15. Wyatt
15
Wyatt
I hardly sleep, and it’s not because my back aches like hell. Partly, I’m worried about how I’m going to check in at the community garden this weekend, like I’d promised Marty I would.
Mostly, I’m thinking about Poppy. About the feeling of her soft fingertips working my stiff muscles, her hot breath fanning my upper back as she sat so close.
About what an absolute dirtbag I am for getting turned on by her trying to help me. I know she’s already dealing with a shitty ex, and there’s no way I want to add to her stress. No way I want to do anything to make her feel uncomfortable—or unsafe.
Thankfully, she didn’t seem to notice how I could hardly breathe when she touched me, how I had to shift in my seat. And as soon as my shirt was back on and we ate dinner, everything was fine.
So the lesson here is that we simply shouldn’t touch. That won’t be a problem going forward. In what other scenario would I need to touch her?
Only the kind where I’m not allowed.
I try to push the idea from my head, but I’m restless all night at the thought, and my dick won’t get the message. It started in the bathtub, which was Poppy’s suggestion, and while it helped my back, all I could think about was how much I wished she would join me. My imagination ran wild with thoughts of her warm, naked body pressed to mine in the water. I figured once I got out of the tub I’d be fine, but no, I had a raging boner until morning because I refused to touch it. There’s no way I would have been able to do that without picturing Poppy, with those perfect red lips and soft curves, and there’s no way I’ll sink low enough to do that.
Instead, I toss and turn, trying to get comfortable, trying to sleep. It’s a relief when dawn finally breaks, and I manage with great effort to get myself down to the kitchen. After turning the coffee machine on, I head to the sofa with the heating pad and pop a couple more Advil.
Poppy appears in the kitchen a moment later, her hair tied up in a ponytail, which I’ve never seen. It’s obscenely cute, especially with the ruffled red top that sits off her shoulders and the denim cutoffs that display her shapely legs. It takes all my strength not to look.
Her gaze meets mine as she enters the kitchen, and her cheeks stain pink. “Uh, hi.” She moves to the coffee machine, biting back a secret smile as she pours her coffee. Sugar winds around her feet, and she fills the kitten’s bowl with food before wandering into the living room.
I’m surprised when she hands me the cup of coffee. “Oh, thanks.”
“Of course.” Her eyes are a darker shade of espresso this morning, her cheeks still flushed. “I just, uh, want to help.”
I take the coffee with an amused smile. “I appreciate that, Poppy.”
What is going on with her today?
She grabs her own cup then joins me on the sofa, and while I should probably move away, I can’t. Not only because my back throbs, but also because I don’t want to. There’s a natural ease between us that wasn’t there last week, and I can’t stop myself from enjoying it. Enjoying the way she smiles over her cup of coffee, the way she lets out a little sigh after the first sip. Hell, just enjoying her .
Even though it’s the last thing I should do.
“How’s your back?” she asks as Sugar jumps onto the sofa between us and begins licking her paws.
“Not great. I hardly slept.” I run a hand down my face, deciding that’s all she needs to know.
Poppy’s forehead creases. “That sucks, I’m sorry.” Self-consciousness tugs at me as she studies my tired face. I must look like absolute shit. Meanwhile, she’s got a glow about her this morning that I haven’t seen before. She looks as though she slept very well, indeed.
“I’m happy to help with whatever you need today,” she adds.
I sip my coffee, pleased to feel the caffeine waking me up. “It’s your day off. I’m sure you’ve got stuff to do.”
She huffs a quiet laugh, looking down at her cup. “Not really. Usually Bailey and I would hang out, but…” A sip of coffee cuts her words off, and her shoulders sag. It’s obvious she’s a little lost without her friend.
“There’s a garden a few blocks away that I have a plot in,” I hear myself say. “I was planning to head over there this morning.”
I drain my coffee, stalling. What am I doing? I absolutely should not invite Poppy to join me because no doubt I’ll make an ass of myself trying to work in the garden with my back. And there’s no reason for us to spend the extra time together.
But the words leave my mouth anyway.
“You’re welcome to join me, if you like.” Her brows spring up in surprise, and I add, as if to explain, “I grow a lot of vegetables. You might find something you want to use in your cooking.”
The way her face lights with excitement makes my heart thump.
“That would be great! I could use some fresh inspiration.” She grins, rising to her feet. “When should we go?”
I chuckle, pleased despite myself, and glance outside. It’s bright and hot already, so the sooner the better. “Let’s eat, then go.”
“Great.” She clasps her hands together in delight. “I’ll make breakfast.”
