3. Chapter Three Poppy
Chapter Three: Poppy
“ T hat went well!” I announce cheerfully to the empty house.
With my hands on my hips, I grin at the outdated kitchen and try to imagine all of the improvements that Joe Mansfield promised he could do for me.
I mean, seriously? Granite countertops? That’s a huge no .
And the white cabinets, while somewhat countryside chic, aren’t my taste either.
I want a cozier kitchen, with deeper colors and modern fixtures like a wine fridge and an AGA stove. I’m not exactly a chef, but I would love to learn how to cook and I want to have the best possible equipment to do it.
Misha Roklov was totally on my side, which was great. Even when I told Joe that I wanted to tear down a wall that’s currently splitting two unnecessarily small spaces, and he informed me that it might not be possible because it’s a load-bearing wall—or whatever—Misha immediately jumped in with possible solutions.
Honestly, Joe seemed to be offering a lot of contradictions through the meeting, peppered with his polite, wordless nods of agreement. As in, yes, we can remove the carpet on the stairs, but reframing the entire staircase would block off the second floor for at least a week and slow down the renovation.
And, yes, we can do bigger windows in the primary bedroom upstairs, but he needs to look into town codes, or something like that, before he can confirm that a balcony is possible.
And, yeah, sure, we can import the gorgeous mosaic tile I found from a supplier in Italy, but he’s probably going to need to get a specialized artisan on board to install them.
Basically, there were a lot of ifs and buts with that guy.
It’s fine, though. Because this cottage is going to be absolutely perfect when I’m done with it. I’ve never undertaken such a personal renovation before. Even my house in Malibu had been left mostly untouched since I purchased it. Maybe there’s a reason I never felt like making that place feel like it truly belonged to me. Maybe, all along, I had a feeling that I’d be drawn away to somewhere new.
With a satisfied sigh, I head upstairs to get dressed. I don’t even mind that I had to give the tour in my pajamas. Both Misha and Joe were nice enough not to comment on it, though I did notice Joe frowning slightly when he glanced down at my slippers. It’s probably not personal, though. Men just don’t understand fashion.
However, I was a little embarrassed that I overslept. I assumed my phone would switch from PST to EST automatically, but when I woke up to the sound of someone pounding on the front door, I realized my phone was still in airplane mode. It didn’t even know we were on the east coast yet.
Which also explains why my phone was oddly quiet yesterday. Then again, it was nice to not be overloaded with notifications from friends, acquaintances, and random people I barely know.
Humming to myself, I dig through my suitcase. It drove me crazy to have to decide what exactly I could live without for an entire week. There’s a chance that I might be slightly materialistic, but it’s not in a shopaholic way. It’s just that I enjoy sourcing nice clothes—special, well-made pieces from designers I love—and taking good care of them. I’m not one of those people who overhauls their wardrobe every season. Not only is that horribly wasteful and terrible for the environment, but it’s also just plain stupid. I don’t even like half the new trends that pop up every other month. Why would I force myself to spend money on them?
That is just one of the many reasons why I realized that I didn’t have as much in common with my Los Angeles friends as I thought.
I grab some perfectly worn-in denim jeans and a pretty silk blouse, then flounce to the ensuite to do my skincare routine. While I get ready for the day, I find myself blushing slightly as my memory replays the long glances I stole of Joe Mansfield.
To put it bluntly, the man is gorgeous . Not only is he tall, but he’s got some seriously impressive muscles. And they aren’t the kind of pretty, cosmetic muscles that men get from being obsessed with the gym. They’re the muscles of a man who does hard manual labor almost every day of his life. His palm was callused when I shook his hand, making me hyperaware of how smooth and unblemished my own hands are. How little I’ve done with my twenty-eight years of life.
It’s not just Joe’s body that is impressive, either. I’m more evolved than that. He’s got nice eyes, too. Deep brown ones with thick lashes. His dark hair is thick and wavy in a way that suggests he might have Italian ancestors. Either that, or he’s simply been blessed with fantastic genes.
