Chapter 6
Poppy
Ends Of The Earth by Ty Myers
Hot water pounds my shoulders, washing grease and dirt down the drain in dark, swirling ribbons. I brace my hands against the tile and let my head tip forward, breathing through the steam as my muscles finally start to loosen.
God, I needed this.
My body’s been tight all day. Not just sore but wound up. Like I’ve been dealing with pent up frustration and I need a release. My shoulders ache. My jaw hurts from clenching. Even now, my stomach feels knotted, restless in a way sleep never fixes.
I slide my fingers through my hair, working the shampoo into my scalp. It’s been a disaster all day. Grease stained. Pulled back too tight. My skin reeking of gasoline and oil no matter how many times I scrubbed my hands at the sink.
Now I’m clean and feel human again.
The truth I don’t say out loud presses in on me as the water runs. My life’s been one worry stacked on top of another for so long I don’t even remember what it feels like to relax without guilt tagging along behind it. The shop. Owen. Bills. Calls that never end. Problems that don’t stay fixed.
I don’t need a vacation or a spa day or some miracle solution. I need relief.
I shut my eyes and let the water hit harder, like it might knock the tension loose if it tries hard enough, but it doesn’t.
I turn the water off and I reach for my towel.
Nothing.
I stare at the empty hook as if it personally betrayed me. Of course I forgot to grab one from the dryer. Because the universe clearly decided today wasn’t chaotic enough. I rest my forehead against the cool tile and close my eyes. I’m too bone-tired to deal with this.
Owen’s over at The Dogwood helping Maggie, which means I’m alone. No witnesses. I can make a quick dash to the dryer like a naked ninja.
I crack the bathroom door and creep down the hallway, every step careful. The last thing I need is to slip, fall, and have to explain to an ER doctor why I’m naked and broken.
I yank open the dryer, grab two towels like I’m pulling off a crime, flip my hair forward, and wrap one around my head. The other goes around my body, tucked tight like my dignity depends on it.
I straighten and look over and lock eyes with Ollie.
He’s sitting on my couch with his coffee cup halfway to his mouth.
Completely still. Like a wildlife documentary moment where the narrator whispers, behold the stunned firefighter encountering a wild, freshly showered Poppy naked in her natural habitat.
I yelp, “Oh my God! I forgot you were coming.”
He opens his mouth like he wants to make a smartass comment, then shuts it again.
His eyes don’t leave me. I feel the weight of his gaze as it drifts downward, slow and deliberate, lingering just a little too long where the towel doesn’t quite hide me.
My stomach flips, my cheeks burn, and I clutch the towel tighter, partly to cover myself, partly because I can’t stop noticing the way he’s looking.
“Not a good time for a ‘that’s what she said’ comment, Ollie!” I shriek, and bolt back down the hall, dignity gone.
I dive into the bathroom, tightening the towel to my chest, and scream, “OLLIE, THIS IS SO EMBARASSING!”
All I hear is him saying calmly, “I told you I was coming over to grab you for dinner. You never mentioned I’d be getting a show, too.”
“A SHOW?” I practically howl. “OH MY GOD. Why didn’t you say something? You just sat there all quiet.”
He calls back, “I didn’t know what to say. ‘Hi Poppy, I can see your naked hot body.’ Not ideal.”
I cover my face with my palm. I want to die. Actually die. But wait, did he call me hot? Ollie Kendrick called me hot. I mean, sixteen-year-old me would be screaming right now. But twenty-eight-year-old me is now suddenly wide awake with adrenaline.
Then he adds, in the most dramatic voice, “I mean, if you wanted to seduce me, you could’ve just said so. You didn’t need to act out a shampoo commercial.”
I huff as I pull on my clothes quickly and towel dry my hair. “I hate you.”
He laughs and calls back, “No, you don’t.”
I head down the hall and flop down next to him. “Did you at least bring me a coffee?”
He smiles and reaches down, picks it up, and hands it to me. His fingers brush mine for just a second as I take the cup.
“Apparently, my sister has jokes.”
“She always has jokes,” I say, though my voice comes out a little too quick.
I sit on the edge of the couch, closer to him than I planned. Too close. Our knees don’t touch, but I’m acutely aware of the space between us. Or the lack of it. I can feel his warmth at my side, solid and steady, like gravity has shifted.
I focus hard on my cup instead of the fact that he’s right there. That he just saw me naked not that long ago. That my skin still feels sensitive from the heat of the shower, like it remembers.
