7. Wyatt
7
Wyatt
I ’m tempted to stay in the shower for the rest of the night so I don’t have to go downstairs and face Poppy. She’s clearly safe, just as I suspected, and when I fired off a quick text to let Bailey know before I jumped in the shower, she replied with, All good. Enjoy the burgers!
Which is exactly why I have to go back down there.
Besides, I’m not a complete asshole. Poppy has obviously gone to a lot of trouble, particularly since she made the meal vegetarian, and only a jerk would refuse to eat it. My stomach rumbles as the heavenly smell of her cooking drifts up the stairs. Much like my mouth watered the moment I stepped through the front door, because the truth is, I want to eat it. It smells so damn good.
I step from the shower and towel off, listening to Poppy hum in the kitchen as she cooks. It’s a sweet, comforting sound that makes an unfamiliar—if not unwelcome—sensation dance in my chest, but I quickly shove it away as I wipe the steam from the bathroom mirror. I hesitate, considering styling my hair and spraying my cologne, then catch myself. There is absolutely zero reason for me to make an effort for Poppy, and I deliberately dress in comfortable sweatpants and a plain tee, leaving my hair damp and messy, before heading downstairs.
Poppy places our meals on the counter as I enter the kitchen, her back to me. She’s still wearing that apron, the red bow cinched at the back, accentuating her narrow waist and the wide flare of her hips. The copper strands of her disheveled hair fall in wild waves around her face as she turns to check on something in the oven. She finally notices me in the doorway and smiles, wiping the back of a hand across her forehead that leaves a smear of flour there. I swallow, losing the battle to keep my gaze from drifting across her flushed cheeks, the form-hugging apron that emphasizes her cleavage, her bare feet on my kitchen floor. She looks right at home here, and I have to tear my gaze away as I move to sit at the breakfast bar. I study the details on the soapstone countertop as Poppy joins me, hating myself for how much I seem to enjoy the sight of my daughter’s best friend, barefoot and cooking in my kitchen.
Jesus Christ .
Instead, I focus on the food, which is not hard to do. The burger is huge, stacked with all kinds of toppings, and the fries beside it look better than anything I’ve eaten in a restaurant. My stomach gives a loud growl of impatience, and I pick up the burger, taking a bite. It’s a fight not to groan my satisfaction.
“I wasn’t sure how you liked your burger,” Poppy says beside me, picking up her own burger. “I had to guess.”
“It’s perfect,” I say around a mouthful of fries, and holy fuck, these are the best fries I’ve ever had. Crispy and crunchy on the outside, soft and fluffy in the middle, not too oily, with just the right amount of salt.
“I had to use some of your stuff.” Poppy motions to the pantry, her cheeks pink. “I’d planned to make beef burgers, but then Bailey told me you’re a vegetarian.”
Too busy wolfing down my burger to contribute anything to the conversation, I can only nod.
“I’ll replace the beans,” she adds. “I used a little of the rhubarb from your basket. I can replace that too, if you like.”
I pause, lowering my burger. “You used my rhubarb? What for?”
She swallows, studying her plate. “Uh, I wanted to make dessert, so I whipped up a quick rhubarb crumble while you were upstairs. I hope that’s okay.” She places a fry into her mouth and chews carefully, as if waiting for me to get angry.
Actually, I’m thrilled. It’s perfect for a crumble. Why didn’t I think of that?
Now that she mentions it, my nose picks up the sweet scent drifting from the oven, and if it’s possible, my mouth waters even more. I could get used to coming home to a meal like this after a day at work.
No, you couldn’t. You won’t.
“That’s fine,” I mutter, but it comes out more gruffly than I intend, so I add, “You don’t have to replace anything. I’m glad to see it being put to good use.”
She nods, eating her burger quietly, and I polish off my burger with a satisfied sigh. I shouldn’t say anything more. I should thank her and leave, but she’s got a delicious crumble in the oven, and that was easily the best veggie burger I’ve ever eaten. My mouth gets the better of me.
“Where’d you learn to cook?” I ask, wiping my hands on a napkin. Since when did I have napkins?
Poppy’s gaze flicks to mine, then away. “I spent two years at culinary school.”
“But you met Bailey at business school, right?”
She nods, finishing her burger and wiping her mouth. My gaze catches on the scarlet-red of her lips before I yank it away.
“You’re a natural in the kitchen. What made you decide to switch to business?”