The garden is empty when we arrive, which is unusual for a weekend. Given the heat, it’s possible everyone else has decided to stay indoors and enjoy the air conditioning.
I, however, am happy to be back in my favorite place in the city. Even if it took me twice as long to hobble here, and Poppy had to pull my wagon.
That wasn’t humiliating at all.
Inside the garden, I show Poppy to my patch, then ease myself down onto the bench to rest my aching back for a moment. God, I feel as old as Marty right now.
Poppy takes the opportunity to examine my plants, letting out a little whoop of glee when she spots the eggplant. “I can definitely do something with this,” she says excitedly, touching the firm, purple skin. “Are these ready?”
I nod, trying in vain to massage the knot in my lower back.
“Awesome.” Poppy kneels in the dirt, despite not being dressed for it. “I’m going to pick a couple, okay?”
“Sure.” I watch as she delicately takes a few eggplants, putting them in the basket in the wagon. There’s a creak at the gate and we turn to see Marty ambling into the garden, his basket over one arm.
“Morning, Wyatt.” His gaze moves curiously to Poppy, and he extends a gnarled hand. “Good morning, my dear. I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure.”
I chuckle at the way Marty turns on the charm.
“I’m Poppy,” she says, rising to take his hand. “Poppy Spencer.”
“Poppy is a friend of Bailey’s,” I explain. “She’s staying with me for a while.” I hold my breath, expecting Marty to raise an eyebrow at this, but he simply grins as Poppy shakes his hand.
“Martin Somerville, but everyone calls me Marty,” he says, and Poppy smiles warmly. “Lovely to meet you.”
“He’s the reason we have a community garden,” I tell her, since I know he won’t do it himself.
“Wow.” Poppy glances around, impressed. “It’s beautiful. So nice to see a garden like this in the middle of the city. I’m surprised they don’t bulldoze it to put up condos.”
“They tried.” Marty shakes his head, eyes twinkling. “But this is much better, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely.” Poppy grins. “Which patch is yours, Marty? Do you grow vegetables too?”
He nods, shuffling past and motioning to his plot beside mine. His Brussels Sprouts are ready to harvest, and Poppy spots them immediately.
“These look fantastic.” She glances at Marty, who eases his creaking frame onto the bench beside me. “Would you like me to pick them for you?”
Warmth blooms in my chest as I watch her kindly offer to help Marty, much like she went out of her way to help me yesterday. She has such a caring side to her, and it makes me so furious to think of someone like Kurt taking advantage of her. Hurting her, when I bet she’s never hurt anyone.
“If you don’t mind,” Marty replies. “And please, take some for yourself.”
Poppy looks thrilled as she fills Marty’s basket, then adds a few to ours. I wrinkle my nose.
“Don’t expect me to eat those.”
She puts a hand on her hip, an amused smile tugging at her scarlet red lips. “Seriously? What are you, eight years old?”
A laugh escapes me. “I’ve never been a fan.”
She shakes her head with mock disapproval. “Oh, you’ll eat them.” There’s a spark in her gaze as it holds mine. “I know how to make them delicious.”
I bet you do .
I swallow, unable to look away as she bends to retrieve the last of the Brussels Sprouts. This is a new side to her—playful, almost flirty. She doesn’t mean it to be, of course, but fuck if I don’t like it.
Marty clears his throat beside me and I nearly jump out of my skin. I’d forgotten he was even there.
His pale eyes light with amusement when I finally glance back at him, and I push to my feet to escape his knowing gaze. I busy myself picking some sage to take home.
“I love sage,” Poppy murmurs as I put it in the basket. There’s something in her eyes I can’t read, something electric I’ve never seen before, and it sends a shot of heat straight down my abdomen.
Right. It’s time to leave, before Marty gets the wrong idea.
“My back is killing me,” I lie, and Poppy’s expression instantly shifts to one of concern.
“Let’s head back.” She grabs my wagon, her other hand moving protectively to my arm as I awkwardly get to my feet.
Marty’s brow dips. “What’s happened to your back, Wyatt?”
“I put it out at work,” I mumble, feeling as if I’m about to be chastened. Right on cue, Marty shakes his head with a cluck of his tongue.
“You need to take better care of yourself.”
“It’s okay,” Poppy pipes up, smiling. “I’m looking after him.” She squeezes my arm, and I sigh as we turn toward the gate. “It was so lovely to meet you, Marty,” she calls over her shoulder.
“And you, Poppy.” His eyes sparkle as they move between the two of us. “Take care of my boy there.”
