Blooming

CHAPTER THREE: NETWORKING

"I got the proof of your article today."

Blythe's voice. Shit. When the receptionist told me she'd put a call through to my desk, I assumed it was my lunch delivery. I'd basically been pretending everything that happened with Blyth didn't happen. Which was difficult, especially late at night when I was reaching for my vibrator. But I knew we'd have to talk again eventually given what brought us together in the first place. My biggest fear was that she'd pull the interview, leaving me scrambling to mush something together at the last minute. I bit the cap of my pen hard, beyond nervous to hear her spine-tingling voice again, and asked, "What did you think?"

"I was a bit surprised to receive it from your editor and not you."

"Yeah, I was..." I struggled to find the words to sum up my feelings about our secret, late-night tryst just a few nights ago that still felt like more of a dream than a memory. "...I was embarrassed, I guess. For sneaking out in the morning without saying goodbye."

"Don't worry; you didn't hurt my feelings or anything like that."

Her voice was earnest and I sighed with a relief I didn't know I needed. I hadn't consciously realized that hurting her feelings was even a possibility -- me, a mere mortal, at all impacting the feelings of an aloof goddess? -- but her assurance helped me get past the idea.

"Good, I'm glad. I'm still sorry, though."

"Luckily for you, I have a way you can make it up to me."

"Oh?"

Blythe was quiet for a beat. "I'm having a little party. A...relaunch, so to speak."

"Wow, seriously?"

She chuckled lightly. "I know; it doesn't exactly sound like something I'd do, does it?"

I laughed, too. "No, it definitely doesn't."

"Well, anyway, it's going to be next Friday, when the issue comes out. I want to get everyone I love together and make some announcements about the next chapter. Maybe literally, who knows?" She took a deep, shaky breath. She was nervous. That was enough to spark my interest in meeting whoever she was nervous about and seeing what she wanted to say to them. Maybe a follow-up to my article? Before my mind could run too wild, she continued, "So I thought maybe you'd like to show up, say something if you want."

"What kind of 'something' did you have in mind?"

"Oh, you know, just glittering about the brilliance you saw from the moment you met me, that sort of thing."

I had to hold my tongue to keep from flirting with her in the open office newsroom. Just talking to her already felt like we were alone again. "I'm sure I can come up with something."

"Perfect!" Blythe said that word like she meant it; I could hear the smile in her voice as she added, "Sam's sending out the invitations for me today. I'll have him deliver yours personally, should be there by the time you're home from work."

"Oh, that's not necess-"

"He's already on his way."

"You knew I'd say yes?"

"I had a feeling-" her voice dropped lower, like there was a threat of someone listening in to our dirty little secret "-considering I've already discovered a few ways to make you say 'yes' over and over and-"

"Alright, alright," I cut her off, covering my face a bit to hide my smile from any of my coworkers. "I'll be there."

"Looking forward to it."

The line clicked away, leaving me with the sounds that had been my backdrop ever since I started working at the Liberator -- clacking keys, hushed arguments, printers whirring. This whole week, I'd found myself longing for that intimate silence I'd only ever heard at Blythe's before, the silence that enveloped us as our breaths mingled. I'd never slept so deeply. And, now, after even just one night, I felt weirdly out of place at my own job that I was willing to do anything for a few years ago.

I shook the thoughts out of my head and opened up my email. One, from Blythe, labeled 'Article Notes.' When I opened it up, I found just one line, followed by just my name. My editor, Oliver Harrison, was copied as a recipient. My face immediately turned bright pink as I read it.

As flawless as my marble countertops. Approved.

I bit my lip at the reference. My skin wanted to feel that coolness again. I tried to stop the Pavlovian reaction from my cunt but failed miserably as the memory of Blythe's lips teased along the ridges of my brain.

When I got home from work, the invitation to Blythe's party had been slipped under my townhouse's door. The invitation itself was simple and elegant, but Blythe had tucked a handwritten note inside the envelope for me. I wondered if she wrote this for everyone or if I was special. I didn't know which made me more nervous.

For the next week, I dove hard into my work, plotting out the next couple of articles I'd have to pitch at our monthly whole-newsroom meetings. I hoped that this feature would be a jumping-off point for newer, bigger things moving forward. To develop the projects I'd been wanting to explore for years without any backing from higher-ups.

