Page 26 of Beautiful Desire (Blossom Beach #3)

Georgia

G ood god, why is it so freaking hot in here?

Throwing the covers off my body, I crank the fan as high as it’ll go before I toss the remote on the nightstand and lie back down, staring up at the ceiling and wondering what the hell I ever did to the universe to deserve such cruel and unusual punishment.

You’d think I’d be used to this torture by now, given the fact my first period was nearly three decades ago, but every month, without fail, I’m brutally humbled when this bitch makes her grand appearance.

My period came a few hours after Fletcher and I got home from lunch yesterday, like I knew it would, so most of last night and this morning was spent curled up on the bathroom floor, fighting the urge to throw up.

I was planning to go into work today, because I have a million things to get done, but of course, that didn’t happen because day two is always the worst. After attempting to placate my raging uterus with a heating pad earlier, I was finally able to pass out, which is all fine and dandy, but now I’m drenched in sweat and my bedroom feels like it’s pushing a hundred degrees.

Reaching for my stainless-steel water bottle on the nightstand, I audibly groan, finding it empty.

Of course, it is. Cup in hand, I climb out of bed and meander barefoot toward my door.

The clock on the wall tells me it’s a little after two, meaning I slept for nearly three hours.

Damn. Guess I should probably make some food when I refill my water, considering I haven’t eaten since we went out for lunch yesterday.

Stepping into the hallway, the first thing I notice is the scent in the air. It’s strong, and smells like a mix of bleach, lemon, and…coconut? That, in and of itself, is already a bit odd, but then my ears perk up at the faint sound of music coming from somewhere in the house.

“Is that…Tupac?” I whisper to myself as I pad across the hardwood floor.

Reaching the end of the hallway, I peer into the living room, finding it empty, before turning left toward the kitchen, but the sight has me stopping in my tracks.

What the fuck? My hand comes up, covering my mouth, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing, because standing in my kitchen, holding what looks to be the handle of the mop, is my stepbrother.

And not only is he mopping the floor, but he’s also singing along to what I can now make out to be Keep Ya Head Up by Tupac while doing it.

Quite enthusiastically, too.

Wearing a black backwards hat, huge yellow rubber gloves, and no shirt, Fletcher is completely oblivious to the fact that I’m watching him.

The giant bottle of Pine-Sol next to the burning mahogany coconut candle on the counter explains the smell in here, but the giant basket beside it has me wildly confused.

I bring my attention back to Fletcher as the song switches over to Goodbye Earl , and I have to admit…

my amusement definitely outweighs the confusion, so instead of making my presence known by asking the many questions floating around in my head, I watch the—rather riveting—performance taking place in my kitchen.

Surprisingly, I’m able to go unnoticed for most of the song, but when he gets to the second, “Earl had to die,” I lose it. Laughter bubbles out of me before I can stop it.

A garbled sound flies from Fletcher, and he jumps, head whipping in my direction. “Good god, woman.” He clutches his chest, yellow rubber glove and all. “How long have you been standing there?” he blurts out, a scowl twisting his features.

“Long enough to catch a rare performance from the late Tupac Shakur,” I drawl, barely getting the words out before laughing again. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m mopping.”

“Obviously.” I snort, walking closer. “But why are you mopping? The most I’ve ever seen you to do around here is clean up the dinner dishes and do your own laundry—both of which you bitch about the entire time you do it.”

Propping the mop against the wall beside the pantry, Fletcher grabs his phone and turns off the music.

“You don’t feel good,” he says with a shrug.

“Figured I’d clean up the house so you could rest and not worry about it.

I knocked on your door earlier to see if you wanted some food, but you didn’t answer. Figured you were passed out.”

Glancing around, that’s when I notice how…

tidy everything is. The vacuum is plugged into the wall in the dining room behind me, and there’s a bottle of Windex and a roll of paper towels sitting on the table underneath the window in the living room, and if I had to guess, I’d say the bleach I smell is coming from the bathroom.

My heart squeezes as I look back at Fletcher, swallowing around the large knot suddenly overtaking my throat. “Did you clean…the entire house?”