“My ex talked me into it.”
“Ah, the infamous ex,” I say without thinking, then grimace. “Bailey mentioned him.”
Poppy lifts her gaze to the ceiling. “She’s worried about him, but really, it’s not an issue. I’m fine.”
“That’s what I told her.”
Poppy’s gaze meets mine, and something passes between us. An understanding that while Bailey is well-intentioned, she’s also overprotective. That’s what she’s like with the people she cares about, but I sense that’s also why both Poppy and I love her. Her fierce loyalty.
“Do you wish you’d stayed?” I ask, and Poppy looks momentarily confused. “At culinary school. Do you wish you’d stuck with that, instead?”
Her mouth opens and closes as she debates her answer. Eventually, she shakes her head. “Marketing is a more stable career. It’s hard to make good money in hospitality.”
I frown. I’m not entirely sure that’s true, but I bite my tongue. It’s not my place to lecture the woman on her life choices when she’s recently graduated.
“And Bailey and I are starting a digital marketing business,” Poppy adds, but there’s a line of worry along her brow as she says it. Bailey told me all about their business, though I got the sense she wasn’t going to proceed with it after taking the job in San Francisco. I wonder if Poppy is aware of that.
The oven timer beeps and she rises to take the crumble from the oven. The aroma wafts over me as she sets it on the counter, and I retrieve some vanilla ice cream from the freezer.
“It will be even better with this,” I say, and Poppy looks delighted.
I lean against the counter beside her, watching as she serves the steaming dessert into bowls, as she scoops vanilla ice cream and it melts into the hot crumble. I tell myself it’s because I’m eager for dessert, but that doesn’t explain why my gaze is on the smooth, creamy skin below her earlobe, why I can’t look away from the way she bites her lip as she adds a pinch of mint to our dessert from the plant on my windowsill. She still has that smear of flour on her forehead, and my fingers itch with the urge to reach out and wipe it away. To sink into her hair and stroke the soft skin of her neck.
Fuck. Stop.
With a cough, I return to the breakfast bar, putting some distance between us. What does it say about me, that I’m attracted to my daughter’s best friend? Sure, she’s a few years older than Bailey, but she’s still seventeen years younger than me. Technically young enough to be my daughter, if I’d been irresponsible a few years earlier than I was with Bailey’s mom.
Thank God I wasn’t.
As Poppy sets dessert in front of me, I vow not to so much as even look in her direction for the rest of the evening. But when the rhubarb crumble melts onto my tongue, I shoot her a look of appreciation, surprised to find she’s already watching me, her espresso-brown eyes dark as I lick my lips.
“So good,” I say, shoveling another steaming spoonful into my mouth. If my mouth is full, I can’t say anything stupid. I can’t tell her how much the satisfied smile on her face affects me, how the fire in her gaze makes me feel restless in my seat.
We eat in silence for a while, but the clink of cutlery against bowls grows louder and louder in the quiet, until it becomes almost unbearable. Poppy must sense it too, because she blurts out a question.
“Is that your motorcycle out front?”
I nod, forcing myself not to lick the bowl clean as I finish my dessert. That was so freaking good. I’ll have to ask her for the recipe.
“How long have you had it?” Poppy asks, pushing her own empty bowl away.
I look down at my hands, absently circling a finger over the compass that stretches from my right wrist to my knuckles. The bike is a Triumph Bonneville, bought when I was twenty-two, when I had my whole life ahead of me and all the freedom in the world.
“A while,” I murmur.
I feel more than see Poppy’s nod beside me, keeping my gaze fastened to the kitchen window, where I can see the partially covered wheels of my bike in the courtyard above out front, lit by the streetlight. When did it get dark?
“Bailey never mentioned you have a bike,” she says as she rises to clear the dishes. I should help her, but I’m still sitting at the counter, rubbing my hand and thinking about her words. “Do you ride much?”
The truth is, I don’t ride at all. Not lately. I used to take my bike out all the time, enjoying the scenery of the far reaches of Long Island or Upstate New York on long weekend drives. I loved the freedom to weave through the landscape and explore new places, the feeling of all that power underneath me as I flew along the highway. In the first few months after learning I was a father—after learning everything I’d missed—long rides on my bike were the only thing that kept me sane.