As the day of the party arrived, I found myself caught in a whirlwind of anticipation and nerves. With the issue featuring Blythe's story now in print and my responsibilities at the office momentarily on hold, I had the luxury of dedicating the day to preparing for the evening ahead. It wasn't just about choosing the perfect outfit -- although that was certainly a crucial part of the process -- but also about psyching myself up for the inevitable mingling and networking that would take place at Blythe's event. I didn't know who from the office would be there -- she'd invited everybody -- and, more frighteningly, I didn't know who from her life beyond what I knew would be there. The possibilities ranged from siblings or exes to other famous authors and industry experts. I had to find a way to thread all of those different needles.

I spent the morning carefully selecting my attire, agonizing over each piece as if my entire future depended on it. In the end, I settled on a sleek plum-colored dress that struck a tenuous balance between sophistication and sexiness. Professional without being frumpy. Paired with strappy heels I rarely had the chance to wear because of their impracticality and a few carefully chosen accessories, I felt ready to face whatever the night had in store.

With a final glance in the mirror to ensure everything was just right, I grabbed my purse and headed out the door, my heart pounding in anticipation. This time, as I drove up the winding road to her home, cars were parked alongside the switchbacks. I began to understand the scale of this "little party" Blythe was throwing.

Blythe's note had told me to pull around the house, so I was thrilled to find a spot to park waiting for me. If I'd had to walk up the gravel mountain path to get here in these heels, I don't know if I would've made it. It felt special. After getting out of my car and walking around to the front of the house, I was struck once again by its grandeur and beauty. The soft glow of lights spilled from the windows, casting a warm and inviting glow over the snow-covered landscape.

Taking a deep breath to steady my nerves, I made my way up the steps and pushed open the front door as instructed on my invitation. Inside, the home I'd found a sense of solace in just a few days earlier had been transformed into a social hall to rival anything downtown. I'd arrived later than I should've because of equal parts tentative mountain driving and social anxiety. I knew how to play the part as a journalist, but the added nuance of my relationship -- relationship? -- with Blythe made me sweat. Hopefully not literally.

I couldn't even spot Blythe through the wall-to-wall sea of faces, so I made my way over to the bar that I knew hadn't seen use in a very, very long time, if ever. Tonight, there was a bartender mixing and pouring drinks with practiced flair. As I made my way over, I spotted a few familiar faces. I shot a silent thanks out to the universe, even if one of those familiar faces belonged to Bridgette Royce, who'd been hired at the same time as me from the same graduating class but who'd always been one step ahead of me with her brilliantly bleached smile, quick cruel wit, and precisely curated criticism.

"Hey, Bridgette," I greeted, trying to sound casual as I slipped in next to her and Oliver.

Bridgette turned to face me, her perfectly manicured eyebrows raised in surprise. "Well, well, look who decided to grace us with her presence," she remarked, her tone laced with thinly veiled disdain.

I plastered on a polite smile nonetheless. "Couldn't miss out on Blythe's big night."

"And yours," Oliver cut in, offering me a supportive smile. "Congratulations on your first big feature, Daisy. You knocked it out of the park."

"Absolutely." Bridgette's lips curled into a knowing smirk. "You were so lucky to get that call back from her since it's not like you were offering up anything unique. After all, who wouldn't want to be seen rubbing elbows with the literary elite?"

I forced a laugh, feeling the tension between us crackling in the air. I replied, struggling to keep my tone even. "Yup. I'm very grateful for the opportunity."

Before Bridgette could respond, the bartender, a young man with a friendly smile, interrupted us. I gave him a silent 'thank you' expression. "What can I grab for you?"

I hesitated for a moment, scanning the selection. "Riesling, if you have it."

As the bartender poured my glass, I couldn't shake the feeling of being out of place amidst the glamorous surroundings even though I'd attended my fair share of fancy fundraisers and glittery launches. But, as I took a sip of my wine, bright and tart, and glanced around the room, my eyes finally landed on Blythe, her presence commanding attention even amidst the bustling crowd. She seemed to know I was looking for her -- or maybe, I barely let myself hope, she'd been looking for me too -- because her eyes met mine right away.

