Chapter 52
Declan
September
“Are you nervous?”
“No,” Elsie lies. I reach down to grab the hand she’s been anxiously tapping against the side of her leg. She looks over at me with a sheepish smile. “A little nervous, I guess.”
“You have no reason to be,” I assure her.
She’s been jittery since we woke this morning, tangled in her bedsheets before the sun rose.
I tried to take her mind off it in the best way I know how – first in her bed, then in the shower – but not even a few orgasms could distract her from worrying about the Best New Business competition. I had fun trying, though.
“There’s nothing I can do about it now,” she reminds herself. “It’s out of my hands.”
“You’ve done more than enough. You’ve got this in the bag.”
“It could go to you and Sean,” she points out. “You guys deserve it just as much. In fact, I think –”
I cut her off with a kiss. Instead of stiffening her spine and pulling back like she would have a month ago, she melts into the kiss and places her hand on my chest, right over the tattoo that she’s declared is her favorite.
My dick twitches at the memory of how she sank her teeth into that exact spot when I buried myself inside her this morning. Fuck, I love it when she’s feisty.
“You’re going to win,” I tell her when she breaks the kiss.
“He’s right,” Sean says from my other side. “And I know this because Deck has been telling every customer we’ve had over the last two weeks that they should vote for you.”
Elsie’s wide, surprised eyes flash up to mine, and I resist the urge to punch my best friend in the arm. Or his smug face.
“You didn’t,” she says incredulously.
“I did,” I confirm. “But they all planned to vote for you, anyway.”
Elsie laughs and squeezes my hand. “You’re an idiot. I love you.”
I’ve heard those three words no less than a hundred times over the last few weeks.
(Not the first three, though I’ve heard those plenty of times, too).
No matter how many times Elsie says she loves me, my heart feels like it’s free falling off a cliff every single time.
It doesn’t get old. I don’t think it ever will, not even seventy years from now, like she promised me.
“Love you back,” I tell her.
“Alright, folks. It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” a booming voice announces from the stage set up at the far end of the park where half the town seems to be gathered.
The other half spills onto Main Street and the two side streets that have been closed to traffic for the last few days for the Summer Sendoff.
Booths of everything imaginable – from homemade sourdough loaves and other baked goods, to artisanal soaps and lotions, to handmade jewelry and knit clothing – line the streets.
I’ve stopped by just about every single one over the last two days, and my favorites are the ones that are so quintessentially Maine: the booth selling fresh-squeezed blueberry lemonade, the one teaching both kids and adults how to sculpt little lobsters out of air-dry clay, the simple folding table where an elderly man sits and whittles wooden moose sculptures of all sizes.
I watched him make one the size of my hand for over an hour yesterday, then immediately bought it as soon as he finished.
It’s sitting on the bookshelf in Elsie’s living room now, right next to the framed picture she asked a stranger to snap of us at the beach the weekend after we officially became a couple.
Apparently, her first order of business as my girlfriend was to finally get me to the beach.
Truthfully, I kind of hated the feeling of sand under my feet, and the way it kept appearing – in my hair, in Elsie’s car – for the next few days.
But Elsie sunbathed with her hand holding mine, and her lips tasted salty when she convinced me to go swimming and then kissed me as the waves crashed against our bellies.
I see a lot more beach dates in our future.
When Elsie leans close and whispers, “Here we go,” I realize I’ve completely zoned out and missed the Chamber president’s entire spiel about the competition and each of the businesses who are in the running. It’s fine. I don’t need to hear his platitudes to know who deserves to win this thing.
It’s the woman beside me, with flowers woven into her long braid and her hazel eyes brighter than I’ve ever seen them, despite her nerves. I catch the slightest hint of lavender each time she turns to smile at Noah on her other side.
“Are we ready to find out who takes the title of Best New Business in Port Myles?”
The crowd around us cheers. Elsie squeezes my hand.
The Chamber president, whose name I should really remember by now, makes a big show of grabbing the envelope that’s handed to him and pulling out a large index card from inside it.
“The Best New Business in Port Myles,” he booms, “who will go on to compete in the county-wide contest is…”
I suck in a breath, suddenly nervous.
“The Floral Chic,” he yells, “owned and operated by Elsie Carmichael, lifelong resident of Port Myles and everybody’s favorite florist.” The crowd erupts into thunderous applause and cheers.
Beside me, Elsie cries, “Holy shit,” much to the amusement of those close enough to hear her. I engulf her in my arms and pepper her cheek with kisses. “Fuck, I’m so proud of you. I love you. Congratulations.” She laughs against my chest and I think I catch a muffled, “Thank you.”
“Congratulations, Elsie!” the president bellows. “Come on up here.”
I release my hold on her and watch as she weaves her way through the crowd to the stage, where she’s immediately pulled into handshake after handshake by the Chamber members.
“Maybe we could have won,” Sean muses, “if you weren’t convincing our customers to vote for her business.”
“No, we couldn’t.” I can’t fight the shit-eating grin on my face, and I don’t even try. I’m so goddamn proud of my girl.
“No, you’re probably right,” Sean chuckles. He throws an arm around my shoulder and slaps me on the chest. “I’m happy for you, buddy. Happiness looks good on you.”
“Thanks,” I tell him, shaking his arm off.
I watch as Elsie accepts her plaque and poses for photos onstage with the Chamber of Commerce and the mayor, a woman with a gorgeous Ducati that gives me bike envy every time I see her cruising around town on it.
She and her wife were just in the shop last week for matching tattoos of their dog’s pawprint.
When it’s time to say a few words at the podium, Elsie’s smiling so wide that her eyes, now glistening with unshed tears, crinkle at the corners. She’s stunning.
She’s mine.
“Thank you to everyone who voted for The Floral Chic,” she tells the crowd.
“This is the highest honor, and I don’t take it for granted.
I can’t thank you enough for making this dream of mine what it is today.
Whether you’ve placed an order with us, said a few kind words about us, or even just dropped by to say hi – I appreciate each and every one of you.
I love this town, and I love being the one you turn to for all your floral needs. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
Elsie gives a quick parting wave and hurries off the stage.
It takes her a few minutes to make her way back to me in the crowd.
Everyone wants to congratulate her, hug her, shake her hand.
Finally, she stops in front of me, her toes bumping into mine, and looks up.
When our eyes meet, her megawatt smile is back.
“Ready to go home?” she asks. I don’t ask her where she means.
Though I technically still have my own apartment, I’ve unofficially been living with Elsie these last few weeks.
One of these days, we’ll make it official.
I’m not sure where all of our stuff will fit in her tiny cottage, but we’ll figure it out.
Elsie doesn’t know it yet, but I’ve been talking with her landlords about buying the big house and the lavender farm when they officially retire and move south in the next couple years.
Elsie has mentioned in passing a few times that it’s her dream, and, well – if I can make a dream of hers come true, I’m going to.
I slip an arm around Elsie’s shoulders and pull her close, tucking her into the spot beneath my arm where her body fits just right against mine.
The Summer Sendoff is officially over, and fall is right around the corner.
There’s a bite in the air that wasn’t here a few weeks ago.
The evenings are getting cooler, and some of the trees are beginning to turn yellow at the edges.
I can’t wait to spend every season here with her.
“I’m ready,” I tell her. “Let’s go home.”