27. Daisy
Chapter 27
Daisy
Just because Duke has approved my dalliance , doesn't mean I'm going to rush out and have one.
It might be true that it's been a very long time since I felt the touch of a man in a way that isn't perfunctory or parental.
And it also might be true that living inside me is a woman who is very hard up, and very thirsty.
But, none of these things mean watching a movie with Peter tonight will lead to anything. Am I attracted to the guy? Absolutely. Would he be my choice if this was some other town and I was there for a weekend away? Indubitably.
But there are reasons why Peter is the wrong choice.
Exhibit A: He doesn't like my fiancé, and it's looking more and more like the feeling is mutual.
Exhibit B: He knows Penn, and that might be weird.
Exhibit C-Z: I haven't come up with them yet, but I know they exist.
So. There you have it. Our two-person The Princess Bride watch party is going to be very tame. I'll arrive armed with microwave popcorn, the butteriest kind, and copious amounts of candy. Peter said he'd grab drinks for us, but didn't ask me what I wanted. I'm curious to see what he'll choose. As an afterthought, I stopped by the natural pet food store and grabbed peanut butter and pumpkin treats for Slim Jim.
In an effort to throw Peter's nosy neighbors off our scent, we waited until later in the evening to hold our watch party.
Peter waits for me in the doorway, taking the bags from me as soon as I'm close enough. "What are you wearing?" he asks, looking me up and down.
He closes the front door behind me, and I turn in a circle. "You don't like it?"
He scratches his head. "That feels like a trick question."
"It's not. It's just a regular question."
"I can't figure out what article of clothing it is."
"It's like a poncho, but it's called a wearable blanket." I turn in a circle one more time, holding my arms out.
Peter's head tilts sideways as he considers me. "You look like a flying squirrel," he concludes, leading the way into the kitchen.
Exactly. That was by design. I also came with my hair tied on top of my head in a messy bun, and a face free of makeup. I'm wearing my ugly bra, and the most boring pair of underwear on the face of the planet.
Tonight, I'm anti-sex.
Not that Peter is interested in me like that. To him, my relationship with my fiancé is very real. There's no reason to assume he'd take part in me cheating (in his mind) on Duke, even if he doesn't like him.
And the bonus of dressing down is that it's comfortable as hell. Why am I running around town in cute little sundresses and wedges? Wearable blankets are where it's at.
"Ok," I say as Peter places the bags on the counter. I lean over and skim my hand along Slim Jim, telling him, "I got something special for you, buddy."
Peter opens the fridge. "Trying to get back into his good graces after the teabagging comment?"
"Yes," I say, nodding my head. "I could tell it hurt his feelings."
Peter laughs, coming away from the fridge with a bottle of champagne. He holds it up for me to see. "Is this ok? This is the same brand you were drinking the night of your engagement party."
My eyes go big. "It's my favorite, but it's expensive."
"You're worth it," he says simply. A beautiful sentiment delivered without fanfare.
I want to grab him and hug him, but I hold back. The gesture disarms me, makes my heart mushy and my muscles malleable. Softened butter .
"I don't know if there are champagne flutes," he says, wearing a lopsided frown of apology.
"There are," I respond confidently, "in the back of the top shelf to the right of the sink. I remember putting them there when we helped Hugo set up the place."
Peter locates the glasses. While he's pouring my champagne, I pop popcorn in the microwave. He fishes a bottle of beer from the fridge, popping the top.
I lift my flute in the air, offering a cheers. "Here's to popping your Princess Bride cherry."
His lips flatten as he shakes his head and taps his drink against mine. "I'm guessing at some point I will stop feeling surprised by some of the things that come out of your mouth."
Maybe at some point you can feel surprised by something going in my mouth.
Ok, yeah. Maybe don't say that out loud. Duke was right. I need a cold shower.
The popcorn heats up, popping sounds starting. Peter pinches my wearable blanket between two fingers, holding it out to the side. "It's soft. I'm jealous."
"Bet you wish you had one."
"This looks pretty big," he says, tugging until it's all the way out from my body. "There is definitely room for me in there."
His eyes go wide after he says it. "I mean, not that I'm suggesting I get inside"—he gestures frantically—" that . I'm just saying, two average-sized humans could fit in it."
"This is fun," I say, my pointed finger turning circles in the air. "Watching you reverse out of an awkward spot is prime television."
"Ha. Ha," he deadpans. The popping sound coming from the microwave reaches fever pitch, continues on a few more seconds, then trails off. I go to open the microwave door, but Peter stops me with his hand on mine. "You have to let it keep popping. All the kernels at the bottom haven't popped yet."
He's right behind me. The heat of his chest somehow manages to radiate through the thick fabric, searing my skin. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and say, "But you risk burning the already popped corn."
He's still behind me, and I don't dare turn around. "And possibly breaking a tooth on an unpopped kernel."
The popping slows to a trickle. "Was it your plan to delay me enough that you knew you would get your way?"
He takes his hand off mine and steps back. "With you, Sunshine, I have to be crafty in order to get my way."
I throw him a dirty look over my shoulder. "I'll be storing that inside information away for next time."
We get the popcorn separated into two bowls, settling onto the couch with our candy and drinks.
"Get ready to be swept away by a tale of high adventure and true love," I say dramatically.
"True love?" He gives me a look like he's reminding me of our conversation from before.
I roll my eyes. "Of course these characters believe in true love. Somebody wrote a happily ever after for them."
"Somebody's writing your happily ever after, Sunshine, I'm sure of it." He glances back at the kitchen lights, then springs up from the couch. "Do you mind if I turn those off? They're going to cause a glare on the TV."