I didn’t see a wedding band on his finger. Not that I was specifically looking for something like that.
Not like it matters.
As if the universe can sense that my mind has drifted in that doomed direction, my phone lights up with an incoming call where it rests on the vanity counter.
I glare at the screen.
The contact name is one emoji: the cockroach.
I finish brushing my teeth and spit aggressively into the sink. With my nose wrinkled in disgust, I send the call directly to voicemail, knowing well enough that my inbox is full.
Unfortunately, the cockroach is not so easily deterred, because then I get three text messages sent in quick succession.
First: Seriously, P? You’re not even going to let me know that you landed safely? For all I know, the plane could’ve gone down in a fiery crash before you even made it to Boston!
Then: You should call me back, babe. You might be three thousand miles away, but I still care about you.
Finally: At least tell me you’re not dead. Do me that one small courtesy so I can stop feeling sick with worry.
“ Sick with worry , oh please,” I grumble mockingly, rolling my eyes. “Let’s hope it makes you sick enough to drag you to an early grave, Barclay.”
Percy Barclay is the only person on the planet who can truly bring out the worst in me. We dated off and on for a while, almost two years, but we’ve been officially broken up for over a year now. Despite that, he’s still obsessed with me.
For example, he’s not even supposed to know that I sold my house and left Malibu. He’s also not supposed to know that I flew to Boston yesterday. I’m sure it didn’t take much prodding for the news to reach his ears, but I really don’t owe him anything.
He doesn’t understand that this is why I ended things with him. He’s too controlling. He always thinks he knows what’s best for me and he doesn’t understand boundaries. It’s like he thinks I’m some poor, defenseless girl who can’t handle the real world.
Meanwhile, he’s the heir to a major Hollywood production company and has gained all of his so-called life skills from idiotic self-help books written by other billionaire brats.
I really can’t believe I ever liked him.
But thankfully, like he said, there are three thousand miles between us. Ideally, the distance will stop his delusions that we’ll ever get back together.
As usual, I ignore the texts and carry on with my morning. When I’m satisfied that I look cute but casual enough to fit into this beachy little town, I grab my purse and head out on foot down toward Main Street.
Mermaid Shores is small and pleasantly walkable. I might not even need my car when it arrives. Then again, I love my baby blue Bronco more than life itself. I can’t wait to take her out and explore a new coastline.
It doesn’t take me long to locate Lazy Joe’s, which seems to be the most popular coffee shop on the main stretch of businesses. I send a silent thank you up to whatever omniscient beings might be listening that it’s not a Dunkin’ Donuts.
I find Sabrina Marx easily enough. She’s hard to miss, with a wild and golden mane of hair that reminds me of a proud lioness. She’s all sparkly eyes and rosy cheeks, grinning from ear to ear when she spots me and waves me over to a table by the large windows.
“Don’t hate me,” she says in lieu of hello , “but I already ordered for you.”
I sit down across from her and eye the paper cup she pushes in my direction. I love how instantly comfortable I feel around her, though I shouldn’t be surprised that I adore Aiden’s wife. We’ve only met once before, when I flew out for their wedding on Martha’s Vineyard last summer, but we hit it off instantly.
“Did you guess my usual coffee order?” I ask.
She shakes her head, grinning as if she’s about to reveal the secrets of the universe to me. This is how she is with everyone, Aiden told me. Instantly familiar and warm, acting as if everyone she meets has been her best friend for years.
Sabrina leans in conspiratorially. “It’s a blueberry latte.”
“A what ?”
“Trust me, Poppy. It’s the greatest invention known to man. Trust me . Just take a sip. If you hate it, you can dump it over my head, but I am absolutely confident that you’re going to like it.”
I laugh, taking the drink and bringing it to my nose for a sniff. It does, indeed, smell exactly like blueberries and cream with a hint of dark espresso.
Little does Sabrina know that I love fruity coffee. Fruity chocolate, too. Fruit in anything, really.
Still, for the sake of keeping her on her toes, I act uncertain as I bring the cup to my lips and take a tentative sip. Schooling my features into neutrality, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing when Sabrina leans in closer, practically bursting at the seams with the desire to know how I feel about the latte.
