Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
HEY, MR. FLOWERMAN
In my comms class, one of the few I’m not flunking, they call this ‘controlling the narrative.’
Mostly, I call it fixing a fuckup.
I flop back on the couch once I’m showered and dressed and ready to face the world. Ish. Everything about my outfit is something I second-guessed.
I’m going to be on Zach’s arm, and the only women who are ever there wear dresses shorter than his jersey on me and have lip filler.
Now, I’m not dissing the lip filler. I’ve googled it myself a time or two. And the lip gloss I bought when I chickened out might say it has cayenne pepper in the solution to plump up my lips, but they’ve yet to receive the memo.
So, dressed in one of his Dukes jerseys and a denim skirt that I also fourth-guessed over, my lips are burning, my hair’s loose when it’s never loose, and I’m wearing Converse sneakers.
I feel like my face wanted to go to a party but the rest of me is ready for a day in the library.
Gusting out a breath, I stare at the ceiling.
Not that it has any answers.
Neither does what lies beyond it.
Zach’s room is above the living room.
I could be watching him get dressed, and instead I’m having a crisis of confidence and a freak-out sesh with a floor between us.
He seems all-in. I’ve been around Zach and his girlfriends for too long not to notice how different he is with me. But as much as this works on paper…
Annoyed with my uncertainty, my doubts, when Zach has never let me down without making up for it in the past, I look away.
A small posy of flowers snags my attention.
Grabbing the bud vase on the edge of the coffee table, I bring it closer to me.
The flowers in them aren’t fake.
And I didn’t buy them.
Which means Zach’s still doing that.
I bite my lip as I think about when he started with this. I grabbed my last bunch from the grocery store when I remembered, which was around about the same time as invite-only night. Which was when he picked up on the habit of buying them.
For… me?
God, it is.
The actions are so unprecedented that I never picked up on the meaning behind them.
Until now.
Until that conversation.
Until the whole campus is about to find out that we’re sleeping together.
I cover my face with my hands.
Why is this everything I never even bothered dreaming of?
Why is he that?
“Denny?”
“Why are you buying me flowers?” I choke out, turning to look at him.
He rubs the back of his neck. “You like them but…”
“But?”
“You forget about them a lot. I-I decided not to let you forget.”
The stutter.
Fuck.
My.
Life.
His dad might have told him pro-hockey players shouldn’t have stutters, but fuck him. And fuck the toxic locker room BS. Because fuck me, that is the hottest thing to ever pass his lips and I’ve had them attached to my clit!
I stalk over to him.
His eyes widen in surprise, but he plants and braces himself.
I’m not sure what he thinks I’m about to do, but when I fling my arms around his neck, he moans in relief.
When our mouths join, he kisses me. Sinks into me. Breathes with me. And it’s so wonderful. Yet more of that stuff I never imagined experiencing for myself.
“Why are my lips burning?” he mumbles between kisses.
I choke out a laugh when I see more of the gloss is on him than me. “Your lips are going to be pouty soon.”
Said lips part. “You did this on purpose?”
“No. It’s supposed to be on mine.”
“To make yours pouty?” At my nod, he traces the edge of his thumb around my Cupid’s bow. “You don’t need to make them more pouty. They’re beautiful, Denny. Just like you.”
I click my tongue in a silent hush.
He tuts. “No. I won’t shush.” That thumb moves wider, arcing over my cheekbone. “Your hair’s down.”
“It is.”
“You never wear your hair down.”
“I don’t.”
“What’s going on?”
“I-I thought I should dress up, then I made a conscious effort to dress down.”
His eyes narrow. “Why?”
“Because the world’s about to see us together.” I bury my face in his chest, grateful that my hair is down because I can hide behind that too.
“You’re scared?”
“I’m… not your typical girlfriend, Zach.”
“I don’t have girlfriends,” he counters.
“You lying liar that’s lying to me!” When his hands settle on my hips, I harrumph. “You so do!”
“I don’t. They’re women I fuck. I don’t do girlfriends, Denny.
If they call themselves that, then it’s on them.
But I don’t.” When I tilt my head back to gape at him, he shrugs.
“I know I’m a jerk. Hell, I tell them that before we even get together.
I can’t be more honest. They just read into it what they want to. ”
“Not only a jerk, but a slut.”
His now-red lips smirk. “Well, we already established that it’s a good thing one of us has experience, and considering you get me horny too fast, let’s be doubly grateful that I know what I’m doing.”
I can’t help but crow, “So, it’s my fault?”
“Yup.” His smile’s cheery. “All your fault for being so goddamn hot.”
He has no idea that that was exactly what I needed to hear.
“I like that you get off fast with me.”
“You might now, but you won’t forever. I think we need to work on edging me or something. One jiggle of your tits and I’m done.”
I burst out laughing. Mostly because it’s hilarious to me that this guy who has women stealing our freakin’ house key to get to him thinks I’m the hot one.
I wanna hate that it makes me straighten my shoulders. I wanna hate that it makes me stick the aforementioned wundertits out. But I can’t. So I don’t waste energy on it.
I don’t need him to make me feel good about myself, but in his world, with the chicks that run around him, that confidence boost makes me crazy glad I gave him a blowjob this morning.
Leaning on tiptoe because he’s a giant, I pat his cheek. “You so earned that BJ.”
He scrunches up his nose. “Really?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“You’ve… forgiven me?”
“Forgiven you? For what?”
“The whole ‘gorgeous’ thing.”
Ah.
How can I be mad that his nickname for me, a wonderful one, is what outed us?
“Did you do it on purpose?”
“I don’t think so. I-I feel hella possessive about you, Denny. And I know you were putting distance between us on campus. So, if I did do it on purpose, it was my s-subconscious staking a claim. I’d never do anything to actively hurt you. You know that.”
Because I appreciate that candid answer, I nod.
Maybe I was stressing before, but…
I smack another kiss on his lips and snag a hold of his hand. “The capsaicin will do the punishing, but I forgive you. Come on. Let’s get this show on the road.”
That kicked puppy look fades from his expression. It’s replaced with a gleam of excitement, which has me sighing.
Again with the craziness—he wants this.
He wants people to know we’re dating.
I yank his hand, but he shakes his head then snags one of the flowers from the posy he picked.
Zac’s been giving me flowers for weeks.
Me.
Not the apartment.
Me.
“Here.” His lips quirk at the corner. “Gladiolus is the August flower. Seemed pretty fitting considering this whole thing was birthed then. Red for love. White for purity. Yellow for friendship. Purple for beauty.” He slips the purple one out and hands it to me.
“So the world knows what I think of you.”
“Not the white for purity?” I tease, refusing to acknowledge how thick my throat feels.
I’m not crying. You’re crying!
“Nah, I robbed you of that last week. And I got this idea from your idol—”
My brow furrows. “Gracie Bukowski?”
“Yep.”
From out of nowhere, he plucks a brooch. I gasp then melt as he snags a hold of his jersey, pierces the fabric with the backing, and settles it in place.
As he tucks the flower into it, he offers, “The antique dealer said it was pretty old.”
Peering down at the flower and the brooch that pins it to my chest, I whisper, “Thank you, Zach.”
“Anything for you, Denver.”
For a second, I hang in limbo.
Wanting to cling onto that sweet, sweet softness in his expression as he looks at me.
All while knowing men, hockey players in particular, speak out of their asses most of the time.
God, I hope he doesn’t let me down.
Because there’s no running from the fact that if he does… it’ll break my fucking heart.