8. Poppy
8
Poppy
I t turns out, if you get creative, it’s possible to completely avoid the person you’re living with.
My alarm wakes me at 5:45 in the morning, and I hit snooze three times before finally blinking awake. I stare at the ceiling, wishing I didn’t have to get out of bed. The first fingers of dawn are already creeping across my ceiling, and I know I’ll need to move fast if I’m going to get out of the house before Mr. Mathers is up. I shouldn’t have snoozed through my alarm.
I skip the shower, dressing in my blue polyester uniform and applying a quick coat of mascara and lip gloss, then grab my bag and head downstairs. Usually I’d eat breakfast before leaving, but I’ll eat when I get to work. They often have half-price day-old muffins the staff can buy, which will have to do—even if it does offend my culinary sensibilities a little.
Coffee, however, is not negotiable. I step into the kitchen, planning to fill my travel mug and hit the road, and find Mr. Mathers at the kitchen counter, nursing his own cup of coffee.
Dammit.
We’ve successfully avoided each other for three days, since the dinner where we seemed to get along and then suddenly didn’t. I’ve tried not to let myself think about it, but I haven’t been able to stop replaying the events of that night, trying to figure out where I went wrong. Why he seemed to let his guard down, then closed it back up tight.
And the only conclusion I can come to is that he was trying to be polite. I’m his daughter’s best friend—I don’t expect open hostility from him—but I have to imagine this isn’t his ideal living situation. He doesn’t want to have to deal with me after a long day at work, and I don’t know what I was thinking by making him dinner. I guess I was trying to be friendly, to show him my gratitude for letting me stay. It was nice of him to accept, but I can’t expect more from the guy. He doesn’t have to make conversation with me or share his life story. I shouldn’t have been so nosy, asking him about his bike and why he doesn’t ride anymore. I should have let the poor guy eat in silence.
But it’s made one thing very clear; I can’t stay here. I’m a homebody—I love being in the kitchen, being cozy at home—and it’s hard living somewhere you feel like you can’t relax. Somewhere you feel you shouldn’t even really be.
So the plan, after my shift ends at 2 p.m. today, is to check out a few apartments in upper Manhattan. It makes sense that I find somewhere closer to work, especially since I haven’t heard from any of the coffee shops and restaurants in Brooklyn. I won’t be able to afford much more than a windowless room, but anything is better than staying where I’m not wanted. I’ll need to find another job because money is going to be especially tight once I move out, but one thing at a time. As for Bailey worrying about me living with a stranger, well… I won’t share that with her until I’ve found somewhere decent.
I glance from Mr. Mathers to the coffee machine, wondering if I should skip my morning caffeine and bolt for the door, but he’s already seen me, and I don’t want to be rude. In fact, now would be a good time to tell him my plans.
“Morning,” I say, crossing to the coffee machine. The aroma of fresh beans hits my nose as I fill my travel mug.
“Morning.”
Straightening my spine, I turn back to smile at Mr. Mathers. “I’m so grateful for you letting me stay here,” I say, but he doesn’t look up from whatever he’s doing on his phone.
“You’ve already said,” he mutters, and I frown at his cool response.
Okay .
“But,” I continue, “I’m going to check out apartments this afternoon.”
He glances up, his brows lifting in surprise. “Why?”
Why? Is he kidding?
I shift my weight. “I… I think it might be for the best.”
His gaze drifts over my uniform: a cobalt blue dress with a deep-V neckline and white collar, a white belt at the waist, and a skirt that stops mid-thigh. It looks like something an air hostess would’ve worn in the 60s, and I hate it. At least I don’t have the white apron tied around my waist yet, but that isn’t much consolation.
Mr. Mathers seems fascinated by the uniform, though. His gaze travels over me agonizingly slowly, as if cataloging what a hideous piece of attire it really is. For a second it seems as though he pauses to take in my bare legs too, but I realize that’s wishful thinking, as his gaze snaps back to my face and his brow furrows into a frown.
“I agree.”
Wow, okay.
It’s not like I thought he was going to beg me to stay or anything, but maybe he could at least pretend like he isn’t so eager for me to leave. For Bailey’s sake, if nothing else.
I square my shoulders. “I’ll be out of your hair ASAP.”
He nods, his jaw set as he scrolls through his phone again.
Honestly, what is this guy’s problem? Why does Bailey think he’s so great? Sure, he’s her dad, but he was also absent for the first half of her life, and yet she goes on and on about him as if he’s the greatest guy on the planet. I mean, yes, I’m drawn to him too—but for entirely different reasons.
Besides, no amount of muscles or tattoos or raw, masculine sexuality makes up for being a jerk. I don’t care how hot you are. If you can’t be kind and compassionate, forget it.
My mind flashes on his interaction with the old man in the community garden a few days ago, and confusion swirls through me. He almost seemed like a different person talking to Marty. That’s the guy I made dinner for. That’s the guy who showed up to dinner, too, then promptly morphed back into this guy.
Well, whatever. He’s Bailey’s problem, not mine. As soon as I find somewhere new to live, I won’t have to worry about him at all.