She winked at me.

I let out a deep breath.

Oliver caught my elbow before I could head over to Blythe. His voice pleased and a little tipsy, he said, loud enough for Bridgette to hear next to us. "Listen, I wanted to touch base about your piece now that the issue's out. It's generating quite the buzz."

My heart skipped a beat at the acknowledgment, the nerves that had been simmering beneath the surface suddenly coming to a boil. "Oh?"

"Well, the higher-ups are thrilled with the response so far," Oliver explained. "They're talking about extending your contract, maybe even giving you your own column in the literary space. Book reviews, author features, those sorts of things."

The news hit me like a tidal wave, sending a surge of excitement coursing through my veins. "That's incredible, Oliver. I... I don't know what to say."

"Say yes, darling," Oliver replied, his tone brimming with enthusiasm. "You've got a talent for this, and it's about time you got the recognition you deserve."

The validation washed over me as I finally found the confident smile I'd been hoping to wear tonight. "Thank you, Oliver. I can't wait to talk about it more."

"Come to my office first thing on Monday, before the pitch meeting, and we can go over your vision for the rest of the quarter," Oliver said. He gave my arm a quick squeeze. "Now go enjoy the rest of the party. You've earned it."

When I turned around to find Blythe again, she was only a few steps away, walking toward me. My eyes roved over her body, from her classic white and red Louboutin stilettos all the way up to the plunging V of her oversized white blazer, nothing underneath, just like that night in her robe. A delicate gold chain rippled down between her small breasts. She was effortlessly sexy, somehow classy, and the epitome of fashion. Her full, smiling lips were painted a deep maroon, and her short black hair was slicked back tightly against her head. Everything screamed sleek and simple. She didn't need to be extravagant to shine. That alone made her stand out in the crowd of people trying too hard.

Unaware that she had already taken my breath away, Blythe glanced at me and then looked at Oliver to ask, "Mind if I steal her away? I've got lots of people to introduce her to."

Oliver chuckled and said, "As long as you give her back."

Blythe laughed that infectious laugh of hers and replied, "No promises."

And she whisked me away into the sparkling crowd. As we moved through the throng of guests, Blythe introduced me to a dizzying array of people from her life, each one more fascinating than the last. There were acclaimed authors whose names I had only ever seen on book covers, their faces now familiar as they exchanged pleasantries with Blythe. There were artists whose works adorned the walls of prestigious galleries, their passion for their craft evident in every word they spoke. And there were friends and acquaintances whose bonds with Blythe ran deep, their laughter and camaraderie a testament to the enduring connections forged over years of shared experiences.

I was shocked to find that, even after a decade of solitude, Blythe still garnered this kind of admiration and attention. Maybe it was because of that decade, the allure of it, but it seemed more like everyone genuinely wanted to reconnect with her. With each introduction, I found myself immersed in a world of creativity and intellect, the air buzzing with the energy of lively conversation and spirited debate. Blythe moved effortlessly through the crowd, her presence commanding attention as she guided me from one group to the next with practiced ease.

Once everyone seemed settled, eating hors d'oeuvres passed around by staff I hadn't even noticed, Blythe perched herself a few steps up the staircase and clinked a knife against her glass. The room turned to her attention. "First, I want to extend my deepest gratitude to all of you for coming tonight; I know it's quite the hike if you aren't used to it." The guests nodded in agreement. Blythe went on, "Now, I'd like to raise a toast this evening to Daisy Prince, the journalist I finally connected with enough to share my story with." She pointed her glass in my direction. "Daisy, I can't wait to see what's in store for you in the next few months. So, let's raise our glasses to-"

"You aren't getting off that easy," I interrupted her with a smile. I took the few steps up, suddenly emboldened by the wine and the praise, and raised my own glass. "I'm Daisy, and I'd like for all of us to toast Blythe while we're at it. I've never been so taken aback by the effortless, entirely authentic self of an interview subject. Blythe is stepping out into the world -- with intention and care -- as both the iconic storyteller she's always been and as an entirely new woman than she once was. To Blythe."

