Page 88 of Late Bloomer
A garland of dried peonies wraps around me. When weboth discovered I lacked a certain, er, artistic eye when it came to installation construction, Opal kindly assigned me to be the garland-maker. Turns out I’m not particularly good at that job either.
Following competition rules, everything has to be handmade, but we can pre-make as much as we want before the event. We decided to put together as many of the dried flower components as possible, focusing on stuff that will be easily transportable. We’ll be in a mad rush to put together the live flower components on the day of the competition, but it feels good to at least get a few things taken care of.
“What do we still have left to do?” I ask, throwing my needle and fishing line to the side as I prick my finger once more.
The competition is on Saturday, but we head to the Grove Park Inn tomorrow afternoon to begin setup. It feels like my nerves have been wired to a light switch, someone flicking them on every few hours and sending jolts of anxiety through me. It doesn’t help that Diksha, lovely, meddling monster that she is, used some of her contacts to garner us a bit of buzz with theAsheville Citizen-TimesandMountain Xpress. Thank God for Opal because I’ve clammed up at every interview, the journalists wanting to highlight us since we’re the only local team entering this year. Opal navigates their questions beautifully, making them laugh and creating an undercurrent of excitement that’s hard not to be swept up in.
Opal groans. “Why are you asking me terrible questions? Do you want the terrible truth, you terrible monster?”
I giggle at the adorable scowl she shoots me. I’m not surethe exact moment we switched roles, but Opal’s grumpiness makes it feel like sunshine is radiating through my veins.
“Come on, my little pessimist,” I say, pushing to stand and grabbing the top sheet we have as an extra drop cloth next to me. I reach out my hand to Opal.
“I’m so tired I can’t move,” she whines, eyes rolling to the back of her head. “Hand me that shovel, I’ll bury myself here.”
With a smile, I bend down, pressing a kiss to her temple before nipping her earlobe. “I’ll make it worth your while if you follow me,” I whisper against her skin.
Opal perks up, giving me a mischievous look. “That tone better be a promise for a massage and nothing more. I’m too tired to be of any other use tonight.”
I giggle again. As if Opal merely breathing doesn’t bring me to my knees on a daily basis.
I tug her to standing, then lead her out of the barn. Night has settled over the mountains, the moon glowing and full. I walk us toward the house, stopping at a level piece of earth and fluffing out the sheet. It settles in a wave on the grass.
Holding Opal’s shoulders, I guide her down, gently pushing her so she lies on her back. I plop next to her, our bodies pressed close, the vast expanse of stars shining above us. She sucks in a breath as she stares up.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispers. “I love it here.”
I roll my neck to look at her, and she does the same, the glint of her eyes so bright, it puts the stars to shame. Slowly, she reaches out to me, tracing her fingertips along my cheek. I turn my head so my lips press against her palm.
We stay there for a few priceless moments, Opal’s touch warm and safe against my face, my heart held in her hands, my breath catching in my throat. Opal in the moonlight is unlike anything I’ve seen before. Soft and glowing, pale green hair like gossamer as the wind picks it up.
She lets out a yawn, eyes heavy-lidded as she looks at me.
“Poor Opal. So overworked and tired,” I coo, tracing her lips with my fingertip. She scrunches up her face in a half-hearted scowl.
“Don’t mock me. Iamoverworked and tired, considering I moved here to sit inside and paint shoes all day.”
I give her a pitying look, letting every heated thought rushing through my head play across my growing smile. “You could use a stress reliever.”
Opal gives me a questioning look, her gaze flashing across my face, eyes widening a bit at whatever she sees there. “That does sound rather nice,” she says slowly, like she’s scared to hope for what I’m offering.
I snuggle closer. “Lie on your back,” I whisper, nudging her with my chin. She does as I say, eyes hooded and hot. I sit up, squinting at the plot of flowers next to us.
“They say lavender reduces stress,” I tell her, plucking off one of the stalks from the plants next to us. I lean over her, trailing the flower head across her bare shoulder and up her neck. Despite the warm night, a shiver runs through her. “Has a substantial calming effect.”
“I’m not sure calm is what I’m feeling right now,” Opal says, her voice breathy and soft as I continue to slide the stalkacross her cheek, my breasts close to her mouth. She presses closer.
“Well, that’s no good,” I say, trying to bite back my smile at the hiss of breath she lets out when I abruptly move away and pull the soft lavender from her skin.
I straddle her hips, my hands resting on her ribs below the swells of her breasts. “Maybe an aromatherapy massage would be better?” I say, voice dripping with innocence.
Opal gapes up at me.
Pressing my weight into my hips, I sit up fully, crushing the stalk between my palms, dragging my fingers against each other as I slowly grind it up. I can feel Opal’s breaths—short and stilted—as her stomach rises and falls against my thighs, an ache building deep in me.
“Relax,” I whisper, placing one hand in the center of her chest, her heart hammering against my palm. Opal tilts her head to look at me, eyes glazed and lips parted. After a moment, every muscle releases its building tension, her head still angled slightly up at me.
“Good,” I say, letting the crushed leaves fall from my other hand, the sweet lavender musk embedded in my skin. “Now breathe.”
