She merely shrugged and dropped the rose into the vase. “We were only dating for one Valentine’s Day, and he said he was traveling for work, that we’d celebrate later. We never did, and I guess I didn’t think much of it.” She spun a tulip around, studying it. “Though, I suppose, thinking about it now in hindsight, he was spending it with Claire. Tuesday-night trysts are for mistresses, but Valentine’s Days are for the wives.”

“And the fiancées.”

She let out a mirthless laugh. “Of course. Is that why you’re here?”

Clarke had been leaning backward against the counter, watching her trim the flowers, and he reached out and gently took her left hand, realizing how often he’d been doing that lately. Realizing how much he liked the feel of her small hand in his.

He ran his thumb over her bare fourth finger. “Apparently, I no longer have a fiancée.”

She tugged her hand away and didn’t meet his eyes. “Come on. I thought we agreed that night after Naomi and Oliver’s dinner party to call it.”

“We talked about it. But you were still wearing the ring the day of the ski trip.” He knew, because it was the first thing he’d looked for when she’d entered the car that morning.

“Yeah, well, that was before.”

“Before Jarod Lanham?” he asked, hating that he had to ask, hating how much he dreaded the answer.

“What?” She gave him a baffled look. “Oh. No.”

“Really? You two seemed to be hitting it off.”

“Well, as far as he knew, I was engaged, and he didn’t make a move on someone else’s woman.”

“But you knew you weren’t engaged.”

“True. But I also knew there wasn’t any spark. And even if there was, I’m not looking for a fling with a billionaire.”

“What are you looking for?”

She looked puzzled by the question. “Nothing. You know that better than anyone.”

“You used to want it all. The spark. The prince on the white horse. Happily ever after.”

She shrugged, and instead of pushing her, he reached for the gift bag he’d set on the counter and handed it to her as she finished arranging the flowers.

Audrey looked surprised. “For me?”

He rolled his eyes. “Who else would it be for?”

She didn’t reply, but he’d gotten damn good at reading Audrey Tate over the years and knew who she’d been thinking it was for: Elizabeth.

She’d thought the gift was for Elizabeth. As though he were the type of man to bring flowers to one woman and a gift to another, all in the same night.

But wasn’t he? Hadn’t he always been exactly that type of guy? The one that went out of his way to make sure women knew he wasn’t playing for keeps?