Chapter 15 #2
Suddenly, Booker stands, his stool screeching on the marble floor as he pushes it away. “Not Roan. Not any Bethnal players. None of them would work. You’re not their type.”
I hear Vi suck in a breath of air, and my cheeks heat with embarrassment. “Why not?” My jaw is tight with anger as my ice lolly drips, forgotten between my two fingers.
His fists clench on the counter. “Because I know you, Poppy. You’re not the kind of girl they’d go for.”
The way he’s acting gets right up my nose.
I wanted to make him jealous, but that’s not what’s happening.
He’s insinuating I’m not good enough for his mates, as if they’d never go for anyone like me.
He doesn’t even know me as an adult. He’s pigeonholing me into the Poppy he thought he used to know.
It’s complete and utter shit! “If you actually think I’m not good enough for your team—”
“They’re not good enough for you!” he shouts, interrupting me as he leans over the counter to get in my face.
Booker eyes me hard, clearly not amused by my request. “No teammates, Pop. Not Roan. Not anyone. Got it?” His shoulders rise and fall as he pins me with the most aggressive face I’ve ever seen on him.
I can tell the moment he snaps out of it because his neck turns red and he looks around at his family, who are all staring at us with their mouths open. He shoves two hands through his hair as he turns on his heel and strides out the back door and into the garden.
It’s quiet in the kitchen as everyone sits there gobsmacked.
“Wrong button,” Tanner quips and Belle elbows him in the ribs. I turn my red face to look at her and she nods with reassurance.
“I hope you girls know what you’re doing,” Vi says. Then she wipes her hands off and tosses the tea towel in front of me as she scurries out after Booker.
The next morning, I wake to find Booker in the kitchen wearing nothing but his boxers as he brews a pot of coffee. Our ride home from Chigwell last night was quiet as he stewed over something he definitely wasn’t interested in sharing with me.
But in the warm early light of day, watching him stand here in nothing but plaid, saggy-butt boxers, my chest contracts.
He’s my best friend right now. The boy whom I told all my secrets to.
The one who held my hand during the scary parts of my favourite book.
The one who told me he liked the mud on my dress.
The one who put a lamp in my room and toast and water at my door.
And for a moment, I want to be Booker and Poppy again.
I trudge out in my T-shirt and long socks. My strands of hair are strewn over my eyes, but I’m not awake enough to push them out of the way. He turns when I sidle up next to him at the counter.
“Is it done yet?” I croak, watching the droplets funnel down into the pot. As if on cue, the coffee pot hisses.
“Not quite,” he replies, his voice deep and throaty. I really love his morning voice.
“I’m shattered,” I say with a sigh and rest my head on his arm.
He tenses at first, but I feel him relax. Then he puts his arm around me, tucking me under him and pressing his lips to the top of my head. It’s not sexy. It’s not spine-shivering. It’s simply…Booker.
“You should go back to bed,” he drawls.
I groan. “I can’t. I have my first meeting with the school today.”
“For your German language job?”
I nod against his chest. “Just a standard meet-and-greet thing. I’m not used to getting up early like this.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Well, why don’t you go jump in the shower and I’ll bring a cup to you?”
I nod and then close my eyes and press my lips to his arm before shuffling away. I pause halfway to the loo and turn to say something.
It could simply be that I’m not fully awake, but I’m about ninety percent sure Booker was watching me leave. And I’m about ninety-five percent sure he’s pitching a tent in his boxers.
He realises a bit too late that I’ve caught him checking me out and shakes his head, the redness in his neck flaming as he turns to face the coffee pot again.
“Booker?” I croak.
He angles his head but keeps his hips facing the counter. He can barely meet my eyes. “Yeah?”
“The shower door is glass.”
“Yeah,” he deadpans.
“The see through kind.”
“Riiight.”
“So, erm…maybe just pour me a cuppa and I’ll get it when I come out?”
“Of course,” he replies quietly and turns back to the coffee.
I head off to shower, pondering that little coffee pot exchange more and more as my brain wakes up. Was Booker trying to set up a slip with the coffee offer? Am I really erection-worthy in a T-shirt and long socks? He’s lady-boner-worthy, even in saggy boxers, so it’s possible.
This is why I have a plan in place. I can’t not think of him as more. And even though he’s fighting it, I know he feels it, too. He feels more. He just won’t let himself admit it yet. I have to stick to the plan.
