11. Wyatt
11
Wyatt
“ B oss, we have a problem.”
I glance up from where I’m laying a stone border around a bed of peonies, my gaze finding Shawn across the Park Slope yard we’re working in today. We’re behind schedule after I took yesterday afternoon off, but there was no way I was going to leave Poppy alone when her ex had just left. I still can’t believe he blatantly lied about being her boyfriend to get inside the house. Thinking of that smug prick’s face makes my blood boil, especially now that I know everything he did to her. And, God, when she broke down on the sofa… I shouldn’t have touched her, let alone held her, but it was instinctual. I’d comfort any woman in distress, hold any woman close like that if she was upset.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. And that’s what I’m going to keep telling myself now that she’s staying. I know it wasn’t a good idea to ask her to stay, but I couldn’t stand the thought of Kurt finding her again. Who knows what he’d do to her with no one around? With me, at least I know she’ll be safe. That’s what Bailey wants, and if I can tell myself I’m doing it for her, then that makes it easier.
But it also means pulling my fucking head in. It means no more noticing Poppy in all the ways I’m not supposed to. No thinking about how warm she felt in my arms, no recalling the sweet, peachy smell of her shampoo, no wondering how soft her mouth would feel against mine.
None of that.
I force my attention to the task at hand. “You’d better not be complaining about lunch again,” I mutter, brushing off my hands as I wander over to Shawn. I swear to God I’ve had enough of the crew moaning about the lack of affordable lunch options around here. Bring something from home, for fuck’s sake.
“Nope,” Shawn says, a frown etched across his brow. Instead of planting out the cherry blossom trees like he’s supposed to, he stands over the hole he’s dug, hands on his hips. When I reach his side, I follow his gaze to find a white kitten quivering in the bottom of the hole, staring up at us with wide blue eyes.
“Well, shoo it back wherever it came from.”
“I don’t know where it came from,” Shawn says. “Look, there’s no collar or anything.”
He’s right. Not only that, the kitten looks like it’s seen better days. Its fur is a little matted on one side, and I can see the bones of its vertebrae.
“Shit.” I scrape a hand across the back of my neck. “It must be a stray.” I glance from the terrified ball of fur to the guys. “Anyone want it?”
“Don’t look at me,” Shawn says. “My landlord will kill me if I take that thing home.” He glances at Diego, who’s sidled over out of interest. “Maybe your kids want a new pet?”
Diego steps back with a shake of his head. “My wife will kill me if I take it home. We already have two.”
“What’s going on?” Nikolai, apparently intrigued by the small crowd we’ve formed, wanders over.
“Happy birthday!” Shawn says, motioning to the hole with a grin. “We got you a cat.”
Nikolai’s thick brows draw together. “My birthday’s in January. And I’m allergic to cats.”
“It was worth a shot,” Shawn mutters, throwing his hands up. The kitten utters a plaintive, wretched little mewl.
“There must be a shelter we could drop it at,” Diego says, and I try to hide my grimace at this suggestion. I know what happens at those shelters to animals who don’t get adopted, and it’s not good.
The boys lob suggestions back and forth for a moment until I finally feel their gaze swing my way. On instinct, my hands come up.
“Don’t look at me.”
And yet, somehow, I get railroaded into taking the damn thing home.
I find a box in the back of my truck and throw an old work shirt in there to make it soft, then Shawn scoops the kitten out of the hole and hands it over. I hold the little thing in front of my face, inspecting it, and it stares back with frightened eyes. It’s smaller than I expected, and very light, but I have no idea how old it is. A few months at the most, I’d guess.
“It’s okay,” I murmur to the small creature, settling it into the box in the front seat of my truck. I turn the key to run the air conditioning while I finish up for a few minutes, and return to find the kitten has fallen asleep in a ball. Knowing it’s comfortable and safe, I get a few more things done around the yard, then send the guys home early, before climbing into the truck. I was hoping to stay on later tonight to finish up that stone wall, but it’ll have to wait.
The kitten stirs when I buckle myself in, glancing up at me warily as I pull the truck into the street. It releases another helpless squeak, as if asking me where I’m taking it, and I sigh as I thread through the streets of Brooklyn, wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into. I can’t look after a kitten. I work long hours and I’m hardly ever home. I don’t know what I was thinking letting them talk me into this, but I can’t keep it. I’ll feed it and give it somewhere to sleep tonight, then, as much as it pains me, I’ll drop it into a shelter tomorrow. It’s for the best.
