16. Poppy
16
Poppy
F or the first time in ages, life feels good. I have a job I don’t hate, I live with a super hot man (who, okay, is completely off-limits, but I won’t dwell on that part), and best of all, I landed my first marketing client.
My first client!
I don’t know what I was expecting when I launched our business, but it wasn’t, you know, clients. They found me through my Instagram account. I’m offering a reduced rate while I build my client list, and they were pleased I could devote most of my time to them since I have so few (I mean, no) other clients.
So, that’s exactly what I’ve done. Every night, after work and after whipping up a quick meal for Wyatt, I’ve gone to my room to work on the digital marketing package I’ve been putting together for this client. I battled impostor syndrome—and the urge to call Bailey to beg for her help—every step of the way, but I did it.
And I can’t quite believe it, but the client was thrilled. When their payment came through, I stared at my PayPal account in shock. I never knew how it would feel to earn money on your own—without a boss deciding your worth, the hours you’ll work, or the hideous uniform you’ll wear—and it’s different, that’s for sure.
The only downside is that I haven’t heard a word from Bailey. I feel like I’m hiding a dirty secret from her, and that’s before we even get to the inappropriate crush I’m harboring on her dad. We were supposed to run this business together, and while I’m happy for my friend and her new life in San Francisco, it’s not the same doing it without her. When the money came through, my elation was tinged with guilt. And even though I did all the work, I had this feeling like I didn’t quite deserve the money. Like it shouldn’t be mine.
Anyway. It’s my first free night since completing the project, and I want to celebrate, but as I wander home from my shift at the coffee shop, I feel the familiar monthly cramps begin in my abdomen.
Goddammit. If ever there’s a way to ruin my good mood, this is it.
I’m heading into the courtyard of Wyatt’s house when the front door closes next door. I glance up, curious, because I haven’t met Wyatt’s neighbors yet, and my mouth pops open in surprise when Daisy steps out, her camera around her neck.
“Daisy?” I pause, turning to head to her stoop instead. She finished work a few hours ago, and mentioned going to shoot tonight.
“Oh, hey, Poppy.” She pauses in front of me, glancing at the open gate to Wyatt’s courtyard. “What are you…”
“I’m staying with Wyatt. Do you know him?”
A grin breaks across her face. “Yes! He’s my neighbor.”
“Wait…” I glance from Wyatt’s place to the attached townhouse next door. “Do you live here?”
She nods. “With Wes. I can’t believe you’re staying next door! We’ll have to invite you and Wyatt over for dinner.”
My neck heats, as if she’s implying we’re a couple, or something.
Which she clearly isn’t. Why would she?
She cocks her head, eying me curiously. “How do you know Wyatt?”
“His daughter is my best friend.” I shift my weight. “She moved to San Francisco, and I needed somewhere to stay, so…”
“So he offered? Of course.” Daisy smiles warmly. “He’s such a nice guy, isn’t he?”
“He really is,” I murmur, meaning it. I think back to everything I learned about him last weekend, while I helped him with his back and he let his guard down. Then there’s the way he’s so sweet and affectionate with Sugar, all the cuddles and belly rubs…
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous.
Pain ripples through my abdomen and I grimace, gripping my belly. I know I don’t have long before the cramps will incapacitate me, and I step back.
“I’ll leave you to your photography,” I say, wincing, and Daisy frowns.
“Are you okay?”
I nod. “Cramps.”
“Ah.” She gives me an empathetic smile. “Go rest, and let me know if you need anything, neighbor.” She grins at this. “I’m only a text away.”
Despite the ache in my middle, I smile as I wave goodbye. “Thanks.” I’ve missed Bailey ever since I moved out, but knowing my new friend lives next door is nice. I liked Daisy from the moment she stopped me from walking into traffic, and I’ve only grown to like her more at work.
I let myself into the house, go to the bathroom and pop a couple Advil, then change into my coziest PJ bottoms and fluffy socks. I contemplate crawling straight into bed, but I’m supposed to make dinner as per my agreement with Wyatt, so I head back downstairs where I collapse onto the sofa, willing myself to get up and cook. Another sharp twist in my abdomen makes any fleeting motivation vanish.