Thirty minutes later, I leave my room and find Booker on the balcony.
He’s still shirtless, but now he’s thrown on a pair of jeans that are popped open at the waist. His corded muscles are on full display, and I marvel at the smattering of hair that crawls down into his boxers.
Only a few more days, Poppy. You can do this.
I step out onto the balcony with a coffee cup in hand. “Booker?” I say his name and he huhs me without looking. “Can I get your advice?”
He turns and instantly eyes my cleavage pouring out of my shirt. This is so not business appropriate attire. “Is this top too much for my initial meet-and-greet with my new coworkers?”
“Yes,” he says without pause, his eyes trained on my chest.
“Really?” I ask, toying with the bow at the top. “I think it’s stylish.”
“It’s too much,” his voice is firm. “I can probably see your bloody nipple ring if I stand over you.”
My face flames with embarrassment. Not over his comment, but that we’re talking about his awareness of my nipple ring.
Like a horrid film montage, I close my eyes and see snapshots of our passionate encounters.
His hands on me. His fingers pinching my hardened bud.
His dick thrusting in and out of me. I nearly let out a moan and quickly open my eyes to stop the images from flooding my psyche.
Booker’s eyes are hot on mine. I swear he’s thinking about all the same things. His arms are tense with a rigid stance as he watches me, looking like he’s using every muscle in his body to not jump me right now.
Good God, I wouldn’t mind being jumped.
I’m the first to look away, my voice shaky as I reply, “Fine, I’ll go change.”
I turn and pause at the doorway, willing myself not to look back. Begging the silly girl inside of me to be a strong woman.
I look back.
His lust-filled eyes now seem tormented. Disappointed. Like watching me walk away from him is as hard for him as it is for me. It makes the regret I feel come back full force. It’s wrong to be playing him like this. I wish I could simply lay all my feelings bare. Put it all out there.
But if there’s one thing I know, it’s Booker Harris. The man is the most stubborn human. He requires a creative and delicate touch, both of which happen to be my specialty.
I spend most of the next day at Camden’s new house in Notting Hill, grateful for the space from Poppy, who can’t seem to stop turning me on at every corner.
If it’s not her breasts hanging out, it’s her legs, or her arse, or her adorable bed-head that makes me want to pull her into my bed for a cuddle.
And I don’t cuddle. I’ve never cuddled actually.
But bloody hell, she’s confusing the fuck out of me.
There’s a constant argument going on inside my head between my dick and my mind.
Dick wants a slip. Mind knows that it’s a bad idea.
If I keep slipping with her, she’s going to try to bolt again.
Move in with her parents or whatever nonsense she droned after the last time.
I can’t just slip with Poppy. She’s going to need more and I don’t want that.
So the mindless task of helping Camden build some furniture that he and Indie bought is a welcome reprieve. Tanner is here as well. Even Gareth showed up since he’s been staying out at Dad’s all week while his team is on break. This is the riveting life of a Tuesday for off-season footballers.
“Thanks for the help, my brothers. Indie is going to love this.” Camden’s voice is reverent as he strokes the top of the smooth mahogany desk we just finished.
It’s gigantic and sits as a focal point in the middle of an extensive library with floor-to-ceiling shelves that Cam already has half full of books.
He’s been an avid reader for quite some time, so it’s kind of cool that he found a home with such a space for his collection.
“You mean you’re going to love railing Indie on this,” Tanner cajoles, lewdly hip thrusting the corner of the desk like an animal.
Gareth pops Tanner on the head. I fail to conceal a smirk at Tanner’s pained frown as he rubs his man bun.
Camden smirks. “Don’t talk about my fiancé like that, broseph.” He lightly punches him in the shoulder. “But you are correct. I can’t imagine a better place to bed my new fiancé than on top of a desk surrounded by books. Christ, I could get a stiffy just thinking about it.”
Gareth wallops Camden next. I just roll my eyes and sit down on top of said desk.
Camden’s home is too nice for the likes of his dirty mind.
He purchased a Victorian townhouse on an idyllic cobblestone street in Notting Hill.
The neighbourhood looks like a movie set.
The place is a stunning three floors and is very spacious for London.
Arsenal certainly pays more than Bethnal Green.