“Alright,” I tell the kitten as we pull the truck into a spot outside my house. “We’re going in here for one night, okay? No funny business.” I pull the box onto my lap and the cat looks up at me beseechingly. “You’re going to meet Poppy, and she’s wonderful, but this can’t last, so don’t fall in love with her.”
I’m no longer sure if I’m talking to myself or the cat.
With a grumble, I haul myself from the truck, cradling the box in my arms. Thankfully, the street is quiet, and the cat is too scared to make a move. We bustle in through the front door, greeted by the smell of something delicious cooking in the kitchen. The sound of Poppy humming wafts into the hall, and it occurs to me I haven’t got anything a cat might eat.
When I enter the kitchen, Poppy is bent at the waist, sliding something into the oven, her back to me. She’s wearing that damn red and blue apron again, and my gaze slides over her ass. Then I wrench it away as shame washes through me. What the fuck is wrong with me? Didn’t I just decide I wouldn’t do that anymore?
But as Poppy moves around the kitchen, my eyes stray back to her, like an instinct that almost feels natural. It’s the apron. There’s something about it that feels so domestic that I want to pull her into my arms and murmur, “Honey, I’m home.” I’ve never been the sort of guy who believes a woman belongs in the kitchen, but I can’t deny the effect seeing her wearing that in here has on me. Maybe I should tell her that if she insists on cooking, she either needs to do it when I’m not home, or not wear that thing.
I’m sure that won’t be suspicious at all.
Poppy straightens and turns as I enter the kitchen, her pretty face lighting with a smile. “Hey. I’m making vegetable lasagna. I used some of the bell peppers you brought home. I hope that’s okay?”
I nod, setting the box with the kitten down on the counter as Poppy pulls the flour and sugar from the pantry. “And I was thinking for dessert, we could—” She stops abruptly when a loud cry comes from the box. “What the…” Setting the flour and sugar down, Poppy tiptoes across to peer into the box, her mouth opening in surprise. “Who is this?”
I bite back a smile at the way she refers to the kitten as a who , and not a what . “This is the reason I had to send the crew home early today.”
“The poor thing,” she murmurs, reaching into the box without hesitation and scooping it into her arms. The kitten stiffens for a moment, then nuzzles into Poppy’s chest, purring.
Lucky thing .
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
I pull a beer from the fridge with a shrug. “How should I know?”
“Well, then, we need a gender neutral name.”
My brows tug together. I knew bringing that thing in here was a mistake. “We don’t need a name at all. We’re not keeping it.”
Poppy looks up at me with much the same expression the cat gave me in the truck. “We’re not?”
“We…” Jesus. What am I doing? There’s no we here. “No. I’m at work all day.”
“But…”
“And you are too,” I point out.
“True.” Poppy gnaws her lip as she reluctantly sets the kitten back in the box, and I can’t help but feel like I’ve said the wrong thing. “Well, I’ll get it some food.”
I watch with interest as she sets about scrambling two eggs for the kitten. “Can kittens eat eggs?”
She cringes. “It’s not ideal, but it’s all we have. I’m sure she’ll love it.”
“ She ?” I echo with amusement.
Poppy shrugs, not looking at me as she plates up the eggs and sets the saucer on the floor. My shoulders sag a little. I really don’t want a pet, but…
“I guess if you wanted to look after it, you could keep it.”
Poppy whirls around, her face alight. “Seriously?”
I nod, trying to be nonchalant. “But you work all day, Poppy, so I don’t see—”
“I only work two blocks away! I could pop home on my breaks to play with her and make sure she’s okay.”
God, I can’t say no to that smile. Besides, I probably owe her one after inadvertently letting her ex into the house. I still feel awful about that.
“Fine,” I murmur.
Poppy bounces on her toes with glee, and for a second I think she’s going to hug me. “Thank you so much, Mr. Mathers.”
“Wyatt,” I correct, and she scrunches her nose, looking from me to the kitten, who has climbed out of the box and is inspecting the sugar container with interest. That can’t be sanitary.
“Sugar,” Poppy whispers, scooping the cat up and setting it onto the floor in front of the saucer of eggs. She watches intently as the kitten sniffs the food, then tentatively begins to eat. “I’m going to call you Sugar.”
