He wants to take every rose in BC and ship it to her. He comes close; he buys 72 of the last decent shipment coming into Vancouver. The florist is harried but relieved as she confirms that yes, Mr. Sprouse, they'll be waiting in Whistler, at the hotel room as requested.
"With the message?" he asks. He'd picked Yeats. 'For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps of my heart.'
"I'm afraid the message exceeds the character limit," she replies.
"Two cards, then," he says. "Write the message on two cards."
Lili gasps as she reads it, she gasps again and again as she surveys the six dozen roses in front of her. The effect, he admits, is a little intense, as two huge vases dominate the room, sprays of deepest red. "But you hate Valentine's Day," she says.
"That's the point," he replies. "See what you've done to me?"