7. Chapter Seven Poppy
Chapter Seven: Poppy
“ A vocado Mousse?” I mutter under my breath. “Who is naming these colors?”
It’s Monday. Early afternoon. I spent most of the morning with Sabrina, who was sweet enough to let me drag her around to every hardware store within a thirty-mile radius so that I could collect paint samples.
Aiden was apparently too busy working on something in his studio to come with us. We both knew he was lying, because we know that Aiden hates shopping, no matter what it’s for.
I peppered Sabrina with questions about the new manuscript she’s in the middle of writing, and she offered me her opinions on everything from light fixtures to appliance brands. Unsurprisingly, she has amazing taste.
Right now, however, I’m completely on my own back at home, about to be consumed by a sea of paint samples.
“Meadow Pink? That’s not even pink .”
I wrinkle my nose at Camel Hair, gag at Mustard Olive, and then spend several seconds musing over the possibility of a color called Stardust.
Obviously, it’s part of Misha’s job to help me decide on these things, but there are so many paint options here that I know I need to narrow down my preferences before she stops by tomorrow for the color consultation.
I’m tempted to ask Joe to come in here and offer his opinion, but he’s upstairs helping the crew tear out the outdated fixtures in the primary bedroom’s ensuite. Which means that, for the next couple weeks, the only bathroom at my disposal will be the tiny one for guests, downstairs by the kitchen. Then, when they rip down the staircase, I won’t even have access to the upper floor for a while.
I keep waiting for the urge to complain, but the truth is that it all just feels like a great, big, exciting adventure. It feels like the house has a mind of its own, reshaping and reforming itself day by day with mischievous speed. Of course, I know it’s actually all the workmen who are making the changes, but there’s nothing wrong with having an imagination.
With a heavy sigh, I compare French White to French Macaroon, discard the latter, and then reach for Bar Harbor Beige.
A loud knocking echoes throughout the house. It sounds like it’s coming from downstairs, but I pay it no attention. I’m not going to micromanage Joe’s staff.
Except, then the knocking echoes again, louder this time.
I toss Dusty Cornflower aside and rise from the hardwood floor. It looks like a kaleidoscope threw up in here, especially with the midday sunlight gushing in through the glass ceiling and walls. This is one of my favorite spaces in the cottage—an addition that the last owners built and referred to as their conservatory. I’m going to have Joe convert it into a sunshine-filled dining room.
Bang, bang, bang.
I frown. That’s definitely not the construction crew.
Someone’s knocking on the front door.
Which is weird, because I’m not expecting anyone. Also, if it is Sabrina or Aiden, they already know that there’s no need for them to knock.
Plus, the door is unlocked, so if it’s one of Joe’s guys, they should just let themselves in without bothering the rest of us.
I glance down at my clothes. I’m wearing what I like to call athleisure chic, which is how I make myself feel better about the fact that my ensemble is nothing more than navy leggings and a matching top. It’s the sort of thing I’d wear for a Pilates class and then immediately change out of, but my usual style has been temporarily sacrificed in favor of convenience. Also, the majority of my clothes are still stored away in the garage.
As I head toward the front of the house, the unknown visitor knocks again, loud and insistent. I hope it’s not one of the neighbors coming to complain about the construction noise. I’m not necessarily opposed to confrontation, but I’d very much prefer it if everyone was nice and relaxed all the time instead.
I pick my way across canvas tarps laid out to protect the floors. I hear the men upstairs, a few of them chuckling about something amongst themselves.
My plan is to replace the front door with something prettier than a generic hunk of oak. I want something with frosted and stained glass. Something pretty that will allow me to catch a glimpse of whoever is standing outside without the need for a tacky peephole.
For now, however, I simply have to wait and see who has arrived with the intent to practically kick down the front door.
With an exasperated huff, and with Cumulus Cotton still clutched in one of my fists, I wrench open the door.
I let out a sharp gasp at the sight of the person standing on my porch, and almost slam it shut again, but I’m so shocked that I forget how to move.