There’s a strange flutter in my chest at the way she crouches beside the cat, gently encouraging it to eat, and I wash it down with a swig of beer. I’m pleased I could make Poppy happy after what happened yesterday with Kurt, that’s all.
“You should take it to the vet,” I say, sliding onto a stool at the counter. “Make sure everything is okay with it. It looks a little malnourished.”
Poppy nods. “I’ll do that tomorrow.”
I think of the costs associated with getting a pet and make a mental note to stop in at Target to pick up a couple of things tomorrow. I mean, yes, it’s Poppy’s cat, but it lives with us both, so I don’t mind contributing. Especially when I know she’s trying to save after Kurt ripped her off.
I still can’t believe he did that, and I’ve been thinking about it nonstop since Bailey told me. There must be something we can do to get her money back. We can’t let that asshole win.
Poppy checks on the lasagna, then leans on the counter to watch the kitten—Sugar—as it licks its paws, the eggs gone. I bet that’s the best meal that creature has had in weeks. Sugar lets out a contented purr, rubbing her head against Poppy’s shin, then ambles over to where I’m seated at the counter. She looks up at me with that same beseeching expression, and I sip my beer, watching her.
“She wants you to pick her up,” Poppy says, her mouth twitching with a smile.
I frown down at the cat, mentally willing it to go to Poppy instead, but its eyes seem to grow wider and more pleading, and I set my beer down with a sigh. I’m not completely heartless. I settle Sugar in my lap and reach for my beer again, thinking that will be the end of it, but she scrambles up my chest and onto my shoulder. I suck in a breath at the sharpness of her claws as she climbs me, then exhale as she nuzzles into the side of my neck with a purr.
Christ. This could not be any more inconvenient.
From across the kitchen, Poppy’s giggle draws my attention. “I think she likes you.”
“What’s not to like?” I joke without thinking, and Poppy makes a “hmmm” sound. Her gaze strays from the cat to my chest, then down my arms. When she brings it back to my face, her cheeks are pink. The oven timer dings and she clears her throat, averting her gaze as she serves dinner. I don’t know what that was about, but I’m distracted from thinking about it as Sugar climbs back down my torso and settles into my lap. Why do I get the sense I’m going to be treated like a tree from now on?
The truth is, I don’t mind. It’s worth it to see Poppy laugh. After the way she shrunk into herself yesterday, after seeing how Kurt could make her feel so small, I’ll do whatever it takes to make her smile.
We settle in to eat, which is considerably more difficult for me than her, given Sugar keeps trying to stick her nose onto my plate, and eventually I drop her onto the floor to explore the house. It occurs to me I probably won’t be able to wait until tomorrow to go to Target. She’ll need a litter box very soon.
The vegetable lasagna is, as expected, delicious. Poppy has paired it with a light salad, using some of the greens I gathered from the garden the other day. There’s sliced radish in there, and I realize Marty must have snuck some into my basket after all.
“This is amazing,” I say around mouthfuls of melted cheese and pasta. “I’ve never eaten so well.” I cook for myself most nights when I’m not busy at work, but it’s usually basic stuff, and never turns out this good.
When I glance at Poppy, her cheeks are pink with delight, and she’s smiling around a forkful of salad. I wonder if Kurt ever told her that her cooking was good. Actually, no—wasn’t it him that talked her out of culinary school? Anger swarms through me at the thought, and I twist to face Poppy, wanting her to know how good her cooking is. Wanting to help her believe in herself after learning how Kurt treated her.
“You should be a chef,” I say, and her smile fades. Shit. That wasn’t the right approach. Switching gears, I ask, “How’s the business coming along?” Her smile has completely vanished now, and I curse myself for opening my mouth in the first place. We were perfectly fine eating in silence.
Poppy swallows and shrugs. “It’s… I’m working on it.” She picks at her food, and I push my plate away as I finish my meal, annoyed with myself. Only moments ago she was smiling and laughing, and all it took was one comment from me to kill her mood.
Determined to make her smile again, I rise from my stool and look around for Sugar. She’s on the coffee table, batting at the TV remote with a paw, and I pick her up and set her back on my shoulder. It’s the last place I want the damn cat, but she settles in with a purr, draping herself over my shoulder as I run water into the sink for the dishes.
And when I sneak a glance over my shoulder at Poppy, the smile dancing on her mouth feels better than that first moment I get my hands in the soil after the last frost of winter thaws.
And that’s a very dangerous feeling.