Page 42
The sun is warm on my back as I pop open the back of the van. Nothing shifted on the drive, which is a huge relief, but now I’m second guessing myself. I’m not sure the arrangements look as good here as I thought they did in my kitchen. This whole thing is just a conundrum.
The wedding isn’t huge, not with as quickly as it has come together and certainly not with the tight, very controlled guest list, so it doesn’t take long to move the flowers to the flagstone patio.
I’m stretched out, leaning deep into the back of the van for the last, decidedly most important box of florals when an entirely useless offer of assistance hits my last nerve.
“Don’t know whether to thank you or throw money at you for that move.” Dr. Hibou laughs at what he probably considers a clever joke and adjusts the leather bag he has slung across his chest.
I have to fight to not roll my eyes at the shitty attempt to flirt, or whatever that was. I’m sure the doctor has a first name, but I’ve never bothered to learn it and I don’t plan on that changing any time soon. I give him a wide berth as much as possible.
When I told Eddie the dude gives me the ick, I very much meant it. He’s gross. Fine, he’s not actually gross, but good Lord.
“If you were a gentleman, you’d have known what to do.” With a motivated lunge, I find purchase on the last box and pull it toward me. “Since you’re not, and you don’t, you’ll have to excuse me. I have work to do.”
Personally, I think it’s a good blow-off. Simple words. Simple concept. Sadly, the even simpler man doesn’t seem to get my meaning.
“Work,” he huffs out on a dismissive laugh. “You’re basically a glorified maid, cleaning up other people’s messes. What made you think you could produce floral arrangements for an event like this and have them turn out?” He walks off, pausing at each of the arrangements, plucking at a few of them, adjusting others.
The attitude, the arrogance… the assholery. Not my best, but the alliteration stands.
I set the box inside, along with my change of clothes, then close and move my van to a spot out of the way. Finally, I pick up the first of the arrangements to move it to its previously indicated spot.
It’s heavy. Definitely takes two hands and a solid grip to keep it upright. I’ll have to run around with a bucket after I have them all placed to fill the vessels with water.
Subtle adjustments are needed for each as they’re placed, undoing the fixes Hibou felt were necessary. Where he gets off thinking he knows more about flowers and aesthetics than I do is beyond me. But I fluff and zhuzh each arrangement.
Lucky number thirteen, though, that one is beyond fucked. I know for a fact it didn’t look this bad going into my van, nor coming out of it. But now? Now it looks like someone’s rifled through it. Like maybe a cat took up residence in it. Like a merry band of squirrels were having a rave at some point in the last fifteen minutes or so.
I balance it on my hip, one arm banded around the base as I pluck and shape and try my very best to put things to right. But weirdly, or weirdlier?—the stems seem to shift on their own accord as if something is actively moving through them.
My brain finally picks up what I’m seeing and puts that together with the weight shifting along my arm. The push and pull of ventral scales propelling the godawful thing of nightmares along my forearm.
Still. Unmoving. Statuesque but with abject terror and a healthy side of trembling. That’s all I am for a moment in time. A moment that lasts far, far too long.
What happens next is nothing but a blur of moments that are mired in mud. I scream, bloodcurdling and awe-inspiring, releasing the terribly expensive floral arrangement and don’t even bat an eye when it crashes to the ground sending shards of gorgeous honey-colored porcelain scattering far and wide. And I make eye-contact with that no-legged motherfucker before flicking my arm and launching it as far away as humanly possible.
Activity around me is immediate, but nothing makes any sense. My vision narrows to a dark tunnel, and I feel like I’m floating and weigh a thousand pounds all at the same time. Twin trails of tears trickle down my face.
“What the fuck?”
I don’t know where the voice comes from, but as my body finally gives in to trauma, I do know that the arms guiding me to the ground are not the ones I want.
“Dessy sick? Daddy, Dessy sick?” A pudgy little hand rests on my forehead while its twin pats my right boob.
“Careful, coccinelle. Let’s be gentle with Jess, okay. Soft touches, please.”
That voice I’d recognize anywhere. And if his big hand was the one fondling me, this would be an entirely different wakeup. But soft little baby lips whisper, “It okay, Dessy. You okay,” as the boob patting continues.
My eyes flutter open, and I’m immediately soothed. Then embarrassed. And then pissed right the hell off.
I try to sit up, but Evie is either way stronger than I remember or… Huh. Eddie’s hand is in fact cupping a boob. Fine, his palm is on my sternum, holding me in place, but it’s obviously an issue of zero faith in my abilities.
“Easy there,” he murmurs.
Sure, my vision tunneled a bit again, maybe my eyes even rolled back a tad. But none of that means I need to be coddled and held down by…
“Begged me for how long to hold you down? Every chance you’ve had, you dangled that pretty vision in front of me like a carrot, now you want me to let you go?” His words are low, gruff, hinting at something absolutely filthy. “I don’t think so, doll. You had quite a scare out there. Want to tell me about it?”
Evie has given up on my boob and crawled up on to the sofa, sinking into the buttery leather and curling up next to me. Her thumb goes into her mouth, and almost instantly, she’s out.
