Page 33 of Beautiful Desire (Blossom Beach #3)
Fletcher
“ U h, are you feeling okay?”
Georgia’s voice startles me as I flip the pancakes on the skillet.
Turning to look at her, she’s standing in the entrance of the kitchen, with her hip pressed against the counter as she runs her fingers through her sleep-tousled hair.
An amused smirk pulls on the corner of her mouth, her honey eyes red-rimmed, having just woken up, and a pillow crease indents the side of her face. She’s gorgeous.
Huffing out a breath through my nose, I say, “Feeling great. Why?”
The early morning sun spills in through the window, basking the kitchen—and Georgia—in a warm, golden glow.
My gaze unabashedly trails down the front of her, noticing the white tank top she’s wearing is stretched over her tits, making it damn near see-through.
My mouth waters as I can perfectly make out her rosy nipples and the silver barbells decorating them, and my body heats as memories from last night flash in my mind.
Georgia’s eyes flit over to the clock above the stove before coming back to me, her brows pinched. “Because it’s barely nine o’clock on a Saturday morning, and you’re making pancakes,” she mutters. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you make breakfast before.”
I flash her a toothy grin and say, “Actually, I’ve got a whole-ass spread in the making. Got some eggs, bacon, and some hash browns. I even picked up some fresh fruit at the store this morning.”
“What time did you get up?” she asks, reaching into the drawer beside her and pulling out one of her coffee pod things.
“About six.”
“What the hell for?” she spits out. “We didn’t get home until like after midnight last night.”
Chuckling, I shrug. “Honestly, couldn’t tell ya. But I got in a gym sesh, went to the store, came home and showered, then was a little hungry and figured you might be as well once you woke up.”
Georgia nods and muses, “Ah, yes, to be twenty-four again.”
“You say that like you’re sixty.” I snort. “You’re not that much older than me.”
“I’m old enough that it’s going to take approximately seven to ten business days to recover from the tequila I consumed last night.”
I glance over at her, brows pinched. “You didn’t even drink that much.”
“Fletcher, I’m thirty-nine .” She breathes out a small laugh. “Anything more than a couple glasses of wine these days gives me a headache the next morning.”
“That fucking sucks.” I snort.
“You laugh now, but just wait.” Padding across the linoleum, Georgia opens the cupboard beside the stove and grabs a coffee mug.
As she walks away, I catch a whiff of her hair, heat spreading low in my groin at the smell.
It hasn’t even been a full twelve hours since my cock was buried inside her, and I’m already dying to do it again.
“Do you work today?” she asks, pulling me from my X-rated thoughts.
“Shouldn’t you know the answer to that?” I tease.
“Probably.” She shrugs and quirks a brow my way. “But I don’t, so just answer the question, smartass.”
My lips curl into a smirk as I shake my head. “Nah, I don’t. But I’m heading to the library in a few hours, if you need me to stop by there.”
“What are you working on there?”
“My capstone project,” I murmur.
She nods, walking over to the fridge and pulls out the fruit. “What’s your topic?”
Turning my head, I meet her curious gaze. “I’ve been toying with a few ideas, but I think I’ve settled on analyzing the feasibility of a new business venture,” I offer. “A secondary location for St. James Properties, to be exact.”
“What do you mean, you think ?” Grabbing the cutting board, she places it on top of the counter, then reaches for a knife from the block. “Wait, have you not started?”
Wincing at the question, a chuckle bubbles past my lips. “Nope, sure haven’t.”
“Fletcher, you’re supposed to graduate in a few months.” I can feel her gaze on the side of my head, but I don’t look. “How have you not even started your project yet?”
Blood rushes to my cheeks, and I feel them heat as sweat pricks along the back of my neck. “I guess I’m just an irresponsible procrastinator,” I bite out. “Is that what you wanted to hear, Dad ?”
The truth is, yes, it started as me procrastinating, but the longer I’m here, and the closer Georgia and I become, the more pressure I feel.
