Rating M

Disclaimer – Stephenie Meyer owns all things Twilight –
I just like to get weird with her characters.

Much love and thanks to my beta love, Carrie ZM, and my wonderful pre-readers,
Planetblue and Robsmyyummy Cabanaboy for all the time you've put into this fic.
Writing with you girls is always a blast!

"I'm guessing introductions aren't necessary?" Carlisle asks his brother, amusement apparent on his face.

"We're good," Edward says with his eyes still fixed on me.

"Well I'll just leave you two to it then." He dips his head in my direction and takes my hand. "Bella, it was a pleasure. I appreciate you coming out and if you have any questions, feel free to give me a call."

"I will. Thanks so much."

Carlisle barely has the cage door closed before Edward starts in, pushing off the counter and motioning for me to follow him. "I thought you said this wasn't your thing."

I shrug. "I like to keep an open mind."

"Good." He chuckles and barges through a set of stainless doors, leading us to a long room with several dressing rooms on one side and lockers on the other. "First things first. Before we enter the growing area, you'll need to change into this." He tosses me a plastic bag and directs me to a changing room. "We'll need everything off but the undergarments."

"O-kay." I slip into the dressing room and tear open the bag to find a bright yellow hazmat suit and a pair of plastic knock-off Crocs. "And why am I dressing like Walter White from Breaking Bad?"

I hear the distinct sound of a zipper being lowered and pants hitting the ground before he speaks. "Company policy."

"You mean theft prevention."

He laughs. "Security's obviously a concern with the amount of plants we have back there."

"I suppose." I pull my shirt over my head. "You'd be foolish not to protect your product."

"Exactly. But honestly, it's not the employees I'm concerned about. It's pests."

"Pests?"

"Yeah, bugs come in on people's clothes and shoes. If they got to my plants, we'd lose a lot of money."

"I would've never considered that."

"Lots of growers don't."

"Is that your job title? A grower." The word comes out in a bit of a giggle because I'm a perv and clearly am incapable of being professional.

He snorts. "I'm a Master Grower."

"For real? That's your official title?"

"Officially," he says, opening the dressing room door and stepping out just as I do, looking strangely appealing in his Minion uniform.

"Not for nothing, but that'd be the best business card ever."

Flashing me a smile, he shoves our stuff into a locker before motioning for me to follow him again. He leads me to another door, though this one has a keypad. "So this is our growing and production facility. It's a little over 10,000 square feet," he types a code into the keypad and holds the door open for me, "and houses around 3,500 plants."

We step out onto a grated platform overlooking the facility. "Whoa." The word slips from my lips as I take in the enormity of the space. A greenhouse lines the entire left side of the room, looking like a long glass corridor. Plants as far as the eye can see.

He chuckles quietly before directing me to follow him down the stairs. "On the left is the growing area, but we're going to head over to our production area first."

The right side of the room is mostly open, apart from one large glass enclosed area and several glass partitions separating the work zones. I notice each section is lined with tables and each table has several yellow-suited employees working diligently while being monitored. Red-suited employees pace the area, looking over the shoulders of the Minion lookalikes.

"Who are the red suits?"

He smirks. "Production supervisors."

"AKA Security."

"Carlisle's pretty serious about security." Jerking his chin up to the overhang, I notice a few small cameras monitoring the area.

"Big brother's always watching, huh?" I resist the urge to do my Roz from Monsters, Inc impression. "So what do they do in production?"

"This is where we process the plants for distribution." We stop in front of the large glass enclosure housing a few rooms with rows and rows of plants hanging upside down. "These are our drying rooms."

The smell is overwhelming and he hasn't even opened the doors to the individual rooms. Dank and skunky, I slip my finger beneath my nose.

"You'll notice all the rods are color-coded. We try to keep the plants separated. Sativas here," he points to the first room, then to the next. "Indicas in the middle. Hybrids at the end. Each color indicates a different strain variety."