The man is tall and slender, with blond hair styled to look effortlessly windswept. It’s not effortless at all, though. I know from experience that it takes four different products and thirty minutes of obsessive arranging of individual strands to accomplish this look.
Percy Barclay is here.
I gape at him.
He’s wearing a Ralph Lauren shirt with the top three buttons undone and dark blue trousers, which he pays to have tailored in Paris. He refuses to let anyone touch his pants. Not even the tailors in Hollywood with celebrity clientele.
“What on earth are you doing here, Percy?”
He offers me a lopsided grin, an unnatural quirk that he worked to perfect because he thinks it gives him boyish charm .
“Hello to you, too, beautiful.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. “No, seriously. Why are you here?”
Percy shrugs. “I took the jet. I wanted to see you.”
“You chartered your family’s private jet from Los Angeles to Cape Cod because you wanted to see me ? Did the fact that I’ve been ignoring your messages completely escape your frame of logic, Percy?”
The smile fades from his face. The problem with him is that he is, admittedly, extremely handsome. However, that handsomeness masks a terrible personality and a host of infuriating habits that make him completely unbearable.
Habits such as his penchant for ignoring my boundaries and flying across the country to force his presence upon me because it’s what he wants.
“Listen, Poppy… can I come in?”
I brace my hand against the doorframe and subtly position myself in the doorway, as if that will actually stop him from forcing his way inside if that’s what he really wants.
“No, you can’t,” I tell him. “This place is an active construction zone. It’s not safe.”
Percy frowns. “Then why are you inside right now? Why would you put yourself in danger like that, Poppy? See, this is exactly why I knew I needed to come out here as soon as possible. You need me.”
I’m gripping the doorknob so tightly that I’m pretty sure I’m either about to break it or my hand. I clench my jaw, take a deep breath, and remind myself that—legally speaking—I’m totally within my rights to have Percy tossed off this property by the police if he causes trouble.
For now, though, maybe letting him spew his nonsense for a few minutes will give me an opportunity to convince him to go back to California.
So, instead of bothering to respond to the you need me comment, I take a step back and open the door a little wider.
“Fine,” I snap. “Come in.”
Percy’s expression relaxes into a self-satisfied smirk that makes me want to slap him. He’s the only person who manages to bring out my violent side.
He moves past me, stepping into the foyer and gazing around at the empty, partially-demolished cottage. The noise continues upstairs, probably too loud for any of the guys to overhear what’s going on down here.
That might be for the best.
“Poppy, just hear me out,” Percy begins, rounding on me. He steps closer, reaching for me, but I carefully maneuver out of his reach. It makes him pout in disappointment, and his eyes flash with an annoyance that can quickly trip into a temper tantrum, but he manages to keep his cool for now.
“Percy, you’ve been trying to get me to hear you out for months now,” I interject. “When are you going to understand that I’m not interested in what you have to say?”
But he’s already shaking his head before I’m even done talking.
“You don’t get it,” he insists. “We broke things off because you felt like we weren’t compatible and that we wanted different things, but what I’ve been trying to explain to you this whole time is that you clearly don’t even know what you want. I mean, look at you, Poppy! You’re living in a hovel in a random, crappy town. And what are you wearing ? Did you just finish a workout or is that, like, your outfit for the day?”
My hands clench into fists. Would I damage my rings if I punched him in the jaw?
“First of all,” I say through gritted teeth. “ We didn’t break things off. I dumped you .”
“Oh, please, you know as well as I do that—”
“I’m not done talking.” My voice comes out like a snarl. Percy raises his eyebrows at me, pressing his lips together in disapproval. “Second of all, you don’t get to decide how I feel. I do know what I want, Percy. Did you really think I sold my Malibu house, packed up my things, and moved all the way to the opposite coast because I’m a naive fool? I definitely know what I want. You’re just upset because it isn’t you .”