The deal she made with my dad rides on me making it through this program, and a huge part of that is this project.
I need to do really fucking well; otherwise, I’m going to fuck up her whole life, and I don’t know… That’s a paralyzing feeling.
Rearing back, like I physically struck her, Georgia’s brows cinch as her gaze softens. “No, that’s…” Breathing out a sigh, she shakes her head. “That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry. It’s just, from experience, I know how time consuming those can be. Do you need some help?”
“Nah, I’m good. Save your pity help for somebody else.” The silence that falls over us is deafening, and a pang of something that feels a hell of a lot like guilt hits me in the gut. Heaving a sigh, I say, “I’m sorry, okay?”
“It’s fine,” Georgia murmurs as she brings the fruit over to the sink.
“No, it’s not,” I grit out. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that, and I’m sorry.
Look, I’m not a total idiot. I know I should’ve started this last semester, but it’s fucking daunting.
Every single time I’ve sat down to work on it, I get so overwhelmed by how important this one single project is that I just…
clam up and tell myself I’ll tackle it later. ”
Back to me as she washes the strawberries, she huffs out a laugh. “Trust me, I get it.”
“Do you?” I snort, wanting to get off this topic as quickly as possible.
From the moment I met Georgia, she’s had this air about her, like everything she wants, she easily gets.
No doubt or weight pressing down on her shoulders from an overbearing parent—a parent who expects perfection from their child, even though it kind of seems like they’re actually hoping for their failure.
Not to mention, Georgia has this fierce, dominating energy, and the idea of being perceived by somebody of her caliber—someone who is effortlessly successful in everything they do—is terrifying.
Turning to face me, Georgia rests her hip against the side of the counter, peering over at me with pinched brows. “Yes, actually, I do get it,” she pushes. “Grad school wasn’t a piece of cake for me either, Fletcher, and I’ve told you that.”
“Yeah?” Folding my arms over my chest, I cock my head to the side. “Why’s that? You finally going to give me something about you? Something that brings us to a more even playing field?”
Just like last time I tried asking something personal, Georgia tenses up, her jaw tight and her shoulders stiff.
“We’re not talking about me right now.” Clearing her throat, she turns back to the sink.
“All I’m saying is, I get the daunting feeling, but the longer you wait to start, the harder it’s going to be to get it done, and I’m here if you need someone to bounce ideas off of. ”
Rolling my eyes, I heave a sigh and murmur, “Thanks.”
It’s not lost on me that I know next to nothing about Georgia, while she can read me like a book.
She keeps everyone, except for a small select few, at an arm’s length, her entire life locked up behind an iron-clad gate, and it’s becoming increasingly frustrating that she won’t let me in, even a little bit, when she has access to all my insecurities and struggles, thanks to my fucking father.
There’s a glaringly large power imbalance between us, and I don’t fucking like it.
“Why the hell won’t you give me anything, Georgia?” I finally ask when I can’t take it anymore. “Why is it so fucking hard to let me in? What are you so afraid of?
Georgia’s jaw pops as she cuts the fruit. “I’m not afraid of anything,” she bites out. “It’s just nobody’s business.”
I nod, sucking on my teeth. “Got it. I can see you naked and fuck you, but telling me anything about your past is too fucking personal. Cool.”
“Fletcher,” she sighs. “It’s not easy for me, okay?”
“And what? You think it’s a walk in the park, having you know everything about my struggles and insecurities?”
Her walls are firmly in place, and I’m not even a little bit surprised when she says, “I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Rain check, right?” I mutter, but she doesn’t respond. The conversation is over.
By the time breakfast is ready, I don’t have much of an appetite anymore, but I’m able to force down a couple of pancakes and some bacon before leaving the house.
Except it’s not the library I end up going to; it’s the gym, and I spend the next few hours taking all my pent-up aggression toward my dad and this fucking situation I’m in because of him out on the machines.
It doesn’t help, though, because all I feel once I’m finished is anger toward myself for putting off this goddamn project for, yet again, another day.