Page 95 of Late Bloomer
“It’s so good—you’re so good—Ican’tstop.”
I come hard and fast, my stomach contracting, my whole body shaking against her.
“Yes,” she moans, following me over the edge. With achoked sob, she collapses over me, face pressed into my neck, skin slick against mine as we both fight to catch our breath.
And in this moment—with her weight holding my body to the earth, my head floating to the clouds, her heart beating against mine—I think that maybe, just maybe, Opal’s right.
Hope doesn’t have to hurt.
Chapter 33OPAL
“I want to die,” I say to Pepper over the rim of my weak coffee as we survey our competition booth.
Pepper lets out a suffering sigh. “We don’t really have time for the dramatics today.”
“I’m sorry, is admitting the truth of my mental state after being awoken via hate crime this morning now considered dramatic?”
“Me telling you it’s time to get up is not a hate crime,” Pepper says, slanting me a sharp look as she pushes a dolly of boxes filled with dried flowers across the space. I wilt against the wall.
“It is when it’s four thirty in the morning,” I whine.
She lets out another sigh, parking the dolly. Her hands hang on her hips as she glares at me, and I push out my bottom lip, giving her puppy-dog eyes. Her mouth quirks at the corners.
“We don’t have time for this,” she says again, glancing at her watch.
“All I need is a quick apology.” I drag my toe across the floor, looking up at her through my lashes. She’s fully grinning.
Pepper stalks toward me, hands flexing like she’s anticipating touching me, and my stomach swoops. I like her so much, it takes everything in me not to jump on her like a koala.
She reaches out like she can’t help herself, cupping my face. She leans in, brushing her nose against mine once, twice, then pressing a soft kiss to my lips, little sparks dazzling across my skin.
“I’m sorry for waking you to help me set up for a competition you basically used brute force to get me to do,” she murmurs against my mouth.
“Forgiven,” I say on the end of a breathy giggle.
With this new wealth of motivation, we get to work on the setup. Pepper moves the various supplies around the space as I start constructing the focal piece, wrestling with chicken wire and fishing nets to drape flowers from.
Not having any misgivings on who’s better suited for the task, I put Pepper in charge of stringing the long flower chains across the ceiling and down the back walls. A few of the garlands are suspended straight down to hang, the delicate poms of yellow dahlias looking like stars against the pink-and-purple backdrop reminiscent of early dusk.
After the centerpiece is constructed, I get to work on the finer details—a foxglove to draw the eye, pale pink rose petals to add shade, wispy white anemones to smooth out some edges.
Pepper and I work in focused silence, only pausing to confirm placement or ask if we’ve added enough flowers to a spotfor the right effect. The heavy perfume of the blooms is nice at first, heady and lush, but after a few hours of work, my eyes are itching and my brain feels swollen in my skull from it all.
But I don’t stop.
I run down the clock, crawling on my hands and knees, stretching up on my highest tiptoes, building a garden with my bare hands.
It has to be perfect. Ineedit to be perfect. Not for me, but for Pepper. I want to show her I’m good for something—that I can offer her something—even if it’s as niche and rather useless as flower art. Something changed between us last night, and Pepper opening up to me is the single greatest gift I’ve ever received, but it’s not lost on me that I keep putting my heart on the line, telling her how much I care about her, and not hearing it echoed back. For all I know, this could still be part of our arrangement to her, and she’s letting me bend the no-feelings rule on my part because it means orgasms for her.
It’s scary to like someone this much without receiving confirmation that I’m not alone in this consuming feeling.
I walk around the piece again, brow furrowed and gaze sharp, diving at every bud that dares droop out of place. On my fifth lap, I go back in to adjust the top portion, cussing out the yarrow and anemones and chocolate lace flowers for not lying right. I prick my finger on a hidden straight pin holding some stems in place and yelp, a drop of blood welling up on the tip of my finger and dripping onto a white petal.
“I’m a fucking Muppet,” I scream, sucking on my finger. “So stupid.” With my non-bleeding appendage, I go to adjustthe yarrow again (or tear the whole thing out, who’s to say?), but Pepper’s hand circles my wrist.
“Opal,” she whispers, tugging me so I spin to face her. I don’t meet her eyes. I don’t want to see disappointment or resignation or worry that we won’t win. “Opal, look at me.”
“Don’t think I will, thanks.”