“I will.”
I hobble from the garden as quickly as I can manage, and it’s a relief to get out of there. I don’t know what Poppy’s deal is today, but I’d hate for Marty to think there’s something going on between us.
Especially when that’s exactly what I want.
It takes an eternity for us to get back to the house, and I’m sweating from the heat when we finally close the door behind us. I turn the AC up and slide onto a stool at the counter as Poppy unloads our basket. Sugar circles my feet, waiting for me to pick her up, but there’s no way I can bend to the floor with my back like this. Poppy notices and picks her up, depositing her onto my lap. Sugar climbs onto my shoulder and curls into what must be the most uncomfortable position ever, but I let her. It’s worth it to see Poppy’s lips lift into that smile.
She turns away with a sigh. “What do you want for lunch?”
“Poppy, you don’t have to make me lunch. You’ve already made me breakfast and will no doubt insist on making dinner. You know you’re not my maid, right?”
Do not picture her in a maid’s outfit .
She lifts a shoulder, glancing back at me. “I know, but you’re not feeling well. I won’t do it forever, but please, let me help you.” Her face is so sincere that I have to look away. It’s too much to have someone care like this.
“Thank you,” is all I can manage.
“Besides, you can help.” She places a cutting board, knife, and a pile of Brussels Sprouts in front of me.
I stare down at them with distaste. I’ll eat almost any vegetable, but these are a no go for me.
“What am I supposed to do with these?” I ask. “Throw them in the garbage?”
A laugh bursts out of her. The sound is so sweet that I can’t stop the wide grin that splits my face. Who knew making her laugh would feel so good?
“No, Mr. Ma—” She cuts herself off with a shake of her head, her lips quirking as she corrects, “No, Wyatt .”
Oh, shit. I did not expect to enjoy hearing her say my name that much. My mouth dries, and I pick up a sprout, focusing on it intently. Sugar jumps down onto my lap to inspect them with interest, and when Poppy isn’t looking, I toss one onto the floor for her to play with. She leaps from my lap to bat it across the living room rug, and I smile to myself. When I glance back at Poppy, I’m relieved she hasn’t seen. I might not want to eat them, but I know she does, and I instantly feel bad.
“You’re going to remove the outer leaves and trim the stem,” Poppy instructs, as if she’s done this hundreds of times before. “Then score a cross into the base of it. Got it?”
“Got it,” I echo, although I’m not sure how that’s going to make this hideous vegetable palatable. But I focus on my task, wanting to impress her, despite myself. I’m so focused that I don’t even notice when she puts the apron on again. It’s not until I’ve finished that I glance up and see the red and blue fabric hugging her curves.
Fuck .
“All done,” I choke out, studiously lining the sprouts up in a row for her to inspect. She laughs when she sees.
“These look great.”
It’s pathetic the way my chest puffs at her compliment. The way I watch her throw them into a dish with olive oil, then put them in the oven to roast. The way I wish I could cross the room and pull her close, press my mouth to that soft patch of skin below her ear.
“Can I get you anything for your back?” she asks, completely oblivious to my wandering mind.
“No, thanks.” I pat the stool beside me. “Sit down. You’ve been running around all morning.”
She slides onto the stool. “I loved the community garden, and Marty seems like such a nice guy.”
I smile. I shouldn’t be surprised those two got along.
“He is. He lost his wife Joyce late last year. They’d been together for seventy years, and it’s been difficult to see him go through that.”
“Oh.” Poppy puts a hand on her heart, her eyes swimming with compassion. “I can’t imagine how hard that must be.”
I nod my agreement.
“Imagine being with someone for that long,” she adds wistfully. Her eyes flick to mine, then away. “Do you ever think about getting married?”
The question takes me entirely by surprise, and I think for a moment before answering. “I did, once, but then Bailey came along.”
She looks perplexed. “So?”
“Well…” I shrug, not sure how to put it into words. “She became the most important person in my life. Between work and making up for lost time as her father, I didn’t make dating a priority.”
“What about now? She’s grown up and moved away.”
I chuff a laugh, looking away. What I don’t say is that it almost feels too late, for some reason. I know the thought isn’t rational, but it’s there all the same.
“What about you?” I deflect. “You want to get married?”
“Definitely.” The oven timer rings, and she pulls the tray from the oven, adding chunks of halloumi before sliding it back in. Turning to me, she wipes her hands on her apron. “I want a husband and kids. The white picket fence. All that.”