Fuck it. I’ll buy us takeout with my marketing money instead.
I tug a blanket over me as I wait for the painkillers to kick in, and Sugar jumps onto my belly, curling into a ball. The warmth and pressure of her help the pain, but it’s not the same as my heating pad. Wyatt had it last, but I can’t go rifling through his room looking for it. I’ll wait until he’s home.
Then my eyes close and I drift off.
I wake to the feeling of Sugar leaping off me. When I sit up, yawning, I spot Wyatt pouring food into Sugar’s bowl.
“Sorry,” he says, straightening up. He’s in a clean white T-shirt and sweats, his hair damp from the shower. “I tried not to wake you.”
“No problem. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” I glance at the sliding glass door to the yard where the evening sun has faded into a soft gold. “What time is it?”
“Eight-thirty.”
“Shit.” I scramble to stand. “I’m sorry. I was going to cook, but…” Ugh, I do not want to tell him I’ve got my period. That only freaks men out. “Would you mind if we order takeout tonight? I’ll pay.”
His brows tug together into a frown. “No way.”
Jeez, okay.
“You’re right. Sorry. That’s not the deal.”
“No—” He chuffs a laugh, stepping closer. “I mean, no way are you paying. Takeout is fine with me. What do you feel like?”
A relieved laugh slips from me. “Um…” What do I feel like? Honestly, I’m craving carbs and cheese, but I hesitate to say this. Kurt always used to make me feel shitty for treating myself. Then I realize he’s not here. And if Wyatt has an issue with me eating comfort food, then too damn bad.
“Pizza,” I say at last, flopping back onto the sofa and stretching out my legs. “Extra cheese.”
“Sounds good.” He grins, pulling his phone from his pocket. My uterus gives an almighty spasm of pain and I grip my stomach, wincing. Wyatt notices and crosses the room, his face lined with concern. “What’s going on?”
“It’s nothing,” I mutter, my cheeks hot.
“It’s not nothing.” He lowers himself onto the coffee table in front of me, and I get a flashback to when he came home with his sore back and refused to admit it to me. How frustrating that was. I decide to be straight with him.
“I have cramps,” I mumble, watching Sugar sharpen her claws on her scratching post in the corner.
“Oh. Right.” He rises from the coffee table, does something on his phone, then disappears upstairs.
I frown. Well, it didn’t take much to scare him off, did it?
But a moment later he reappears, holding out the heating pad. “Here.”
I hesitate. “What about your back?”
“It’s fine now. I should have given this back to you days ago.”
I take it gratefully and groan with relief as I slide it under my shirt and onto my sore belly. “I’ll go to my room and get out of your hair. I’m useless when I’m like this.”
“No, stay.” There’s a softness to his expression that’s completely at odds with his looks; the dark cut of his beard across his cheek, the strain of his shirt across his biceps, the map of tattoos down his arms. That’s Wyatt. He looks hard on the outside, but he’s soft in the center. “Let me take care of you.”
Oof. I could get used to hearing those words from him.
Best I don’t.
I smile faintly, waving him away. “You don’t have to—”
“Remember last weekend? I wouldn’t have survived without you.” He shakes his head, as if mentally debating something with himself, before adding, “It’s the least I can do, Poppy.”
Oh, God. He’s being way too sweet. I don’t know if I can handle more of this side of him.
“Are you sure this is how you want to spend your Friday night?”
“I’m sure,” he says firmly, as if telling me not to argue any further.
It’s the fatherly side to him, I realize. Now that I know the truth about him and Bailey, what he gave up for her, I can see all the ways he would have been a good dad. And that’s what he’s doing with me now—what he’d do if Bailey was here, in pain. He probably misses her, and helping me is the next closest thing.
It’s perfectly innocent, I tell myself.
“Here, let me…” I try to wriggle out of the way so he can sit on the sofa, but he stops me.
“Don’t move.” He lifts my legs and settles in at the end of the sofa, pulling my feet onto his lap. And even though I just got through telling myself he probably thinks of me as a substitute daughter, all I can think about is how my feet are mere inches from his dick.
Jesus Christ. I need to get my head checked.
