Chapter Eleven
ELEVEN
Maggie wasn’t planning to stay out late with the girls, but “let’s get dinner” led to “let’s grab a drink” which led to “there’s a new axe-throwing place a few T stops away,” and suddenly it was after eleven.
She’d welcomed the diversion. With no new updates from the accountant, no sword of Damocles crashing down, she was living in a holding pattern.
No news is good news, James had said, but she knew Chauvel had been keeping the consequences at bay.
Blake was sitting on the couch when she got home, a large three-ring binder spread open in front of him.
“That the plant binder?” Maggie got a glass of water from the fridge. “Pretty dry reading for a Saturday night.”
Blake didn’t rise to the bait. “I picked up a new plant and I needed to make a page for it.” She came over to peer at his work upside down and saw that he was sketching.
He’d taken a blank half sheet of paper and added the plant’s common names, Latin name, sunlight and moisture requirements, and the date he acquired it.
Then, in the upper corner, he was completing his drawing of the plant with a fine-line black ink pen.
“You’re really good at that.” She couldn’t keep the surprise from her voice.
Blake didn’t look up. “Thanks. I’ve always liked sketching, but back in college, I started doing it more seriously. Illustrating my notes, doing some nature journaling, things like that.” He slipped the completed document into the sleeve of a half-page sheet protector.
Maggie slid on the couch beside him, close enough to read his work. His new plant was called a false shamrock. She scanned the room and spotted it on the windowsill, a small white pot with bright red-purple leaves. “I’m surprised you don’t name your plants.”
Blake smiled. “I worried that would cement my status of Weird Plant Guy.”
Maggie placed a hand on the open binder and gave him a sobering look. “Blake, we both know this binder puts you there on its own.”
He laughed, tugging it out from her hands. “Come on. It’s a common botanist’s trait. And gardeners. You know, Emily Dickinson did illustrations for all the plants in her greenhouse and garden.”
“No TV back then.” The tease slipped out from habit, but she was too distracted by the binder to push the subject. “These are seriously good, though.” She flipped a page. She’d seen all these plants on his shelf. “If you fall into a storm drain, I could take care of your plants.”
“Exactly. It’s like a guidebook.” He played with the edge of one of the sheet protectors. “I started it in a notebook, but then it was hard to keep it updated without tearing out pages, so I came up with this system.” He straightened an uneven sheet in its sleeve.
What a perfect encapsulation of Blake. “I think you should go all in and name your collection. You’ve already got the binder.”
Blake cleared his throat. “A few of them … have names.”
Maggie laughed and elbowed him. “I knew it! Which ones?”
“The ones in my room, mostly.” He flipped to a divider in the binder which was labeled “Bedroom.” A small stack of the plastic sheets sat behind it, and he laid his palm on the top one.
“These back here. In my defense, most had names when they were given to me.” He shut the binder and set it on the coffee table.
“Is it bad luck to rename a plant, like a boat?” She drank some of her water.
His brow furrowed. “I never thought about it, but I’d assume so. I’ve never renamed any of the ones I’ve been given.”
“Do people give you plants often?” Maggie had never been given a plant as a gift.
Blake leaned back. “Not too often, but more than you’d think.
One time …” He kept talking, but Maggie was distracted by the stretch of his shirt over his shoulders.
He looked good, she realized, dressed in pajama pants with a snug white T-shirt, hair tousled and messy.
His stubble was in full bloom, a shadow across his chin and lower cheeks that she longed to touch.
He was a perfect mixture of unkempt and unbothered that for some reason was hitting her real nice that night.
Her train of thought rolled past that station, capitalizing on the words hitting her real nice, and she started thinking about the Pimpernel.
They’d been talking every night, but their conversations had stayed unfortunately platonic, and she was itching for more.
She’d hoped to catch him tonight before bed, but it was late.
And oh, Blake was talking, and had been for a minute, and she hadn’t been listening.
“So usually if I can revive it, people tell me I should keep it,” he finished, and he was probably still talking about plants. Of course he was.
“Mostly I’ve killed my houseplants,” she admitted, grateful to be able to jump into the conversation. “I’m glad no one buys them for me. That feels like such an obligation. Like giving someone homework.”
“I think if someone gives you a houseplant, it means they trust you.” Blake shifted on the couch to look at her more directly. “Maybe don’t think too deeply about the fact that no one’s ever given you one.”
“Hey!” She was insulted, but she had to laugh. “I resent that.”
“I think you’re at least capable of taking care of a spider plant.” Blake patted her on the hand, and it was condescending but in an amusing way.
“Thanks.” She rolled her eyes. “I think I should leave all the horticultural work to you.”
“It is my passion.” He returned the binder to the bottom shelf. “But if you ever want to name my plants, let me know. I’m happy to defer to your judgment.”
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
He checked the clock. “I should probably get to bed. I lost track of time.”
“I get it. All those plants, all that excitement.”
He flipped her off with a smile. It was such an unexpected gesture from him, the guy who never even swore, that Maggie laughed out loud. “Wow, OK. Have a good night, Weird Plant Man.”
“Have a good night, Maggie.” Blake winked, and that wink made her feel tingly.