I look at her, standing in my kitchen in her apron, and can easily picture it. Considering how she’s cared for me since I hurt my back, the way she looks after Sugar, I can tell she’d be a great mom. No doubt about that. As for a wife…
Well, whoever ends up with her will be one lucky bastard.
I push the thought away, watching as she pulls a pomegranate from the fridge—when the hell did she get that?—and snips a few sprigs of mint off the plant on the windowsill. She’s clearly in her element, humming quietly to herself as she works, and I can’t help but marvel at how naturally this comes to her. I’m reminded of how excited she was to come to the community garden and select vegetables, and the utter delight on her face when she saw the eggplants, when Marty offered her the Brussels Sprouts. Why on earth isn’t she pursuing a career doing this? I bet she’d enjoy it a lot more than marketing.
“Have you thought any more about your business?” I ask tentatively. The minute the words leave my mouth, I regret it. I remember how she deflated the last time we spoke, and I hold my breath, waiting for her smile to fade.
But it widens. “I have, actually. I, uh, launched it yesterday.”
I’m taken aback by the way my lungs expand with pride. A few days ago, she looked utterly defeated at the prospect of launching her business, but she took control and made it happen for herself.
“That’s awesome,” I say, straightening on the stool despite the twinge in my back. “What did Bailey say?”
Poppy scrunches her nose as she takes the sprouts from the oven. “I don’t know. I tried to talk to her about it, but she was so busy with work…” She sprinkles the mint and pomegranate seeds over the dish. “I guess I got a little tired of waiting and decided to go ahead.” She glances at me guiltily, nibbling her lip. “Do you think she’ll mind?”
I picture my daughter on the other side of the country, busy at work, and shake my head. “No. I know she’s flat out at work right now, and she’d want you to do what you think is best. I think it’s great.”
Poppy exhales. “I hope you’re right.” She serves up the dish, which, admittedly, smells pretty damn good, and places a bowl in front of me. “Okay. Try this.”
I pick up my fork with great reluctance and prod a steaming sprout. Its leaves are curly and crunchy-looking, the halloumi soft and gooey, its edges browned. I love halloumi, and I really hope this dish doesn’t ruin it for me.
I have no reason to worry, though, because the moment I raise a forkful of the dish to my mouth, I know I’ll never look at Brussels Sprouts the same way. Instead of the soft, mushy balls my mom used to serve me, these are crispy and flavorful, the salty halloumi and fresh mint, with the hint of sweetness from the pomegranate, a perfect complement.
“Holy shit,” I mutter as I swallow, looking at Poppy. She laughs happily. “I can’t believe you made them taste so good.”
“I know, right?”
I shake my head, devouring another mouthful, then check there’s more left in the dish because I will absolutely be going back for seconds. She’s wasting her talents as a barista, even if she has finally taken steps with her marketing business. As I chew, I think about what she told me when we discussed her switch from culinary school to marketing— my ex talked me into it . I suspect she didn’t change careers because she wanted to. She did it because that scumbag convinced her to do it.
Still, it’s really not my business. She’s got her marketing degree, so she may as well use it. And maybe cooking at home will be enough for her.
A huge part of me doubts that.
I sneak a glance at Poppy, but her eyes are on something behind me in the living room. When I turn to follow her gaze, I spy Sugar, still batting the sprout around the rug.
Crap.
“What the…” Poppy rises from her stool and crosses the room, bending to snatch the sprout from Sugar’s paws. She holds it up to me, her mouth opening with a disbelieving laugh as she walks back into the kitchen. “Are you serious?”
My shoulders rise innocently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She shakes her head in mock outrage while I bite my lip to hold in a laugh. And then she does something completely unexpected—she throws the sprout at my head.
A laugh rushes up my throat as I narrowly dodge it, my back twitching in the process. “You’re lucky I have a bad back, young lady, or you’d be in trouble right now.”
Her eyes flash. I’m not sure if it’s the “young lady” or the promise of trouble, but her breath hitches as she stares at me. She’s still wearing that damn apron, and for a brief moment I imagine bending her over the kitchen counter and pressing myself to her soft curves. She seems to know exactly what I’m thinking, because she swallows hard, heat sparking in her gaze.
Shit. What the hell am I doing?
I look away, sucking in a breath. Of course she doesn’t know what I’m thinking—and thank fuck for that. There’s no way she’d feel safe here if she did.
And I’d fucking hate myself for it.
After a beat, she slides back onto the stool beside me, then tosses the sprout back to Sugar.
And I stuff my mouth full with her delicious food, counting the minutes until the weekend is over.