I'd be lost without you.
—Noah
He told Ziggy all the time she was the best damn producer on the planet. He'd told her he wouldn't survive without her. But the words on the card weren't words he would have chosen. And he'd never send flowers. Never. When he wanted Ziggy to know he appreciated everything she did, he did big things—bought her designer bags because she had a thing for them.
The words were typed. Nothing personal about them, and when it came to Ziggy—one of the most important people in the world to him—he took the time to write the note himself.
He dropped the card on the island. "You don't even like flowers. You've always said they're a waste of money. And I'm not the kind of man who sends them. You know that."
"I did find it strange."
He lifted his gaze. "Zig, I didn't send these."
She looked at the arrangement. At the card. At him. He watched her get there—that methodical Ziggy process of turning something over until it made sense. "I have one brother who's a cop and another who's special forces. Not to mention what we do for a living. One thing happening might be a coincidence. But three things in two days?"
"I know." It was one thing for someone to mess with him. But her? No. That's where he drew the line. He stepped around the island and pulled her into his arms. "Someone knows something, or thinks they do, and I refuse to put you in the line of fire."
"It's too late for that." In pure Ziggy fashion, she patted his chest, gave him her best “I'm-fine smile”, then turned and went straight for the liquor cabinet. She pulled out a bottle of his favorite tequila and held it up.
He nodded. "I need a pen and paper."
"Drawer over there." She waved her hand. "What are you doing?"
"Making notes." He sat at the island and started writing. "Things we know about the birthday card. The delivery at my house yesterday—these flowers. I want to do what we'd do if this were a story. Take the events of the day into consideration. What both of us were doing before, during, and what we’d planned afterward. Other people who were present."
The birthday card had the most potential dots connected to it because they’d been at work. Lots of people milling about. Not just their crew, but other reporters, other producers, other people who worked in the building. Not to mention guests.
She set a tumbler with three fingers in front of him and tapped the paper. "You'll need a list of every employee and guest who signed in on Thursday."
"I know, and that's going to be a long list. But the only common denominators through all of it are you and me." He took the glass and had a long pull. "Right now, we have one outside business we can question."
"The florist might not give us a name."
"But they might give one to Jag." He held her gaze.
"You want to call my brother?"
"Someone knows where you live. I don't care how easily that information can be found. It concerns me when someone’s messing with me and it goes beyond the standard hate mail." He rubbed the back of his neck. "We can't navigate this on our own anymore. We need to call Jag." He picked up the card and looked at it again.
"You want to tell my brother who your father is?" She stood at the side of the island, glass in hand, mouth gaping open.
"Not really." He swiveled, drawing her between his legs, resting his hands on her hips. "If this were just about me, I'd let Boots handle it. Sending you flowers isn't threatening on its own but pretending they're from me is. All of this is some kind of message, and I won’t gamble with your safety."