Percy scoffs. “Do you even hear yourself, babe? If anything, this big move of yours is a cry for help! That’s why I came here! I know I’m right for you, Poppy. I know we’re meant to be. You just have to get over this weird phase you’re going through and come home with me, okay? We can pick up right where we left off.”
“We’ve been broken up for a year now.”
“And I won’t hold it against you,” he replies, smiling as if he’s offering me the world’s greatest treasure and I’d be a fool not to accept it. “Baby, you know I’m right.”
I hold back a full-body cringe at the term of endearment. I can’t believe I ever liked this guy.
“I think you should go,” I say. “As in, back to LA. Without me. I don’t want you here. I didn’t ask you to come here.”
Percy opens his mouth to continue spewing his nonsense, but is interrupted by the sound of heavy boots thudding on the stairs. Both of us turn to find Joe descending from the second floor, brow furrowed at the sight of the well-dressed, perfectly-coifed man standing in the dusty foyer.
It’s only then that I realize how loud I’m being. I’m practically shouting at Percy.
To my surprise, Joe steps down from the last stair and walks right over to me. He stands close to my side, squaring off against Percy. I feel petty satisfaction about the fact that Joe is a couple inches taller than him, and obviously more muscular.
“Is there a problem here?” Joe asks, his voice measured but cold.
Percy snorts humorlessly. “And who the heck are you?”
“Joe Mansfield. This is my job site. It’s an active construction zone, and I’d like to know why you’ve entered it uninvited.”
A thrill goes through me at his words. He’s being all scary and serious, and it’s kind of… hot.
Don’t be silly , I tell myself.
Except, from the look on Percy’s face, I can tell that even Joe’s icy, formal tone isn’t chastising enough. The eternal snob, Percy automatically assumes he’s smarter than anyone who doesn’t at least own a Rolex.
Thinking recklessly fast, I slip my hand into the crook of Joe’s elbow and inch closer. Joe tenses, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Percy, whose gaze immediately zeroes in on the contact.
“Joe is also my boyfriend,” I blurt. Wow, where did that come from?
Percy wrinkles his nose. “Seriously, Poppy? You expect me to believe that you’re dating a construction worker?”
Joe clears his throat lightly. “I’m an architect, actually.”
That gives Percy pause. Architect sounds a lot more impressive to his well-bred ears than general contractor . Somehow, Joe clocked that right away. He’s probably used to people like this. After all, he renovates million-dollar homes in coastal New England.
He probably thought I was like that when we first met.
Percy stares at me. “You’re seeing someone new?”
I brace myself, waiting for Joe to speak up and deny it, but he remains a quiet, unmoving force of intimidation beside me.
When I nod, I swear that Joe nods along with me.
“For how long?” Percy asks.
“That’s none of your—”
Joe cuts me off gently. “About a month.”
Percy frowns. I cringe inwardly. I haven’t even been in Mermaid Shores for a month.
Even so, Percy doesn’t seem to be capable of pausing to do the math. He simply stares at Joe, sizing him up, and narrows his eyes at the way I’m clutching his arm.
The fact that he’s more willing to respect another man’s claim on me than to respect my own wishes is so infuriating that I swear I’m seeing red.
“I think you should go now,” I tell him.
“Hm.” Percy purses his lips. “Perhaps I should. I’ve got a suite at the Hyannis Harbor Hotel, Poppy. It’s not exactly the Four Seasons, but you’re welcome to come stay with me there. Breathing in all this construction air can’t be healthy for you.”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Percy looks like he might continue arguing his case, but one more look at Joe—and the suspicious silence that’s fallen upstairs—tells him that his time is up.
He rolls his eyes, haughtily pretending that he still has the upper hand here, and heads toward the door.
It slams loudly, followed by the stomps of his fancy leather brogues on the porch steps. I’m frozen in place, unable to move until I know that he’s actually left the property. Joe remains still, too.
I hear the hum of an engine—probably some ridiculous sports car that he’s rented—and then the crunch of gravel against the tires.
Then, miraculously, he’s gone.