I turn for the door with renewed determination, coffee in hand. “Have a nice day,” I call out, but he doesn’t even bother to respond.
The sooner I can move out of here, the better.
My life could not get any worse.
Well, that’s not true. I could be back with Kurt.
But this is pretty bad.
When I arrived at work today, my boss looked at me blankly and asked me why I was there. I told him I was covering the morning shift, like I always do, and he told me that management had cut all morning shifts and these were now covered by those who work the day shift. Given I don’t have any day shifts, that means I’m effectively out of a job. He promised he would call me for casual shifts if they came up, but that’s hardly a reliable source of income. It was bad enough having my shifts cut to only the mornings, but now I’m well and truly screwed.
The only upside is I’m free to look at more apartments, which I did before realizing the downside—that I can’t afford to live anywhere without a job.
It’s a little after midday by the time I get the subway home. Well, home certainly isn’t the right word. Nowhere feels like home right now. The closest I got was Dean and Bailey’s apartment, but even that wasn’t forever. And now I have to go back to grumpy Mr. Mathers, though at least he’ll be at work for the rest of the day. My only solace is the thought of climbing into bed with a tub of ice cream, but I quickly shake the thought from my head.
I refuse to let this defeat me .
No. I’ll go to the places I dropped my résumé last week and see if anything has opened up. Best to be proactive. What I’d like to do is work on the business Bailey and I are about to launch, but last time we spoke she didn’t even mention it. I know she’s busy settling into her new job, but part of me gets the feeling she isn’t that interested in the business anymore. I can’t blame her. With a hot new job, why on earth would she want to waste her time on this little venture we’d planned together?
But without that… I don’t know what I’ll do. I certainly don’t want to be working in coffee shops for the rest of my life, that’s for sure. I guess I could look for a job in marketing, but the thought is so intimidating. With my GPA, I’d be lucky to get an unpaid internship. Besides, I was excited about the idea of starting our own digital marketing business.
It’s not the same without Bailey, though.
I’m so wrapped up in my thoughts as I trudge along Fruit Street, I almost step in front of a passing car. The only thing that stops me is a brunette reaching for my arm at the last minute, holding me back.
“Thank you,” I breathe, my hands shaking as we finally make it to the other side of the street.
“You’re welcome,” she says, assessing me, her nose creased in concern. She looks to be around my age, with a beautiful smattering of freckles across her alabaster skin. “Are you okay?”
I press a hand to my chest, over my galloping heart. “I… I think so.”
The woman shakes her head, motioning behind her. “I work here. Come inside and sit down. Have a glass of water.”
I’m too dazed to do anything other than follow her inside. It’s not until I’m seated at a table near the window that I recognize where I am. Joe’s Coffee.
The woman appears in front of me a moment later, holding out a glass of water. She’s wearing an apron now—but definitely no polyester uniform—and she lowers herself into the chair opposite me.
I take the glass and gulp it down. My pulse finally settles, and I inhale a deep breath. “Thanks. You saved my ass.” I give her a wobbly smile. “I’m Poppy.”
“Poppy! I’m named after a flower too.” She laughs, motioning to a nametag I hadn’t noticed. It reads Daisy . “You’ll have to meet my friend Violet as well.”
Setting the glass down, I chuckle.
“Actually…” Daisy’s expression shifts, and she taps a finger on her lip. “Are you the same Poppy who left her résumé here last week?” She motions to a stack of papers on the back counter, and I nod.
“That was me.”
Daisy’s face breaks into a grin. “I was going to call you later today to let you know you’ve got the job. We lost one of our baristas two days ago, and my boss, Dave, was really impressed with you.”
Well. Shit.
Relief bubbles in my chest, but I quickly temper it. What’s the point in working here if I’m leaving Mr. Mathers’s house? I certainly can’t afford to live in this neighborhood on my own.
But you also can’t afford to leave Mr. Mathers’s house without a job , a little voice reminds me.
Besides, I’d love to work somewhere like this. It’s nothing like the coffee shop I’ve just left, which is a complete dive, with coffee ring stains on the tables and ripped vinyl booths. No, this is one of those cute, upscale neighborhood joints, with large bay windows, exposed wooden floors, white-painted brick walls, and pressed tin on the ceiling. I have to admit, it would be lovely to work in such a sweet, cozy setting, and all that without a humiliating uniform.
I’ll have to commute from wherever I end up living. It will be worth it to work here.
“What are the hours?” Please be full-time , I beg silently.
“Full-time. They’ll rotate between weekdays and weekends, but you’ll always get at least forty hours a week.” Daisy leans across the table, dropping her voice conspiratorially. “Between you and me, the pay is good compared to other places. And even though Dave can be a lot, he’s a good guy.”
My mouth stretches into a grin. He seemed as much when I met him last week.
“I’m so glad I ran into you,” Daisy says, then cringes, no doubt remembering that I almost stepped in front of a car. I laugh, and she adds, “You know what I mean. It saved me a phone call.” She leans back with a chuckle. “Can you start tomorrow?”
I don’t have to think twice before answering. “I’ll be here.”