As everyone repeated it and touched their glasses, Blythe pulled me into a quick, respectful hug. The smell of her citrusy perfume perfume made me want to melt into her. I tried not to let my hand trail to the small of her back or my lips press into her bare neck when that was all I wanted to do. But I pulled away from her, only letting my eyes linger on hers. Even in that passing moment, I felt the exact same urge radiating off of her.

CHAPTER FOUR: LE PETIT MORT

After the toast, I had to shake hands with pretty much everyone in the house that Blythe hadn't already introduced me to, smiling politely through congratulations and personal anecdotes about writing, Blythe, the Liberator, or a million other completely inconsequential topics that served no purpose other than unintentionally keeping me away from Blythe. My small clutch was running out of room for business cards and my brain was running out of new ways to say 'Let's connect sometime!' without sounding like a sarcastic bitch.

But, finally, I felt her hand on my arm once more, this time urgent. She whispered almost against my ear, her breath sending shivers up my spine, and asked, "Need a moment away?"

I nodded eagerly as her fingers brushed the small of my back. "Desperately."

Blythe raised her voice and turned to the group who'd been monopolizing my time with small talk and said, "Sorry, my loves, I need to go over a few business things with Daisy in private before the night ends, and I know she'll be dying to get home once you've all had your way with her."

With that, she smoothly and gracefully extracted me from everyone who wanted a word -- or a hundred -- and led me up the stairs. Outside on the balcony, that comfortable silence I remembered enveloped us both. We were finally genuinely alone. The balcony was off of the only solid, window-free wall in the home, through a door that blended in almost seamlessly. An almost-secret hideaway. Blythe's life seemed to be made of a series of increasingly private spaces.

The cold mountain air refreshed me after breathing the heady, hot atmosphere of the party for a few hours. Still, I let out a foggy breath and said, "God, it gets cold out here at night, doesn't it?"

"Let me warm you up, then," Blythe said. She took my wine glass and set it on the wide railing before wrapping me up in her arms. Standing behind me, she snaked her arms around my waist and rested her chin in the crook of my neck and shoulder. She muttered, "You look so stunning tonight. I already thought you were beautiful in your business getup, but this..."

She let out a heavy sigh as her hands grazed from my waist to my hips to my stomach and back again and again. I closed my eyes and leaned into her. My hands dropped to hers and we held each other like that, facing the low river valley that contrasted the sharp mountain range at the front of the house, for a long time. I was turned on by nothing more than her presence, but I was also relaxed in her embrace.

"You know," she went on, her voice low and sweet, "I'd be kissing you right now if it weren't for this lipstick. I thought it was a good idea at the time, but suddenly it seems like the dumbest decision I've ever made."

Fighting to keep my breaths steady now that I could feel her body against mine, feel her breath on my ear, feel her desire in the tightness of her arms, I replied, "I'm starting to feel exactly the same way."

"I was so worried you wouldn't." She laughed at herself and shook her head. "But as soon as I looked at you, I felt it. We've been craving each other."

I took a deep breath and turned around. Before I could lose my confidence, my fingers dropped to the single button that kept her skin from mine. I practically ripped her blazer open. I hadn't seen her tits in their entirety yet but it's all I'd been thinking about for days. Once her breasts were free, I devoured them with my eyes for a few seconds before allowing myself to touch them. She was basically my opposite. Her breasts were small enough for me to easily hold in my hands but still full and heavy. While my nipples were pink and close to flat and wide across the front of my larger bust, hers were medium brown, the size of quarters, and hard from the cold air and from her obvious arousal.

I traced my first two fingers along the golden chain that dropped down her stomach, savoring these first touches of her freckled pale skin. "You're perfect."

Careful not to press my lips too hard to her skin or smudge my lipstick, I flicked my tongue over one of her nipples, just enough to get it wet, and then blew a stream of freezing air on her. The satisfaction that flooded my brain when Blythe Sloan practically ground against me for more attention was addictive. I smirked and looked up at her while I rolled her other nipple between my thumb and forefinger. "Not so intimidating when you're desperate for me, huh?"

"Oh, got an attitude now, do you?" Blythe teased before yanking me upward, flipping me around, and pushing me against the wooden wall in one fluid motion that stole the air from my lungs. With one hand on the wall on either side of my head, pinning me back with her body, she murmured, "Careful, Daisy."