Page 52 of Late Bloomer
The grass is cool and damp under my bare feet as I continue to sprint across the farm. Maybe if I run far enough and fast enough, I can hurtle myself into a different dimension. One where I don’t make an absolute fool out of myself.
I know that’s wishful thinking. Every alternate universe version of me is probably a massive fool too.
My toe catches on something, and the world tips. I tumble down the small hill until a small apple tree catches me, knocking the wind from my lungs. I roll to my back, head spinning as I try to catch my breath, floating among the stars.
Holy shit.
Holy fucking shit.
I kissed Opal. My nightmare sprite of a landlord/roommate. This is not good. That should have never happened. And it certainly can never happen again.
Never.
Ever.
Seriously. Never.
… The problem is, I kind of want it to.
Chapter 17PEPPER
I’ve discovered the cure to, erm, indecent thoughts about one’s, uh… roommate: spreadsheets.
Pages and pages of spreadsheets.
Ones with lots of confusing columns and formulas and pie charts that all paint a lovely picture of how financially screwed you are.
It turns out it’s very hard to think of anything in the sexual realm when you realize your livelihood is on a spectacularly negative slope.
Diksha had sent over a workbook of information that I printed, which is now scattered across my kitchen table. Lots of menacing lines and red numbers. I read over Diksha’s email for the twenty-seventh time. The last sentence holding my attention:
… The competition won’t solve all your problems,but it sure as hell will make a dent. Stop being so stubborn and ask her, Pepper.
I slam my laptop shut and stack my hands on top before banging my head against them a few times. None of what Diksha sent over is new information, but it’s all organized in a way that really drives home what a mess this place is in.
We haven’t broken even in years. Grandma Lou, damn perfect, altruistic saint that she was, apparently lacked an understanding of just how high our operating expenses were and had been buying excess tubers and seeds instead of cultivating our own from previous crops.
Small farms support small farms, she’d told me a few years back when I’d brought up us investing in a greenhouse and growing our own seedlings during the winter months instead of purchasing from a grower up the mountain.No reason we can’t help someone else while helping ourselves.
Well, apparently, we’d been actually fucking ourselves, Lou.
The anger burns white hot for a moment, then snuffs out. I can’t be mad at the woman for trying to do good in the way she was able. It was her nature, and I’d rather suffer debt a thousand times over than wish for change in the woman who saved me.
But I do need to get a plan.
I’d already started implementing some leaner methods around the farm at the start of the season and secured new wholesale accounts to local florists and hotels, even before Iknew the gravity of the situation, in fear that if I wasn’t careful, I’d lose the place in a month. The problem is, with almost everything in farming, it takes years to see the fruits of your labor.
And I don’t have years.
Not with Opal owning the damn place.
It’s fine. Everything is fine. All I need to do is ask the white-haired hellcat to help me win the flower competition and accept a third of what she paid for the place as an act of good faith to get the hell off my farm, then pay her the remainder of the balance for the rest of my miserable life. All while ignoring some very bizarre and unprecedented…urgingsfor the woman.
Easy.
A tap on the doorframe snags my focus, and my head whips up to see her standing there. My gaze gets stuck on that full mouth of hers, pulse hammering as she slowly licks her lips.
Fucking hell.
