3 | Flowers Blooming (Part 2)

"Not again," Margaret hissed, glaring at the thin red blossom unfolding on the back of her right hand, just beneath the knuckles.

She bit her lip, tasting blood, as she jerked open the inside pocket of her book bag, pulled out a pair of purple cotton fingerless gloves, and slid them on before her father noticed.

Margaret still remembered when her chemistry lab partner told her about soulmarks. He proudly showed her a mark on his forearm—an orange zinnia. Afterwards she'd read everything she could get her hands on pertaining to the 'Flower Phenomenon' as the press named it. Margaret had been furious—with her mother, with herself, and mostly with the nameless sod who was constantly cutting, scraping, bruising, and breaking himself. Concealing the random assortment of flowers that appeared all over her was exhausting and embarrassing. It also made her soulmate bloody impossible to ignore, but that didn't stop her from trying.

"Would you set the table, Dad?" She asked, focusing on the salad she was preparing. "John—Mr Thornton will be here soon."

John Thornton was another part of her life she couldn't seem to puzzle him out. His recent attempt to be more civil surprised—and frustrated her. When he was being an asshole, he was easy to ignore. Whenever Margaret thought she finally understood him, he did something unexpected and kind.

"Impossible man." Margaret flinched as she bit her lip again, shoving the thought away.

The skin on her hand was still warm and it prickled when two knocks sounded at the front door. A shiver ran down her spine as Mr Thornton's deep growling voice greeted her father. Mr Hale and John stepped into the kitchen and settled at the table, already in conversation about Plato's Republic. Margaret brought the finished salad to the table—and almost dropped it on the floor.

"What—What is that?"

John glanced at the bandage on the back of his right hand. "I cut myself while working." He shrugged. "Happens all the time."

Margaret's skin went cold and her ears began to ring as she stared at his hand, the mark on her own skin tingling with a rush of warmth.

"When?"

"Margaret, don't be rude—"

"When was it?" She demanded, ignoring her father's gentle rebuke.

John frowned at her. "Today."

Margaret felt her stomach twist, her eyes widening as she stared at John's face—or, more particularly, his mouth. A small red flower coloured part of his bottom lip. Her tongue ran over the same spot on her own mouth, the split skin stinging. John's eyes flicked to her lips. Her hand flew to cover her lips and she bolted from the room, hurrying up the stairs. She collapsed against her bedroom door, yanking off her gloves. The scarlet petals blazed against her pale skin. Margaret fingered her lip, the split skin sore and tender, her mind racing.

It couldn't be.

Not him.

Please, not him.

John flicked on his bathroom lights and scowled at his reflection. He needed to shave and—

He leaned closer to the mirror. A familiar red ranunculus bud dusted his bottom lip.

"Not again."

He hardly thought about his soulmate these days. It was pretty easy to do since he didn't get soulmarks very often. When he did, it was almost always on his bottom lip or around his thumbnail on his right hand. Margaret must have seen the flower on his mouth tonight. It would explain why she disappeared like a deer caught—

John leaned his hands heavily on the sink as a new thought smacked him in the face. He brushed his thumb over the mark on his mouth, his stomach tightening at the memory of Margaret's lips. He'd noticed the split as soon as he walked in. Margaret chewed on her lip and thumb all the damn time, especially when she was nervous. John's thumb prickled and he glanced down. The familiar tiny orange lantana blossoms appeared slowly.

"Holy shit," he breathed.

He rubbed his face, his thoughts racing over each other. He'd hated the idea of soulmates from the day he learned about it in school. He'd hated it even more when he'd met Margaret. John had been drawn to Margaret like a damn moth to a flame from the moment he set eyes on her. At first it pissed him off, but his attraction to her only grew, like a spark catching a bale of hay on fire, impossible to ignore. And the nameless woman destined for him felt like a barrier between John and the woman he wanted. It never occurred to him that Margaret might actually be his soulmate.

He could be wrong.

It could be a mistake.

John picked up his razor and shook his head. There was only one way to find out and it was going to hurt like a bitch.

"Good Lord, John. What did you do to your face?" Fanny giggled and poked at his cheek. "You look like Edward Scissorhands decided to take up shaving."

"Shut up, Fan." He raised his elbow, forcing Fanny to step back, and turned to fill his coffee cup.

"Did you suddenly forget how to use a razor?"

John's lips twitched, "Something like that."

He hadn't cut his face while shaving since he was teenager, and even then it hadn't been quite this bad. It would be worth it though, if it meant Margaret really was his soulmate. John shook himself and grabbed the paper. His leg bounced as he drank his coffee, eyes scanning the news without really reading the words, nervous energy pouring off of him. He didn't even hear Fanny's whining or his mother's dry sarcastic scolding. He downed the rest of his coffee, kissed them both, and made a beeline for his truck. John glanced at his reflection in the window, grimacing at the mess he'd made of his face.

