Page 12 of Beautiful Desire (Blossom Beach #3)

Fletcher

R ising out of my seat, I sling my backpack over my shoulder as I walk through the library toward the exit.

Spring quarter started this week, and as I figured, I’m already overwhelmed by the sheer volume of coursework, which doesn’t even include my capstone project that I haven’t even started thinking about yet.

Given that it’s the last quarter of my final year in the program, I expected to be up to my ears in homework, but that doesn’t make it any easier to digest.

School has always been a challenge for me, even back in middle and high school.

I’ve always gotten good grades—my father would have a fucking fit if I came home with anything lower than a B—but I’ve also always had to work a hell of a lot harder than my peers to achieve those grades.

It’s why I fought with my dad about going for my MBA.

If it were up to me, I would be fine with just my undergraduate degree.

It’s not like I need my master’s to do my job, but he insisted and wouldn’t budge.

The plan has always been for me to join my dad at the top of the company.

Even from a young age, I distinctly remember him telling me all about how we’re going to be partners and the empire he and his dad built will soon be mine too.

But I also distinctly remember him saying the only stipulation was I had to wait until I turned twenty-five.

Yet the closer I get to that age, the more caveats he adds.

I’m nothing but a puppet to him. He knows he can tug my strings in any direction he pleases, and I have no choice but to oblige.

I hate how much I want what he’s dangling in front of my face.

Sometimes I think it would be easier if I didn’t want to follow in his footsteps, if I had my own career path.

But I don’t. Not only does my father know being a co-owner at St. James Properties is all I’ve ever wanted, but he also knows how much I need this.

He knows, just like I do, I would be hard pressed to find another career path that could offer me as much money as my dad’s company, especially when I make partner and make double what I do now.

Or should I say, what I was making, since the bastard cut me off. Now I’m making a whopping seventeen dollars an hour, working part time for my stepsister.

Whoop-de-fucking-do.

My phone vibrates in my pocket as I make my way across the parking lot toward my car. Pulling it out, I’m more than a little surprised to see it’s from Georgia. It’s been damn near radio silence since I made that idiotic comment to her the other day.

“ Fuck, Peach, hearing you get all growly like that really fucking gets me hard.”

What the fuck was that? Georgia hasn’t said a word about it, pretending like it never even happened.

In fact, she’s gone out of her way to avoid me.

Lately, we’ve gotten into somewhat of a routine when we’re both home for dinner, to eat at the table together.

Neither of us ever has much to say, but it’s kind of…

nice, I guess, having somebody to eat with.

That stopped the night I made that ridiculous comment.

Audibly groaning, I swipe my thumb across the screen and unlock it, reading the message she sent.

Georgia: Can you pick up a twelve pack of diet Dr. Pepper and some more paper towels on your way home from library, please?

Me: Wow, you’re texting me? And I actually got a please from you this time? Are you feeling alright?

Unlocking my car, I climb in and toss my backpack on the seat beside me before starting the ignition. Before I even have a chance to pick a song to play, her response comes through, and when I click on it and read the words on the screen, my stomach bottoms out and my whole body warms.

Georgia: *middle finger emoji* We’ve been through this. Be a good boy and do as you're told, Fletcher.

Jesus Christ.

I read the message back another three times before my mind starts to work again.

“ Be a good boy and do as you’re told.”

How demeaning. No, how fucking belittling.

Who the hell does Georgia think she is? I mean, honestly, who talks to somebody like that and thinks it’s okay?

Well, I did just tell her that her voice made me hard, so I don’t really have room to talk.

Instead of responding, I lock my phone and drop it in the cupholder before putting the car in reverse, all the while trying my best to ignore the pounding in my chest and the ringing in my ears.

“Be a good boy...”

Good. Boy. Fuck!

A chill races down my spine as I recall the first time she called me that a couple of weeks ago and how it made me feel to hear it then. Why is my body on fire? My palms are slick as I grip the steering wheel, pulling out of the parking lot, my throat thick and skin tingling.