Until one afternoon, while out for ice cream with Bailey, when I was hit with the force of realization. I’ve always known riding a motorcycle is dangerous, but when it’s only you that you have to worry about, it doesn’t seem to matter so much. When it truly hit me that I was a father, that I’d been absent from so much of Bailey’s life, the thought of getting back on the bike scared me. I couldn’t bring myself to do something so risky knowing I had a daughter who was starting to count on me, starting to need me.
Even if I loved it nearly as much as I loved her.
Poppy glances over her shoulder from where she’s filling the sink, and it occurs to me that I haven’t answered. I push up from my stool and wander to the sink, motioning for her to step aside so I can do the dishes myself. I’m glad she hasn’t used the dishwasher; it’s been on the fritz for months and I haven’t gotten around to fixing it.
“No.” I squirt dish liquid into the water. “I don’t ride anymore.”
Her brow creases as she picks up a dish towel. “Why not?”
I should shrug this off and tell her to go upstairs. Dinner is over and I’m more than happy to clean up after such a delicious meal. But there’s something in her open, unwavering gaze that compels me to answer.
“I have responsibilities.” I dump the cutlery into the sink and begin scrubbing. “I stopped shortly after Bailey came into my life.”
Poppy takes the cutlery and dries it quietly, then the bowls when I place them on the drying rack. I lower our plates into the water to scrub, thinking that’s the end of the conversation, when she speaks again.
“Do you miss it?”
“Riding?” I glance at her, and her eyes are warm and curious as they move over my face. I quickly look away. “Yes.”
“Then you should ride again,” she says, drying our plates. “Is it still… I mean, does the bike still… go?”
I stifle a chuckle at the way she struggles to phrase her question. “Yes. I work on it often.” It’s the only way I’ve maintained a thread of connection to the thrill I used to get from riding, but it’s not the same. I should sell the damn thing.
“Bailey would want you to ride if you miss it,” Poppy says, taking the pan I’ve scrubbed, and drying it carefully. “She’d hate to think of you not doing that because of her.”
I set the last pan on the drying rack and drain the sink, turning to Poppy. She’s right, Bailey would hate that, and yet I can’t seem to bring myself to do it. It’s been so long now… maybe I don’t have it in me anymore.
Poppy sighs quietly as she puts the dishes away. She’s still wearing the apron, and as she places everything back in the correct spot, as if she’s lived here for years instead of days, that funny sensation from earlier happens in my chest again. I’ve never admitted to anyone why I stopped riding all those years ago, or that I long to do it again. How did she get that out of me?
As I watch her rise on her toes to put the sugar away in the top of the pantry, I move without thinking and step behind her, taking the container from her hands, lifting it onto the top shelf. When I glance down, I get a whiff of her sweet, peachy shampoo, and my head spins. What would she do if I lowered my mouth to that spot below her ear and brushed my lips over it?
She’d freak the fuck out, you creep .
Sucking in a sharp breath, I step back from the pantry, away from Poppy. She doesn’t seem to have noticed my momentary lapse of judgment, because she’s humming quietly to herself again as she wipes the countertop clean, but I’m backing away to the doorway, my heart racing.
Honestly, I’m starting to fucking scare myself. Why am I so drawn to her? There are millions of women in the city. Why can’t I choose someone more appropriate? Literally anyone else would be fine.
“Thanks for dinner,” I mumble.
“You’re welcome.” Poppy turns to me with a smile that sinks right into my chest. “We should do it again.”
“No,” I blurt, panic swirling through me. I can’t stop my eyebrows from digging into a frown.
“Oh.” Her face falls at my abrupt response. I want to say something to reassure her it’s not her or her food, but what’s the point? Better to be firm about this now.
Besides, I’m used to people thinking of me as the bad guy.
“I can’t, Poppy.” My tone is harsher than I intend, but I let it remain that way. She needs to know this can’t happen again. “I have a lot going on right now,” I add, as if to soften the blow, but I still feel like a prick.
“Of course. I get it.”
She frowns too, untying her apron and folding it over her arm. I can’t tear my eyes from her movements, the confused purse of her red lips. What was I thinking, eating dinner with her?
Hell, why did I even let her move in?
I need to get out of here. The irony is that now would be a perfect time to get on my bike and clear my head. I settle for turning to walk out of the kitchen.
“I’ll… stay out of your way,” Poppy says quietly behind me.
“Good,” I choke out, taking the stairs two at a time.