A sharp spasm in my abdomen makes any inappropriate thoughts vanish. It’s amazing, I’ve wanted nothing more than for him to touch me for weeks, but I swear if he tries anything right now, I’m in so much agony I’d probably punch him.
Not that he would, of course. I’m the one reading way too much into this moment.
He reaches for the TV remote and turns on Schitt’s Creek, and I sink into the sofa with a happy sigh. I’m completely unprepared for the way he absently rubs my feet through my fluffy socks as we listen to David complain about Alexis. I’ve never been much of a foot-rub girl, but there’s something about the way he gets his knuckle right into the arch of my foot that sends a shiver of pleasure through me.
He glances over at me when I let a moan escape. “Is this alright? Is it helping?”
“Can’t you tell? I’m putty over here.”
He chuckles in response, turning back to the screen. His thumb does something to my heel that makes me melt, and I let out another moan, one that sounds a lot less sweet than the last one. His nostrils flare and a muscle tics in his neck.
Suddenly, nothing about this moment feels innocent. I can’t put my finger on how, but the atmosphere in the room shifts. The air pulls taut with electricity, and Wyatt swallows, breathing hard as he kneads my foot.
Oh my God. Is it possible I’m turning him on?
And then, as if offering confirmation, he shifts in his seat, moving my feet closer to his knees. My heart jumps as he stares intently at the screen, somehow both touching me and ignoring me at the same time.
Well, this is ironic. I finally have him right where I want him, and I can’t do a damn thing about it.
There’s a knock at the door and Wyatt leaps from the sofa, shoving my feet out the way. I blink at the sudden turn of events, my face hot.
What is wrong with me? The man is trying to do something nice when I’m in pain, and all I do is make him uncomfortable.
Pull yourself together .
I pause the TV, then sit up properly on the sofa, tucking my legs under me so Wyatt can join me without having my feet in his lap. I should never have put them there in the first place.
“Pizza,” he announces, dropping a box on the coffee table.
“Thanks.” I pop the box open and grab a slice, the smell heavenly as I take a huge bite. Melted cheese drips down my chin, and Wyatt chuckles. I blush, wiping it away. “Sorry,” I mumble on instinct, but he gives me a funny look as he lifts a piece to his mouth.
“Why are you apologizing?”
“I…” I chew for a moment, thinking. Why am I apologizing? Kurt always said I wasn’t ladylike when I eat pizza, and I guess I’m self-conscious.
I hate that he’s still in my head, even if he’s not in my life. It doesn’t feel fair.
I swallow, picking at the pizza toppings. “My ex—Kurt,” I amend, remembering Wyatt knows all too well who he is, “used to tell me sometimes that I eat like a pig.”
God. I hadn’t meant to use his exact words, they just slipped out.
Wyatt lowers his slice, face twisted with fury. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
I duck my head in shame. “Uh, no. I’m not kidding.”
“Jesus.” Wyatt drags a napkin across his mouth, brows pulled low. “I wish I’d clocked him when I had the chance.”
Despite my embarrassment, a laugh squeaks out of me.
“I mean it, Poppy. There’s nothing wrong with the way you eat. It’s good to see a woman enjoying food.”
I fight a smile as I nibble at my pizza crust.
“Is that why you left culinary school?”
“Partly,” I admit, picking off a mushroom and chewing slowly. “He kind of… made me feel like there was something wrong with loving food as much as I do.” I pause, wondering how to phrase it. “I was kind of chubby as a girl, so I’ve always been aware of what I eat, how I look. But I’ve always loved food. And Kurt…”
“Made you feel like that was wrong?”
I nod. “He did. He was at business school, and convinced me it was better. That I was wasting my time at culinary school.”
Wyatt stares at me, and heat stains my cheeks.
“I know I was stupid for listening to him, but—”
“That’s not what I’m thinking,” Wyatt cuts in. “I’m thinking he’s the stupid one. Anyone can see you’re an amazing cook.”
I huff a laugh, glancing down at my hands. “Thanks,” I murmur, but I want to tell him the full story. I want him to know how it got to that point, so maybe he’ll understand. “Kurt and I were high school sweethearts, back in Indiana. We got together at sixteen, and were together until a little over a year ago. But he wasn’t always so awful. In school he was really sweet, and it was his idea to move to the city for college. I was thrilled when he asked me to come with him, and so excited to go to culinary school.”