My brows knit. "Strain variety?"

"Yeah, more like the street name. Blue Dream, Purple Haze, Pineapple Express—"

"E.C. Kush," I interrupt.

"Exactly." The corners of his mouth turn up. "So, how do you want this to go?" My blank stare makes him laugh. "Do you want just an overview of the facility, or do you want to have a more hands-on experience?"

Hands-on, hands down. "Whatever you think is best."

For the next thirty minutes, he gives me a lesson in trimming cannabis. We sit closely, shoulders and legs touching as he shows me how to properly hold the stalk as I prune. Hand-over-hand, he adjusts my fingers as I go. I can feel his eyes on me while I work, his voice low and soft in my ear patiently reminding me to angle my scissors every other minute. By the time I'm finished, the table is a mess of resin crystals, stems, leaves, and only about three nuggets.

"Well." He clucks his tongue, picking up one of the nugs. "You're trimming skills are …"

"Not awesome?"

"Not even close to awesome."

"Well, in the interest of full disclosure, I'm pretty awful at cutting hair too. One time, my roommate asked me to give him a trim." I shake my head. "It was bad. He called me Frenchy for like a month."

Tossing the nugs into a nearby glass jar, he stands and offers his hand to help me up. "Come on. Let's head over to the greenhouse, beauty school dropout."

After a quick walk through the rest of the production area and a general overview on curing cannabis, he ushers me into the greenhouse, which like the drying room, is sectioned off with glass walls. "This is where we house the sativas."

I wander through the rows of tall plants, brushing my fingers over the thin leaves and listening as he rattles off all the effects of sativas. The entire time he speaks, he's checking over the plants, dipping his fingers in the soil and jotting notes on a clipboard.

"So, how did you get into this?"

"Into growing?"

"Yeah."

"When I was about sixteen, my mom and I moved from the city out to the country. We rented a house from a farmer down the road. Carlisle was already away at school so I helped out with the bills, working the farmer's land to pay down our rent."

Images of him shirtless and sweaty, bailing hay come fast and strong. "So ... agriculture."

He gives me a coy grin. "Soy and corn weren't the only crops they were harvesting."

"I see."

"I learned a lot though. About soil, watering, fertilizing …" he trails off, tossing the clipboard on the counter and crossing his arms over his chest. "I kinda figured I could put the experience to good use, so when I went to college I majored in Ag. Got paired up with a fast talking marketing major as a roommate who saw the value in my skill-set."

"And the opportunity."

"Exactly. Jake had the head for business and I had the product."

"So did you deal?"

He shakes his head. "Not really. I tried, but I'm not savvy in that way. Jake took all the risk and sold. As the supplier, I got my cut on the front end. "

"But now you're legal."

"Now I'm legal."

"And Jake?"

"Jake got himself a girl who insisted he get a real job."

"This seems real to me."

"Jake liked the hustle. Anticipating the supply and demand and whatnot," he explains as questionable sounds emanate from the next room. Gumming his lips, he tries to hold back a laugh at the look on my face.

"What is that?"

"That's Esme. She uh," he scratches his eyebrow, "she thinks that the indica plants like her singing."

"That's singing?"

"Allegedly."

Esme is nothing like I expected. She's not the champagne sipping Stepford wife I assumed someone like Carlisle would be with. She's quirky and soft and extremely tone-deaf. Her introduction comes complete with a gentle hug, an arm-in-arm guided tour of the indica plants and a rundown of all the songs she sings to them.

"Indicas are my favorite, even though they make me eat everything in sight, but really, are Pringles ever a bad idea?"

"Never."

"But the overall effect is like …" Her shoulders rise to her ears as she grasps for the words. "Like the best kind of relaxation. An all over body high."

"And sativas are more of a head high?" I run my fingertips over the thick, bushy indica leaves. "Like a mind enhancer?"