Maggie finished her water in one long gulp. She’d been having these weird feelings about Blake a lot, lately. If he was open to it, she’d definitely fuck him to get it out of her system. A thoughtful, considerate guy like Blake probably gave great head.
God, she wanted to get laid. She pulled out her phone and texted the Pimpernel, hoping he’d be up and available to talk, or hopefully to play. How’s your weekend going?
He replied a minute or two later. Low key, the way I like it. Nice to hear from you tonight, Rose. I’ve been thinking about you.
Her heart flip-flopped. I’m glad you’re still awake.
I like staying up on the weekends.
I’ve been thinking about you, too, she wrote. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately and could use a distraction.
Am I a distraction? he replied.
I don’t know what you are, she wrote back, and the words rang true. She wasn’t any closer to writing this article for Chauvel than she’d been a week ago, and sooner or later, Chauvel was going to figure that out. I don’t know you that well.
That’s because we agreed on no personal conversations.
They’d avoided sharing any identifying information, just like she’d wanted. But they still talked almost every night, and those conversations felt … well, personal. Their exchanges had an undercurrent of intimacy even when they weren’t sexting.
But now, she wanted a different kind of intimacy. She wanted to stop thinking, and she wanted to come. I want the sexy kind of distraction, she wrote.
Got it, he replied. Given any more thought to playing with pain?
I’m curious, she wrote. I’m willing to try some things.
I love when you’re willing to try some things, he said. Then, Want to fool around?
Absolutely.
You should get naked for me, he said, then we can talk further.
He wrote like such an English teacher. “Talk further,” like this was the beginning of some literary discourse and not only some hot sexting. Maybe he was an English teacher. She was supposed to be writing an exposé about him, and she didn’t know anything more than she had at the beginning.
She was going to have to bullshit her way through this article, and at this moment, she did not care. She stripped off her clothes and messaged him back.
I’m ready.
Good. Do you have a ruler?
A half hour later, she lay spent on her bed, high from orgasm endorphins and the mingled pleasure-pain of spanking her sensitive areas with a ruler. Best of all, her brain was quiet. Thought returned slowly, and with it, the buzz of her phone.
You alive over there? he asked. I didn’t kill you, did I?
She smiled at the phone. I’m alive. Alive and hazy with pleasure. He’d kept her on the edge for forever, teasing her until she was losing her mind with it, decision-making dissolving down to need and want.
In the haze of denial, she’d do whatever he asked of her.
Maybe Chauvel’s partner had been like this, too. Maybe she’d gotten desperate enough from edging that she gave up her boundaries. Maybe he’d taken advantage.
You have a dangerous power, she wrote.
He sent a single question mark in reply.
Maybe she shouldn’t tell him, but he probably already knew. When I’ve edged that many times, I’d do pretty much anything you ask.
I know, he replied. I don’t take that lightly.
Chauvel’s partner came to mind again. Have you ever pushed someone too far? she asked.
A long pause. I don’t think so, he wrote. I hope not. Tonight wasn’t too far for you, was it?
No. Tonight was perfect. I was just wondering. She’d been wondering about a lot of things lately.
If she continued down this path, she wasn’t going to be able to write the piece Chauvel wanted.
She liked the Pimpernel a lot more than she liked Chauvel, but publishing that article meant they could never meet.
Eventually, he’d learn about the exposé, and it wouldn’t take much to deduce the source of her inside information.
But breaking the contract was out of the question. Chauvel had too much over her, and too much over Cora, too, even though Cora didn’t know it.
The Pimpernel was the price she had to pay for their future.
Blake flopped back on his bed. Holy cow, Rose was going to be the death of him. First the actual scene together—when she leaned into the pain and liked it, then holding off and letting him tease her with delay—my god, he was barely able to keep a thought in his head.
Was he crazy to want to meet Rose? He’d been thinking about it a lot lately, even though he hadn’t mentioned it to her. He wasn’t the type to rush into anything, so he couldn’t draw the line between decisive and impulsive. He couldn’t be sure he was thinking clearly.
He needed a friend’s opinion.
Feeling silly, he pulled his phone over and texted Andrew. Would I be foolish to meet Rose in person? Shit, it was late. Andrew might not even be awake.
Andrew’s message came back in a minute, though. Not foolish.
Blake exhaled. Before he could reply, Andrew added another message. Probably don’t do anything until after the gala, though. Go into it with a clear head. And don’t get murdered.
Good idea.
Did Maggie say yes?
It took Blake a moment to process the shift in conversation.
For a second, he had transposed Maggie onto Rose, imagining that he was asking Maggie to meet up for some kink play, and his brain blew a fuse.
He couldn’t reconcile playful, direct Maggie to the kinky fantasies he’d been having about Rose, even if it was Maggie’s face he kept picturing despite efforts to the contrary.
Yes, she’ll go to the gala. I told her I’d buy her dress.
Andrew sent a GIF of someone laughing uproariously, which was overkill. What? Blake sent in response.
I hope she doesn’t bankrupt you.
Maggie wasn’t like that, and he was grateful. She’s not that kind of person. He didn’t know everything about her, but he was learning more with each day, and he knew she wouldn’t take advantage of him.
Maggie was many things, but at least she was trustworthy.