The lid is warm under my palm. I turn the cup slowly and spot the note scrawled on the side.
Call me for a good time. Cami.
Of course.
My mouth twitches despite myself. I should say something smart. Or teasing. Or normal. Instead, my thoughts keep snagging on how aware I am of Ollie’s shoulder beside mine. The quiet weight of him. The way his attention feels trained on me even when he’s pretending it isn’t.
I take a sip and stare into the coffee like it might save me.
Best friends are supposed to sit on couches like this without their pulse picking up.
Mine definitely does.
“What exactly is wrong with your sister?” I say with a laugh.
“Like today or in general?” He smirks.
I know he’s trying to lighten the mood. I mean, we’ve gone swimming, done so much life together, seen each other in swimsuits, but not completely naked.
Although I really wouldn’t mind seeing Ollie naked.
But best friends aren’t supposed to want to see each other naked.
And best friends aren’t supposed to like it. And Ollie confuses the hell out of me.
I tilt my head up and groan. “Today has been the worst day ever.”
He leans back on my couch, looking far too pleased with himself. “For what it’s worth, this is the best day of my life.”
I toss a throw pillow at him. “Come on, hot stuff. Let’s go grab a burger.”
He catches it easily, like he always does, and grins. That slow, knowing one that makes my stomach do something inconvenient.
“Is that an order?” he asks.
“Don’t let it go to your head,” I say, already grabbing my jacket. “You’re just the ride.”
“Sure, I am,” he mutters, following me out.
The drive is quiet in the comfortable way we’ve perfected over the years.
His truck smells like leather and cold air, with a faint trace of smoke from the firehouse clinging to his jacket.
I’m hyper aware of everything. The way his knee brushes mine when he shifts.
The way his hand tightens on the steering wheel when I change the radio station without asking.
He glances over once, then back to the road.
“So,” he says casually. Too casually. “You feeling human again?”
“Mostly,” I answer. “Still thinking about all the things I need to do tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” he says. “That tracks.”
We pull into the burger place on Main. One of those no-frills spots with cracked vinyl booths and a bell over the door that announces your arrival like it’s proud of itself.
He holds the door for me. Again.
I clock it immediately.
“Since when do you do that?” I ask.
“Do what?”
“Be polite.”
He snorts. “I’m always polite.”
“That’s a lie.”
He laughs, deep and easy, and the sound slides straight under my skin.
We end up in a booth by the window. He sits across from me, forearms braced on the table, hoodie sleeves pushed up. I try not to stare. I fail.
The waitress drops menus and leaves us alone. The air between us feels thicker than it did in the truck. Like we both know something shifted earlier and we’re circling it instead of stepping right into it.
“What are you getting?” he asks.
“The usual,” I say. “Extra pickles.”
“Of course,” he says fondly. “God forbid you eat a burger without a mountain of pickles.”
“God forbid you comment on my lifestyle choices.”
His eyes flick to my mouth. Just for a second. My pulse jumps.
He clears his throat. “You, uh, still humming when you work?”
I blink. “What?”
“Earlier,” he says. “At the barn. You were humming.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “You noticed that?”
“I always notice that.”
Of course he does.
We place our order. Fries to share. Milkshakes because neither of us pretends to be healthy when burgers are involved.
When the food comes, we fall into an easy rhythm that’s always been ours. Teasing. Storytelling. Talking about Owen’s latest obsession. Complaining about work. Laughing too loud in a mostly empty diner.
But underneath it all, there’s a heightened awareness.
Every time his fingers brush mine reaching for fries. Every time his gaze lingers a beat too long. Every time I catch myself wondering what he’s thinking instead of what he’s saying.
At one point, he watches me take a bite of my burger, eyes warm and unreadable.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says quickly. “Just… you look happier tonight.”
The words land softly but they hit deep.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I am.”
And for a moment, it feels like it’s just us. No shop. No stress. No walls. Just burgers and shared fries and the quiet realization that being here together feels like relief.
Too much relief.
When we finally stand to leave, he holds the door again. I roll my eyes but I’m smiling.
“Don’t get used to it,” he says.
“I won’t,” I promise. But I know he’ll always hold the door for me. Always.
But as we step back into the cold night, walking side by side, I already know that something has shifted.
And neither of us is pretending otherwise.
I wish I had time to dwell on the fact that Ollie saw me naked yesterday, but I have so much work to do right now. I have to get back to the shop and get on my computer. Owen is back from Maggie’s and we’re hanging out while I make calls and finish up paperwork.