4. Poppy
4
Poppy
T he drive through Manhattan to Brooklyn Heights takes forty-five minutes, and I spend the entire time eying the meter, wondering why the hell I didn’t let Mr. Mathers pick me up. When we finally pull up outside his house on Fruit Street, my stomach twists in a knot. I gravely underestimated the cost of a cab ride plus tip, but I’ve no choice but to do anything other than put it on my credit card. I give the driver a brittle smile as he unloads my bags, boxes, and rug onto the sidewalk, relieved when he pulls away.
It’s fine. I happen to love eating ramen for dinner.
Hauling a bag onto my shoulder, I enter the small courtyard through an ornate iron gate separating Mr. Mathers’s house from the street, side-stepping something large under a cover. It looks like a motorcycle, maybe. Does it belong to him? That would make sense. He looks exactly the type to ride a bike.
I go down a couple steps to the basement entrance, then, with my free hand, knock.
There’s no answer.
Setting my bag on the doorstep, I go back to the sidewalk to gather the rest of my things, bringing them into the courtyard. It’s never wise to leave your belongings unattended in New York. Though as I glance at the surrounding street, I realize this isn’t the kind of neighborhood where my stuff is likely to be stolen. In fact, this area is nice . Really nice.
Rows of townhouses and brownstones line the quiet street, ginkgo and pin oak trees cooling the air from the scorching summer heat. The afternoon light filters through their leaves, casting dappled shade across the buildings and sidewalk. A couple blocks along, I spy a cute coffee shop called Joe’s Coffee, and jazz music wafts through the air from somewhere. A couple walk past with their stroller, iced coffees in hand, laughing, and for the first time in days, my heart lightens. This might not be my ideal living situation, but there’s no denying how beautiful the neighborhood is. It’s like something out of a movie. It feels magical.
I can’t believe I almost considered moving to New Jersey instead of here.
“Poppy?”
I turn to find Mr. Mathers on the doorstep, my bag already in his hands. He’s exactly how I remember him; dark hair and beard, tattoo sleeves covering both muscular arms, his frame tall enough to fill the entire doorway.
In other words: smoking hot. Seriously, how tall is he? Six-four?
“Uh, hi.” Why is my face warm? “I knocked, but no one answered.”
“I was out back.” He shifts my bag to his other hand and hauls a box of books into his free arm as if it weighs nothing. “Come in.” I grab one of the other boxes, but he shakes his head. “Leave those. I’ll get them.”
“O… kay.” I follow him down the steps and inside, feeling strangely uncomfortable empty-handed. I have no choice but to stand there and watch him as he brings my things into his apartment.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, hauling the large bag through the doorway. “What the hell have you got in here, rocks?”
I cringe. “That’s my weighted blanket.” It was a gift from Bailey last year. She gives the best presents. “Are you sure you don’t want me to—”
He waves me away. “I’ve got it.”
I fold my arms, shifting my weight as he disappears back onto the street to gather the rest of my belongings. The minute he steps out, I take the opportunity to let my gaze wander the apartment. The front door leads from a small entryway into a hall, with a set of stairs to my left.
I peer around the doorway to my right into what I discover is the kitchen, and can’t help but wander in. Black soapstone countertop and off-white cabinets, a huge stainless-steel fridge, and a large, deep-set farmhouse sink under the low windows that face out onto the street, our eye line roughly at street-height in the basement level. The counters feel cool to my touch, and wrap around the wall to create a peninsula dotted with stools, behind which sits a large worn sofa in front of sliding glass doors, open to the yard beyond.
I’ve never been in a basement apartment like this, with the front below street level, but the yard on the same level as the living space. I love how it’s all open-concept. A space like this could feel dingy and cramped if closed off, but it has a lovely flow through to the garden, which from here I can see was once landscaped into a stunning design, but is now overgrown and unkempt. Interesting.
“That’s the lot.”
My body jerks at Mr. Mathers’s voice in the hallway, and I whip my head back around the door frame, my face burning.
“Sorry. I was being nosy.”
He grunts. I swallow nervously, not entirely sure what it means. His amber eyes assess me coolly from head to toe, and on instinct I straighten up.
“Thank you for letting me stay,” I blurt. “I hope Bailey told you how grateful I am.”
He nods, reaching for my stuff again. “She did.”
“It won’t be for long,” I add, this time picking up a box despite his frown, and following him up the stairs. I force my gaze on the steps and not on Mr. Mathers’s ass in front of me. Only a pervert would check out the ass of her friend’s father.
Mr. Mathers turns at the top of the stairs, leading me along the landing to the bedroom facing out over the street. Despite Bailey never having lived here full-time, I expect to see the room decorated with touches of her as a teenager. Maybe some posters or stickers, a desk with a corkboard above it, a frilly comforter.
But the room is devoid of personality. There’s a double bed with a plain white comforter, a wooden dresser and desk—without the trace of a single sticker—and an empty bookshelf. A brown leather armchair sits beside the window, capturing a little of the afternoon sun, with a perfect view out over the street below. There’s even a small fireplace, surrounded by a white wooden mantel.