“Oh, don’t look so surprised.” Chuckling, Fletcher crosses his arms over his chest and nods. “Yeah, as a matter of fact, I did. That a problem, Peach?” His arched brow and the lopsided grin make my heart race.

I don’t understand the fluttering feeling in my stomach, or the intense way my pulse is racing, or the way I’m gaping at him for several long seconds because I can’t think of a single thing to say in response.

First, he picked up that something was wrong with me yesterday, and then took charge and made sure the bill was paid and that I got home quickly, and now this.

It’s so thoughtful, and I have to admit, it’s nice having these things taken care of without me.

But it’s different, and it makes me kind of uncomfortable. I’m not used to it.

“Not a problem,” I finally say, breathing out a very forced laugh to hopefully hide my uneasiness. “It’s just really nice of you, when you didn’t have to do any of this. Thank you.”

Fletcher barks out a laugh and rolls his eyes. “I’m plenty nice when people aren’t nagging me,” he teases.

“Mmhmm, sure you are.” My lip twitches with a smile. Then, nodding to my left, curiosity getting better of me, I ask, “What’s with the basket, Little Red Riding Hood? Having yourself a little picnic?”

“Oh, right!” Fletcher’s eyes dart over to where it’s sitting, like he’s just now remembering it’s there.

Grabbing the basket off the counter, he saunters out of the kitchen, over to me.

“So, uh…” He breathes out an awkward laugh, and that’s when I notice the color to his cheeks that wasn’t there a minute ago.

Gesturing toward the table behind me, he says, “Here, let’s go over here. ”

“Are you okay?” Turning around, I set my cup on the table while he does the same with the basket. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Fletcher look even remotely uncomfortable.

Meeting my gaze for a brief moment, he nods.

“Yeah, I’m good.” He lifts the corner of the lid and glances inside before closing it again, his eyes coming back up to mine.

“Look, this all seemed like a good idea at the time, but now that you’re standing here, I kind of think it’s pretty lame.

And I didn’t pick up a basket when I was at the store because I figured you would have one.

You’re a girl—girls have baskets—but all you had was this. ”

What? A giggle bubbles past my lips. “That is a basket.”

Sighing heavily, he says, “Yeah, but it has a lid, which makes it weird now that I think about it.”

“Makes what weird?” I ask, right as another wave of cramps hits me again. “Fletcher, it currently feels like someone is using a wrench to twist my ovaries, and you’re talking in code. Could we please get on with it?”

“Fine, here,” he huffs, shoving the basket across the table before folding his arms over his chest.

There’s a slight tremble in my hand as I bring it closer to me.

I’m quick to blame it on the sharp, stabbing pain in my pelvis and the nausea washing over me in waves, but when my heart rate speeds up and flutters that feel an awful lot like butterflies join the discomfort in my lower stomach, I’m not so sure.

Especially since there’s a tiny voice in the far back of my mind telling me it’s more than that.

Glancing in the basket, my mouth dries and a lump settles in my throat, growing with each passing second, because as I look at everything inside, my brain can’t seem to compute any of it.

“What’s all this?” I ask hoarsely. Lifting my gaze to the man on the other side of the table, the organ in my chest thumps against my ribs when I find Fletcher already watching me, an unreadable expression on his face.

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “When you mentioned having PCOS, I didn’t know what that meant, so when we got home, I looked it up.

There’s a Reddit page for people who have it, and basically, what I got from reading through it is that it’s a hormonal imbalance that messes with your periods, right?

Makes them heavy, inconsistent and more painful? ”

It’s my turn to swallow thickly as a layer of goosebumps dots my flesh. “Among other things, yes.”

“Which is why you’ve been in your room since yesterday afternoon? Because you’ve been in pain?”

I nod, fighting the urge to rub at the dull ache in the center of my chest.

“That’s fucking shitty,” he states plainly, and a chuckle huffs out of me before I can help it.

Unfolding his arms, Fletcher gestures toward the basket in front of me with his index finger.

“I looked up things that might be able to help with the pain, or at least, alleviate it. Not sure if any of this will help, but a bunch of women on Reddit swore by some of this stuff.”

Pressure builds behind my eyes, the ball in my throat making it hard to breathe, and even though I know my periods make me extra emotional, I still don’t like it.