"You've got it!" She bumps her hip to mine. "Has E.C. shown you the hybrids yet?"

"No." I sneak a glance at him. "Not yet."

"Well, you two go ahead. I've got some grow lights out that I need to take care of." She rubs her hands up and down the tops of my arms. "So lovely to meet you."

"You too, and thanks for the tour."

"Anytime, darling." She winks at Edward. "She's all yours."

With a wave, she disappears around the corner, belting out a less than stellar version of some song I've never heard. I lean in and whisper, "What's she singing?"

"I'm not 100 percent sure, "Edge of Seventeen" maybe."

"Never heard it." His lips twitch, like he's holding back a laugh. "What?"

"Stevie Nicks?"

"Who's he?" I ask and immediately regret it solely based on his wide-eyed expression of disbelief and utter amusement.

"She." His eyes narrow slightly. "You've really never heard of her?"

"Obviously not if I thought she was a dude."

"How old are you?"

Old enough. "Twenty-four."

"Jesus," he murmurs to himself, turning to head over to the hybrids. "You're like a zygote."

"I'm not that young," I counter.

"Way younger than me at the ripe old age of thirty-three."

"You act like you're the Crypt Keeper. I don't think you qualify for the Denny's Senior Slam yet, Gen X."

"True." He glances back at me, an easy smile spreading over his face. "Still up for getting your hands dirty?"

"Sure," I say, following him through two more rooms. "This place is like a maze. Why are the sections getting smaller and smaller?"

"Makes it easier for me to control the factors if the grow rooms are smaller. Temperature, humidity, how much light the plants are getting. It's a bit expensive on the front end to segment them off, but makes sense in the long run."

"That and pest control." I motion to our sexy, sterile suits.

"Exactly." He winks. "So hybrids … they're like super strains. You take a potent sativa; combine it with a strong indica and voilà . You've got the best of both worlds."

"So you get the head and body high equally?"

"Not exactly, it all depends on the breeding." He goes on to explain that the strains can either be indica or sativa dominant based on how the breeder manipulates the plants. Words like cannabinoid and trichomes slip from his lips, and I admit I'm far too focused on watching his mouth move to ask him what they mean. I just nod my head, wrinkle my eyebrows and make a note to Google it later. "And that's why they're so much more potent. They each take the strongest effects from their parentage."

"I see. What hybrid strains do you grow here?"

"White widow over here and that's Girl Scout Cookie over there." He points to another area. "Back there we have Trainwreck and some Cannatonic." We round the corner and stop in front of a large section of purple flowering plants. "And this … is E.C. Kush."

"Tell me about it." My words come out in a whisper as I step closer to the plant. "What does it do?"

Clearing his throat, he moves to stand beside me. "Medicinally speaking, it delivers swift pain relief without the sedative effects. No couch-lock. Just a nice overall relaxation. Helps with anxiety too."

"And recreationally?"

"It's a nice balance of uplifting buzz and relaxing high."

"Gets you loose as a goose, huh?"

He tilts his head back and forth. "Yeah, you could say that."

"Isn't that what a good strain is supposed to do?"

"It all depends on what you're looking for. A good strain can leave you feeling euphoric. Lower your inhibitions. Heighten your senses." My fingertips trace the bright purple hairs of the leaf when I feel his lips at my ear. "But I can get you higher."

"How high?" The words come rushing out, sounding more breathy than I'd like. "I mean … comparatively to other strains and stuff."

"Well, comparatively speaking, it has a higher THC level than some of the more potent strains."

"Meaning?" I shake my head. "Wait, back-up, what's THC?"

"THC is the chemical that's responsible for the therapeutic and mind-altering effects in cannabis. Pretty much any dispensary you go to is going to tell you their best strains have the maximum THC level, promising patients and your run of the mill toker the highest high. At best, their product's THC levels are typically somewhere between 23 – 25 percent."

"And E.C. Kush?"