Wow. No disrespect to Dean, but this is twice the size of my room in his apartment, and it is adorable . Dean’s place is a new build, so it doesn’t have the character and charm of an old place like this. I can see myself sitting by the fire with a book, a steaming mug of homemade cocoa in my hand.
Don’t get too comfortable , I remind myself.
While I’ve been absorbing the details of my new room, Mr. Mathers has brought the rest of my stuff upstairs, and now stands in the doorway watching me. I turn to look at him.
“Isn’t this Bailey’s room?”
He nods, his brow pulled low.
“Then why…” I motion to the simple space around me, a blank canvas, and his expression softens.
“She spent last night getting it ready. Wanted you to feel like you could make it your own.”
My eyes fill, and I have to glance away so he doesn’t see. Even when she has enough of her own stuff to worry about, Bailey looks after me. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve her as a friend. Fuck, I’ll miss her.
“Is there a problem?” he asks, his jaw tight.
“No, it’s…” I breathe out, composing myself. “It’s perfect, Mr. Mathers. Thank you again. I couldn’t be more grateful.”
He hesitates, as if debating whether to say what’s on his mind. “Call me Wyatt,” he mumbles at last.
Wyatt .
I study the man in front of me; his guarded expression, those tattooed arms folded across his broad chest, eyes regarding me cautiously. He has the kind of long eyelashes that are wasted on a man. His hair, messy and unstyled, is longer than I remember; short on the sides, but long enough on top to fall across his forehead.
Long enough to run my hands through .
I swallow. Calling him Wyatt feels far too… personal.
“I don’t know if I can do that,” I mumble, turning to unzip my bag and unpack.
He doesn’t acknowledge my bizarre response. Instead, he says, “I’ll leave you to unpack. Bathroom is at the top of the stairs. Come down whenever you like.”
“Thanks,” I call over my shoulder without glancing back. I’m delighted by this beautiful room, and the fact that Bailey went to such great lengths to make it work for me, but I’m not sure I’ll go downstairs to hang with Mr. Mathers anytime soon. Being around him is causing me to have weird and inappropriate thoughts.
Which is certainly going to make staying here challenging.
I spent so much time during the past couple days worrying about how embarrassing it was to move in with my friend’s dad that it didn’t occur to me I might find it awkward because I have an ill-advised crush on the man. So that’s a fun new development.
I shake the thought off and take my toiletries to the bathroom. It’s a modest space: white subway tiles, the usual amenities, and a view over the yard below. I notice it has two doorways: the one I entered through from the hall, and another which I assume must go into Mr. Mathers’s room.
As I unpack my deodorant and makeup onto the shelf he’s obviously cleared for me in the medicine cabinet, it occurs to me what an intimate thing it is sharing a bathroom with someone. I mean, my tampons are right there . And his cologne… I lean in and lift the bottle to my nose, sneaking a lungful of his scent. It’s earthy and rich, with notes of sage. My eyes close as I imagine him spraying it on himself, fresh out of the shower, skin still moist. Do the tattoos cover his chest and back too? Or are they—
A sound outside the bathroom snaps me out of my thoughts. I shove the cologne back on the shelf and fling the medicine cabinet door closed, my heart racing.
What the hell is wrong with me? Mr. Mathers is the father of my best friend. Yes, he’s hot, but he’s also now my roommate. Or he is my landlord? Both?
Whatever he is, I need to pull it together.
And I will not be calling him Wyatt.
I return to my room and unpack the rest of my clothes, set a few picture frames along the mantel, arrange my cookbooks on the shelves, and scatter a couple of throw pillows on the bed. I haul my weighted blanket onto the foot of the bed and roll out my rug on the wooden floorboards. It’s a dark red and purple design I found for a steal at a flea market in Brooklyn last year. Already the room feels like my own.
Unpacking doesn’t take long, then I sit back on the bed and glance around my new space with a smile. Nothing left to do but go downstairs.
Except… the thought of going to sit in the living room with Bailey’s dad—without Bailey there—feels weird. I get the sense he’s not comfortable having me in his space. Bailey was so worried about me finding somewhere to live she’s probably browbeaten him into taking me in, and while it was kind of him to allow it, he doesn’t seem thrilled about having to deal with me. That’s hardly surprising, especially given his history with Bailey. I don’t think he’s the nurturing type.
Well, I won’t get in his way. I’ve got the new business to focus on, plus work. My mind drifts to my job at the coffee shop in upper Manhattan, the one that cut my shifts in half last week. That’s a problem, as is the fact that my place of work is now an hour-long subway ride from here. Maybe I should spend this afternoon giving my résumé to local coffee shops and restaurants, see if anyone is hiring. There must be a Staples I can swing by to make copies. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.
I rise from the bed with renewed vigor. That will take several hours and keep me out of the house, away from Mr. Mathers until Bailey arrives later.
And after that… I’m sure I’ll think of something.