I drop my eyes, looking inside the basket again, really taking everything in this time.

There’s so much, and my chest tightens with each item.

Chamomile tea, a new, wearable heating pad that Velcros together, lavender bubble bath, some body scrub, a large bottle of pain reliever, and a few different kinds of chocolate and gummy candies.

Holy shit.

Forget the butterflies, a whole damn swarm of bees is buzzing around my stomach as my pulse thunders in my ears. Grabbing the Coco Colada shea sugar scrub out of the basket, I examine it front and back, like it’ll somehow have all the answers I can’t seem to voice right now.

Throat tight with emotion, I slide my gaze over to Fletcher. “You didn’t have to do all this,” I say, voice nothing more than a breathy whisper.

It’s the period hormones.

I’m only emotional because of the hormones.

That’s all this is.

“Yeah, I know I didn’t have to, but I thought it might help.” His shoulder lifts lazily with a shrug. “But honestly, it’s more for me than anything, because I don’t really want to listen to you complain about it all week. It’s not a big deal.”

It’s a cop out—the reason he added that last part. I know it is.

What I’m not sure about, though, is if he added it for me…or for him. As relaxed as his body language appears right now, is it possible he’s feeling as overwhelmed as I am? All of this… It’s incredibly thoughtful, and also, so not something I pictured him doing.

So, why did he do it? And why does my chest feel like it’s going to explode?

Or like my head is swimming in a hazy fog?

None of this makes any sense. Not this damn basket, and certainly not how I’m feeling.

And because I genuinely think I may pass out if I don’t go lie back down within the next three minutes, I take the out.

I don’t call him on it. The emotions surrounding this basket can be future Georgia’s problem.

Clearing my throat, I force a smile on my face as I grab the basket. “I’m gonna go back to bed, but thank you for all this. I appreciate it.”

Fletcher mirrors my awkward smile and nods, but before I can make it back to my room, he says, “Wait, your water!” I turn around as he’s grabbing it. “Go ahead. I’ll fill it up and bring it to you,” he adds.

Giving him a terse nod, I walk into my room, the tension in the air suffocating me. I don’t think I’ve ever been as confused as I am right now. So what, he made me a period basket? Like he said, it’s not a big deal… So, why does it feel like anything but?

A few minutes later, Fletcher strolls into my room, looking cool as a cucumber.

“Here you go,” he murmurs as he places the cup on my nightstand, setting a pack of peanut butter crackers beside it.

“Figured you were probably hungry. There’s some soup in the cupboard I can make for you later, if you’re feeling up for it. ”

“Thanks,” I say, much too shakily.

“No problem.” He turns around to leave, but he pauses when he reaches the doorway. “Oh, by the way, Reddit also told me how orgasms help with cramps.” A smirk curls his lip that makes my stomach bottom out. “Let me know if you need a little assistance relieving the pain later.”

And there’s the Fletcher I know and can’t stand. Although, I’m starting to wonder if the latter is just a lie I’m telling myself.

“You fucking wish.” I snort. “I’m good, but thanks, rich boy.”

He winks, breathing out a chuckle before leaving.

For a moment, I stare at the door he closed on his way out before grabbing the pack of crackers.

Ripping them open, I force myself to eat, even though my appetite is nowhere in sight.

I don’t know whether to be relieved by the last thing Fletcher said, because it brings us back to a more normal—and safe —territory of him being such a typical man and us bickering and bantering, or horrified, because there’s a part of me—a rather large part—that’s dying to take him up on the offer.

As much as I hate it, my body comes alive at the memory of him eating my pussy.

The way he saw right through the lie I gave about not wanting him to do it.

The way he didn’t wait for approval, he just did it . First, with that earth-shattering kiss, and then with everything else.

The way he looked between my thighs, his mouth on my cunt. And how the strands of his hair felt between my fingers.

The way he did it exactly how I showed him—every stroke of his tongue, every brush of his fingers inside me—but it was more than him simply following directions.

It was the way he somehow knew my body. The way he had me figured out.

My stepbrother effortlessly made me come the other day, and my god , I desperately want him to do it again.