Page 69 of Petals and Plot Twists
These are completely uncharted waters for us.
“Sorry again,” Peter says.
“Don’t worry about it.”
He hands me a mug of coffee made just the way I like it.
“So your lights started acting up again?” I ask.
“Around three a.m.,” he says.
“Your apartment really isn’t being nice to you right now,” I say.
“Apparently not.” He looks at the container of cookies sitting on the counter. “You made the cookies?”
I nod. “And they were delicious.”
“I’m sorry I left a mess in your kitchen,” he says.
“Don’t worry about it. The cookies were worth it.”
An awkward silence descends upon us, and I shift my weight from foot to foot, then take a long sip of coffee that’s still too hot.
I wince the slightest bit, then set my mug on the counter.
Peter puts his mug down next to mine, then pushes his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants. He holds my gaze for a long moment. “I’m also sorry I left last night.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m the one who should apologize. I’m sorry I made it seem like you had to go to the garden with me. I didn’t mean to make it seem like—I mean, I do still wish you would go, but if you don’t go, that doesn’t mean I don’t—that we can’t—” I pause and frown. Am I completely incapable of saying a full sentence around Peter? Is this how it’s going to be now? I shake my head and lift my gaze to meet his. “Sorry. Words aren’t my friend this morning.”
“Believe it or not, I think I understand what you’re saying.” He takes a step closer, his hands lifting to my arms. “I know you’re scared, Soph. But what if we just take things one day at a time? We don’t have to label anything or make any decisions about our friendship. We’ll just take things slow. See how it feels to be together.”
I lick my lips. “To be more than friends?”
His gaze drops to my mouth, and his expression heats. “Yeah. If that’s okay with you.”
I lean a little closer. “Will there be kissing in this new arrangement?”
He smirks. “I would like very much for there to be kissing.” He reaches forward and slips his hands around my waist, tugging me toward him. “Nice sweatshirt,” he says, and I smile.
“It’s my favorite.”
“Is it?”
“Yep. It always has been.”
“Yeah? Why is that?” He leans down, brushing his nose against mine, his breath fanning across my cheek.
I close my eyes. “Cause the guy who gave it to me is my favorite.”
Peter chuckles. “Pretty sure it was more atakingsituation than agivingone.”
I push up on my toes and press my lips to his. They’re warm and soft and welcoming, and I think I could probably stay right here, kissing him, for the rest of the morning. “You know you wanted me to have it,” I say in between kisses, and Peter grins against my mouth.
“You caught me,” he says. His hands lift to my cheeks and cradle my face while he kisses me one more time. Minutes slip by as he explores my mouth, and I find myself thinking about all the years we’ve known each other, all the time we wasted, when we could have been doing this.
Maybe I don’t need the flower to bloom for Peter. Maybe this really is good enough for me to lean in and trust it.
If there’s anyone in this world I can trust to keep my heart safe, it’s him.