Why would Georgia say that? And after days of ignoring me?

Again, how is it possible that I’m equally pissed off and aroused by it?

I am not into being called a good boy. Clearly, my body is confused.

I thought getting laid last week would take the edge off things, but it didn’t.

If anything, it only made things worse. Especially because while I was fucking that blonde, all I could think about was Georgia.

My fucking stepsister. Her face—how hot she looks when she’s scowling at me, and how fucking sexy she probably sounds when she moans.

Her body—how soft and voluptuous it is, and how delectable she’d look as I spread open her fat ass with my hands while sliding my cock into her tight, warm cunt.

Having that fantasy fill my mind, it’s no wonder the reality of my hookup was so lackluster.

Don’t get me wrong, blondie was fine. There was nothing wrong with her—aside from her lack of effort—but annoyingly enough, she couldn’t compare to the woman, and the body, in my head.

To say I went home unsatisfied would be a huge understatement.

The only part that made it worth it was when Georgia chewed me out for it a few days later.

How fucked up is that?

Since it’s a little after seven in the evening by the time I get to the store, it’s thankfully not busy.

Today has been a long-ass day. First, with a shift at the bookstore this morning, then I went to the library to study and do my homework for the week.

Not to mention, I’m fucking starving because the only thing I’ve had to eat all day is a protein shake before work and a disgusting granola bar I got from the snack bowl in the back at work, and I haven’t been to the gym because there wasn’t any time.

The last thing I should be doing is fetching Georgia’s groceries for her—and paying for them—like I’m her little bitch, but alas, here I am, because I’m not in the mood to deal with her fucking attitude if I come home empty-handed.

Tomorrow will be even busier than today, so after I grab the diet Dr. Pepper and paper towels, I decide to pick up a few things for me too.

It’s probably a good idea to get in the habit of packing a lunch and a few snacks to take with me, since I’m ballin’ on a tight budget these days.

This is the first time in my life I’ve had to be frugal.

Zero out of ten, don’t fucking recommend.

This shit is not fun. Now that I’m broke, I realize how much I took for granted before it was all ripped away from me.

Ordering food, for example. I’d have lunch delivered to my office damn near every day, and never even thought twice about it.

Granted, I always charged it to the company card, but even if I used my own money, it wouldn’t have mattered.

Even if I could afford to order food, with how small Blossom Beach is, I can’t imagine many places offer delivery, and Door Dash probably isn’t even a thing.

Once I’ve got everything, I get in line for the only register open. There’re three people in front of me, and the cashier is slow as shit. They don’t even offer self-checkout. Good god, I can’t fucking wait to get back to Charleston. It’s like stepping back in time being here.

I am not made for this kind of living. Fletcher St. James should not be packing his fucking lunch and picking up groceries, like an errand boy.

After about five minutes, the line finally moves, and I’m able to set my stuff on the conveyor belt.

At this rate, I’ll be here all goddamn night, so I pull out my phone while I wait, clenching my jaw when I notice another message from Georgia.

What could she possibly want now? Heaving a sigh, I click on the notification.

Georgia: Too bad you aren’t here to remove all this lace with your teeth. *wink emoji*

What the fuck?

There’s a picture attached, but it won’t load because the internet in here is fucking trash.

I read the message again, then reread our conversation right above it, the blood whooshing in my ears.

The picture finally loads after another minute, and as soon as I see what it is, I somehow manage to choke on my own spit, barking out a cough while closing out of the message in a hurry, fumbling with the lock button.

Realizing where I’m at, I shove the phone in my pocket and glance over my shoulder at the person behind me before turning my head to the woman in front of me, and luckily, neither of them are paying any attention.

Heat spreads in my groin and through my veins, and it becomes a challenge to not pop a boner right here in line.

By the time I’m walking out of the store, groceries in hand, I can’t even recall paying for them because the only thing I can focus on is that damn text.

I didn’t even get a good look because I was too worried about somebody else seeing it, but that’s about to change now that I’m in the car again.