It could be her.

Please let it be her.

"Marg," Bess gasped, eyes widening. "Oh my God."

"I know,"

"You—your face!"

"I know, Bessie." Margaret opened the door wider for her friend to come in. "I've got a mirror."

"Shit," Bess ran her hands through her short hair, staring open-mouthed. And then she punched Margaret in the arm.

"What's that for?" Margaret demanded, rubbing the spot. "That hurt."

"You never told me you were soulmarked."

"I don't see how it matters."

"Of course it matters—"

"Why?" Margaret flounced onto the sofa in the sitting room. "Why should another person so completely overshadow my entire life?"

Bess raised an eyebrow. "What's bitten your ass this afternoon?"

"Look at me, Bessie. My weekend is completely tossed and I can't go to class on Monday with red flowers all over my face. We have an exam and—"

"Forget about you," Bess sat down next to her and started counting the blossoms dotting Margaret's jaw, cheeks, and neck. "Show a little compassion for the poor guy. This must've hurt like hell."

"I hope it did." Margaret scowled. "How on earth does a man manage to mangle his face like this?"

"Shaving. Either he was in a hurry or he's never used a razor before. Or—" Bess stopped, eyes widening. "Oh shit."

Margaret's head snapped up, "Or what?"

"He must've done it on purpose."

"He? Who are you—" Margaret's voice dropped off in the middle of her sentence.

She shoved herself to her feet and began pacing. Her soulmate had cut himself shaving. But there was no proof he'd done it. It could be any other man. There were millions of men shaving every day weren't there? It didn't have to be him.

But she could be wrong.

"Marg—"

"You worked today?"

Bess nodded.

"And you saw John—Mr Thornton?"

Bess nodded again.

"And his—his face—was it—"

"Cut to pieces." Bess replied, her eyes dancing.

Oh.

Oh no.

"It's kind of romantic, Marg. In a weird macabre sort of way."

Margaret groaned. John would do something like this, impossible man.

John wasn't a particularly patient man. He had a damn short fuse and a low opinion of people who wasted time. But he was also a stubborn son of a bitch who could outlast the most unyielding opponent—including his mother.

He crossed his arms, leaned easily against the Hale's front door, and glanced at his watch. He'd been out here for almost an hour. He'd also lost count of how many times he'd knocked, but the house remained dark and quiet, seemingly empty.

"Stubborn ass woman."

John didn't know exactly how, but he knew Margaret was on the other side of the door. Time to call her damn bluff.

"You know, I can stand here all night." He called.

A barely audible shuffling reached his sharp ears.

"Open the door, Maggie."

"I'd rather not, thanks," came her muffled reply.

"Give me ten minutes—"

"No."

"—and then I'll leave."

There was a pause.

"Five minutes."

"Ten."

"Five or I'll go to bed."

"I know where the spare key is."

"You wouldn't dare."

"Try me." John grumbled, scuffing his boot against the bricks. When she didn't reply he straightened, roughing his hair with his hat. "Please."

It was as close to begging as he'd come since his father died and John hated the desperate edge in his voice. But he wasn't leaving until he saw her—until he knew.

Then he heard her sigh.

"Fine."

The lock clicked and the door let out a soft creak as it opened. John could barely distinguish Margaret's outline in the darkness—stiff, haughty, and determined.

"What do you want?"

He heard her sharp intake of breath as he stepped closer, reached inside the house, and flipped the porch light on. Margaret glared at him, cheeks flaming with embarrassment as his gaze swept over her face, the tight coil of nerves in his stomach finally loosening. John raised his hand and gently brushed one tiny red blossom high on her cheek with the tips of his fingers, the skin warming and tingling. His own cheek throbbed.

One by one his eyes found each flower, the perfect match to the nicks and cuts on his own skin.

"Please don't—I don't—"

He reached down and took her hand, running his thumb over the bright red blossom splashed over her skin.

"I—I don't even like you. I never have."

John pulled her close against him, wrapping his arms around her tiny frame, and held on as tightly as he dared. She stiffened, her body rigid and tense.

"John—"

"Seven more minutes," he grumbled, leaning his cheek on her hair. A light floral scent filled his nose and he shut his eyes. "Then I'll go."

Margaret continued to stand stiff and awkward for a moment before she slowly relaxed into him. "Next time, try not to slice yourself to ribbons."

John chuckled. "It worked, didn't it?"

Margaret sighed, rolling her eyes, "Impossible man."

AN : Thanks for all the kind feedback and encouragement and follows. I'm really enjoying this. I hope you are too. Cheers.