His arms cross over his chest and he looks more like Carlisle than ever with a cocky grin in place. "Thirty-one percent."

"That's … I mean … how?"

"That's proprietary." Smirking, he hands me a pair of gloves. "But breeding and cultivation process has a lot to do with it."

I wave the gloves at him. "What are we doing with these?"

"We're going to transplant a few of the hybrids to get them ready for their flowering cycle."

"Cool." I bob my head. "But again, in the interest of full disclosure, I'd like it noted that no plant has ever survived in my care."

"Duly noted," he calls from over his shoulder as he leads us over to a dirty counter top.

Normally whenever anyone talks at length about anything science related, after about thirty seconds they sound like the teacher on Charlie Brown to me. I admit most of the shit about stable root systems and proper soil saturation goes right over my head. But what I don't miss is the way his eyes flicker to mine when our dirt covered fingers brush repeatedly in the soil or the easy smiles that come from the playful nudges and relentless teasing.

"Congratulations," he says when we're done. I quirk a brow at him earning me another smug grin. "You had a successful interaction with a plant without a fatality."

"Only time will tell." I walk back over to the E.C. Kush area. "When will my plant get the purple flowers on it?"

"Within the next thirty to forty days or so."

"So pretty," I murmur, softly touching the fine leaf hairs, feeling his eyes on me. "Too pretty to smoke it."

"One hit will make you change your mind."

Something about the way he says that makes my insides flip. "Probably would."

After changing back into our clothes, he walks me to my car where we exchange too many thank yous and a too long handshake. I can't even call it a handshake, my hand just rests there in his grasp while we do this awkward 'it was a pleasure' thing that feels far too flirtatious to sound so formal.

The next morning when I arrive at my office, there's a huge, ostentatious bouquet of flowers smack dab in the middle of my desk accompanied by a thank you note from Carlisle that's equal parts schmooze and Emily Post propriety, yet somehow sincere. There's no trace of Edward in the note and it bums me out way more than it should.

Three hours later, one of the bearded hipster interns raps on my cubicle wall and stares at me over his thick, probably non-prescription glasses looking utterly inconvenienced.

"Hey Quil."

He frowns. "It's Q."

"That's right. Sorry about that, I keep forgetting you asked us to call you that last week." After being here for over a year, cut me some slack, jackass. I hear Heidi snickering in the cube beside mine and it's near impossible for me to keep a straight face. "What can I help you with, Q?"

Sighing deeply, he reaches into his mail cart and pulls out a box with the words fragile-live plant inside stamped on the side. "Delivery for you."

"Thanks Q," I say all sugary sweet to which he responds with a grunt and a grimace before wheeling his cart away.

Pulling the tiny envelope from the top of the package, I lean back in my seat and scrutinize how my name is written on the envelope. The scrawl looks masculine and I wonder if it's from him.

But I dare not hope.

So I open the box first and immediately want to squeal when I see what's inside. Two small purple flowers sprouting out of a short, round potted cactus.

It's so him. Thoughtful. Charming. Funny.

Grabbing the note, I tear the envelope off like a savage and I nearly melt when I see it's all handwritten.

Bella-

Figured this was the only plant that can survive in your care.
Hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoy our time together.
Thanks for your interest in THC.

Edward

The note is so him too. Amusing. Polite. Sincere.

And utterly ambiguous.

A/N: True facts - that's how we'd roll if Carrie ZM and I ran a dispensary. #hardcore #tightsecurity #thatshitaintfree

Amirite?

*Carrie ZM side-eyes Lay*

Fine, let's let it WIP!

Milk Teeth by Sparrownotes24 - This fic ... this Edward ... Sparrow is killing it with this one, pals! This is a drop everything, hide from my kids to read fic.

Evergreen Loop by Vican - You guys know how much I love high school fics - this one is fab and funny and so, so sweet.

Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed, followed, fav'd, rec'd tweeted or lurked this fic! I'll see you next week!