"Please," I say, tearing into the Sour Patch Kids. "I'll just be over here, stuffing my mouth with sugar and drinking champagne in my wearable blanket."
Peter throws me a grin as he walks past. "And somehow you make it look good."
There goes that softened butter feeling again. I may end up a soupy mess by the time this night is over.
Peter settles on the couch. Slim Jim lies nearby on his bed. The champagne tickles my throat, and I'm more comfortable than I've been in a long time. It's not only the clothing. It's the company.
The movie starts.
"If I hate it," Peter says, taking a handful of my popcorn instead of his own, "it's your fault. And you'll have to choose something else for us to do to make it up to me, because I can never get this time back."
The way he says it, almost morose, has me laughing. "Please don't tell me you're one of those people who talk through movies."
"I am not one of those people who talk through movies."
His assurance holds true. He is quiet, breaking his silence only to laugh, and pausing the movie once to refresh our drinks.
When the movie's over, he picks his head up from the couch cushion and says, "The script definitely does not follow the movie."
"They rarely do," I say, tipping up my champagne flute and finishing the last drop. I glance toward the fridge.
"Do you want another glass?"
"I won't feel comfortable driving home if I have a third drink." The fridge pulls my gaze one more time. "But it would be a damn shame to waste the rest of that bottle."
"It would," Peter agrees. "Think of all that effervescence never getting to fulfill its destiny."
I narrow my eyes at him. "You are a very bad influence."
"You could have it, wait a few hours, and then drive home. Drink lots of water. All the water."
I wiggle my eyebrows.
He pretends to hit the couch with a gavel. "Sold to the prettiest flying squirrel there ever was."
"You flatter me," I say, getting up from the couch to follow him into the kitchen.
He pours the champagne to the brim, enough to empty the bottle, and retrieves a third beer for himself.
Something overtakes me by the time I'm halfway done, a combination of the champagne and the late hour, but my limbs are loose, and apparently so are my lips.
"Dance with me, Sailor." I hold out my arms. "Put on something slow."
Peter eyes me. He's been drinking dark beers, the kind with a higher alcohol content, so I know he's not sober either. Still, he has his mind about him.
"How do you think your fiancé would feel about that?"
"I absolutely, totally, unequivocally believe he would not care."
Peter leans closer, looking me dead in the eyes. "And why is that? Hmm?"
"You and I, we're...friends." Is my voice breathy? Maybe it's the champagne making me sound like I'm panting.
"If you were mine, I wouldn't let another man spend an evening like this with you." He gestures from me to him. "Curled up on a couch watching a movie."
"While wearing a muumuu's older, uglier sister?" I stuff my hands into my pockets, because whoever made this loves me and knew I'd want pockets.
"Interesting how much effort you put into making sure you looked like you made zero effort."
"Someone thinks highly of himself," I say, pushing at his chest. It's a mistake, mostly because I push at his chest and then...my touch stays.
He looks down at my hand. Back to me. "Sunshine." He says my nickname like a warning. "I'd be very, very careful if I were you."
"Oh yeah?" This is bad. So bad.
My flat palm glides up, smoothing over him, traveling over his collarbone, climbing his throat. My fingers find his hair, my fingernails scraping over him. His low, guttural groan seeps into me.
I meet his gaze, and then I see his hunger. This man is famished. My fingers curl, guiding his head closer to mine. For the shortest second he allows it, but something passes through his eyes and his muscles become rigid.
"We can't," he rasps. He looks pained. Regretful. But he hasn't moved.
"It's ok," I whisper, smiling softly. "Duke and I have an agreement."
Confusion crosses his face. "What?"
"Mm-hmm. And I'll tell you everything…Later. Right now"—I bite my lower lip and look up at him through my lashes—"I'd like to do other things."
Stunned, Peter says nothing. But his eyes track me. He watches raptly as I step back. Tug the oversized garment over my head and toss it aside. I'm in black leggings, and damn it , my ugly bra.
Peter comes to life. He steps in, wrapping an arm around my waist, hauling me into his chest. My breasts press against him, pushing up, but he's not looking at them. He's staring into my eyes.
"Fuck, Daisy. You're more beautiful than anybody has a right to be." His gaze drops, lowering to my chest. "The things I want to do to you."
I arch into him. "Do them, Peter."
Everything shuts off. His hunger disappears. His hand leaves my waist, the ghost of his touch lingering. He steps away, bumping into the table in his haste. "We can't do this." He swipes my dumb, stupid, idiotic wearable blanket from the floor and thrusts it at me.
My face flames as I shove my head and arms through. "I'm sorry," I say, because I don't know what else to say and I'm dangerously close to tears. The last thing I want is to cry in front of him right now.
"There is nobody sorrier than I, I promise you that."
I want to ask why? but I'm not sure I want to hear the answer. My purse is on the counter, and I go for it.
Peter's arm shoots out to stop me. "You can't drive."
He's right. I need to sober up.
Has there been another time I've been this mortified? If there has, I've blessedly forgotten.
"Here," he says, grabbing four bottles of water from the fridge. "Let's drink some water and watch something on TV."
I nod, still too embarrassed to speak. Too afraid if I open my mouth, tears will pour from my eyes instead.
We sit down in our previous seats, and Peter puts something on TV. I'm not sure what it is, I'm not really seeing it. My mind plays those brief moments in the kitchen over and over in my mind, trying to pinpoint what went wrong. He was into it, and then he wasn't. It was as if somebody poured a bucket of ice water over him.
It must be about my engagement. Worry over feeling guilty tomorrow. Maybe worried that I'd have a crisis of conscience after, and he was trying to save me from that.
Peter shifts beside me, and my eyes grow heavy.
The last thought I have before I close my eyes is far worse than the previous.
It's me.