you can call me honey if you want
Flora nods once, smug as a cat in a sunbeam, clearly pleased that he’s finally decided to shut his very girthy mouth. Her lashes flutter innocently when he throws his threat her way, but her eyes gleam with pure mischief, and if her lips pucker into a kiss-me shape and her head tilts just a little further toward scandal than is strictly necessary—well. Surely it’s the seaweed’s fault. "Looking at you like what?" she asks sweetly, all airy innocence and ocean siren charm, her shoulder lifting in a slow shrug that does not help matters. The motion shifts one of the damp green coils across her chest, teasing just enough cleavage to count, as if she has no idea what she’s doing. (She does.)
"Oh, is that so?" she echoes, brows arching high at his barefoot declaration. "Well, that’s more closet space for me." Tossing her hair like a spoiled heiress, she sighs dramatically. "And anyway, I was the one who made the first move, so maybe the shoe does fit." Her grin is sly, glossy, and unrepentant.
Because Flora absolutely does not want to discuss any more about boxes of parental memorabilia, she cuts that line of conversation off with a flick of her fingers. "You can tell them that to their faces at dinner," she says with a tight-lipped smile, tone chipper enough to be fake. "They’ll love that."
But then he says like static baby and her teasing stills mid-smirk, expression softening like sugar dissolving in tea. The grin he wears is one thing, but the speed, the certainty, like there’s no question in the world that he’d be there, that he wants to be there? It swells something warm and unbearably fluttery in her chest, like her ribs are just a pretty birdcage for all the butterflies he puts there. And she doesn’t say anything right away, just watches him, her lips parted slightly in a stunned sort of smile. Static, he says and she feels it; like sparks licking beneath her skin. "You’re lucky my nails are wet," she whispers, the words half breath, half warning. "Or I’d be all over you." And judging by the heat rising in her gaze, that’s a promise, not a threat.
But then he mentions the deck, and her eyes narrow with sudden, predatory interest, before exhaling sharply through her nose as he questions her source, feigning outrage. "I didn’t make them up!" she insists. "They were designed by the very knowledgeable and creative staff at the Halenani." Her teeth catch at her lower lip, her cheeks a perfect cherry flush as her gaze drops deliberately down his chest and back up again, slow and hungry. "A standard deck has what, 52 cards?" she murmurs, voice low, languid, and dangerous in all the best ways. Her brows lift with a faux-innocent challenge, lashes batting as she lets her fingers rest delicately in his hand. "You think you’re up for that kind of variety?"
"Oh, is that so?" she echoes, brows arching high at his barefoot declaration. "Well, that’s more closet space for me." Tossing her hair like a spoiled heiress, she sighs dramatically. "And anyway, I was the one who made the first move, so maybe the shoe does fit." Her grin is sly, glossy, and unrepentant.
Because Flora absolutely does not want to discuss any more about boxes of parental memorabilia, she cuts that line of conversation off with a flick of her fingers. "You can tell them that to their faces at dinner," she says with a tight-lipped smile, tone chipper enough to be fake. "They’ll love that."
But then he says like static baby and her teasing stills mid-smirk, expression softening like sugar dissolving in tea. The grin he wears is one thing, but the speed, the certainty, like there’s no question in the world that he’d be there, that he wants to be there? It swells something warm and unbearably fluttery in her chest, like her ribs are just a pretty birdcage for all the butterflies he puts there. And she doesn’t say anything right away, just watches him, her lips parted slightly in a stunned sort of smile. Static, he says and she feels it; like sparks licking beneath her skin. "You’re lucky my nails are wet," she whispers, the words half breath, half warning. "Or I’d be all over you." And judging by the heat rising in her gaze, that’s a promise, not a threat.
But then he mentions the deck, and her eyes narrow with sudden, predatory interest, before exhaling sharply through her nose as he questions her source, feigning outrage. "I didn’t make them up!" she insists. "They were designed by the very knowledgeable and creative staff at the Halenani." Her teeth catch at her lower lip, her cheeks a perfect cherry flush as her gaze drops deliberately down his chest and back up again, slow and hungry. "A standard deck has what, 52 cards?" she murmurs, voice low, languid, and dangerous in all the best ways. Her brows lift with a faux-innocent challenge, lashes batting as she lets her fingers rest delicately in his hand. "You think you’re up for that kind of variety?"