It’s delicious, of course. Even if someone wasn’t a huge fan of fruit-and-coffee combinations, this might win them over.
I allow my lips to spread into a slow smile.
“I love it,” I tell her.
“Yes!” She punches the air in victory, drawing the attention of several amused patrons nearby. “I knew it!”
I burst out laughing. Forget Aiden—this girl is my new best friend.
“Why blueberry, though?” I muse, taking another sip.
Sabrina, of course, knows the answer. Before she became a bestselling author, she was a celebrated travel blogger. For her, the little details are the spice of life.
“They import them from Maine—blueberries are one of their main exports. And then they make the flavored syrup here in-house.”
“I thought lobster was Maine’s thing.”
“Lobster and blueberries. And potatoes.”
“What does Massachusetts produce, then?”
“Cranberries, maybe? Baked beans were a big thing in the twentieth century, too. That’s why Beantown is one of Boston’s nicknames.”
“Fascinating,” I answer, not an ounce of sarcasm in my tone.
Sabrina snorts. “Anyway, I know you haven’t even been in Mermaid Shores for twenty-four hours, but how do you like it so far?”
“It’s great! It’s really cute. The cottage is adorable.”
“Aiden said you’re starting renovations soon?”
“Oh, yeah. I wasted no time. I had a meeting with a general contractor and an interior designer before I met you here.”
Sabrina blinks at me in surprise, then glances down at her watch. “But it’s only, like, half past ten.”
“What can I say? I’m motivated. Mostly just because I’m really excited to finally be here. I’ve been planning the move for months, and now it’s real.”
She smiles softly, leaning back in her chair. “There’s just something about this town. It calls to you when you least expect it. Then, before you know it, you’re putting down roots and calling it home.”
I open my mouth to reply, but my phone starts buzzing with an incoming call. Before I can even glance at the screen, I have a feeling it’s Percy again.
Lo and behold, I’m right.
I ignore the call and shove my phone deep into the bottom of my purse.
“Was that important?” Sabrina asks. “Because if you need to take a call, I can totally entertain myself for a few minutes.”
“No, don’t worry. It wasn’t important at all.”
Sabrina lets it drop easily, turning her face to soak in the warmth of a shaft of sunlight as the sun shifts higher in the sky.
“Well, anyway, you’ll have no trouble getting to know people here,” Sabrina assures me. “It’s a very tight-knit community. Plus, even though it’s a small town, the dating scene is pretty decent. At least, that’s what I’ve observed. Everyone here seems to be falling in love with each other left and right.”
“Like you and Aiden?”
Pink colors her cheeks. “Absolutely.”
Even though I know I shouldn’t, I lean in closer and ask, “Actually, speaking of tight-knit communities, what do you know about Joe Mansfield?”
Sabrina cocks her head to the side. “Who?”
“He’s a local—the general contractor I mentioned earlier. He’s very handsome. Not that I’m interested in dating right now. I was just curious.”
She smirks at me, clearly not buying it. “I’ve never heard of him. He might not live in town.”
“Oh.”
“He’s handsome, though?”
I can’t help grinning at the mischief in her tone, but I wave my hands as if to brush aside her teasing. “Yeah, but it’s not a big deal. He wasn’t even really that friendly. Like, at all. He probably thought I was just another silly California girl.”
Sabrina’s brow furrows. “He was rude to you?”
“No, not at all! For all I know, that’s how he is with everyone. I think I’m just a little self-conscious about the fact that I might stick out like a sore thumb here.”
“No way, Poppy. I mean, yes , you do seem like an out-of-towner at first glance, but that’s only because you’re tanned, glamorous, and dripping diamonds. But that’s also totally normal during tourist season.”
“What about when tourist season ends?”
“Then you’ll be the tannest, most glamorous, and shiniest girl in town, and everyone will love you for it. Trust me. The people here are full of love. You have nothing to worry about. I can sense it, Poppy Minton. You belong here.”