Wyatt gazes at me as I speak, the pizza forgotten. I know it’s such a little thing, but having his full attention feels significant. Like he’s really listening.
“But as I made new friends at school,” I continue, “it was almost like…”
“He felt threatened?” Wyatt offers, and I nod.
“Yes, exactly. That’s when it started. The guy who had always been so sweet to me became a different person. In hindsight, there were red flags earlier, but this is when I first noticed it. He started chipping away at my self-esteem with off-hand comments about the way I looked, the things I liked, my new friends. Then he got his fancy new job and the manipulation got so much worse. I think maybe he felt insecure because he wasn’t moving up the corporate ladder as fast as he thought he should.”
“He said something to me about how he was going to make partner at his firm?” Wyatt says, and I roll my eyes.
“He’s not. He talks a big game, but he’s full of shit. He only got a job because his dad knows someone at the company. I think that’s always bugged him, and the only way he could make himself feel powerful was by tearing me down.”
“How?” Wyatt asks, a deep V stamped between his brows.
I think of all the words Bailey used to describe Kurt’s behavior, and list them off on my fingers. “Gaslighting me to make me question myself, stonewalling me after we had a fight, guilt-tripping me when I was busy doing anything that didn’t involve him, then love-bombing me to win me back. It became really confusing, because sometimes he would be amazing, and other times… he was like a different person.”
There’s more too—the “breadcrumbing,” as Bailey called it, where he’d give me just enough affection to keep me invested, and the triangulation, where he’d openly text other women in front of me, as if to keep me on my toes. I hadn’t known there were specific words for this type of manipulative behavior, but Bailey was like an expert. If it hadn’t been for her, I might never have understood the extent of how Kurt was mistreating me.
And I might never have escaped.
“I’m lucky I had Bailey,” I add quietly. “The situation with Kurt happened so slowly over time that it wasn’t obvious to me at first. You know that analogy about the frog that’s boiled slowly in the pot, and he doesn’t feel the water get hotter until it’s too late?”
Wyatt nods.
“It was like that. But Bailey saw Kurt for who he was right away, and once she started pointing out his bad behavior, I couldn’t unsee it. It wasn’t easy to leave, because he was all I’d known since high school, and he always knew how to reel me back in, but Bailey helped me find the strength. I’ll be forever grateful to her for that.”
“God.” Wyatt drags both hands down his face, processing my words. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”
“It wasn’t great, but… it made me stronger, you know?” I lift my left wrist to show him my tattoo. “I got this last year to remind me of my strength. Have you ever heard that saying, ‘no mud, no lotus’?”
Wyatt shakes his head.
“It means you have to go through the shit to get the good stuff.”
“That’s very wise,” he murmurs, eyes moving over my face. “And so true.”
I nod, reaching for another slice of pizza. “Come on.” I nudge him with my elbow. “It’s getting cold.”
He exhales long and slow, picking up his abandoned slice, chewing thoughtfully. “It’s hard to eat this after what you’ve been cooking,” he admits at last.
I slide him a smile. “Thanks, but you don’t have to say that.”
“I mean it.” He’s not smiling when he looks at me. “You’re so talented with food, Poppy, and it seems like such a waste that you’re not doing that, especially since you’re so obviously passionate about it.”
I look at the pizza in my hand. “It’s too late,” I say with a shrug, and his brow furrows.
“Too late? You’re, what, twenty-five? You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.” He swallows, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to stick my nose in. I know you’ve just started your new marketing business and that’s great.”
“It is great,” I agree, but what I don’t say is how hollow it felt to work on it all week without Bailey. How it was nice to get a little money, and do it on my own terms, but it’s not marketing I spend my time thinking about. It’s food. Especially since visiting Wyatt’s vegetable patch. There were so many delicious looking things there that I could work with, and I haven’t felt that inspired in a long time.
I’ve never felt that way about marketing.
“It’s not too late,” Wyatt repeats, polishing off another slice of pizza. “But you need to do what’s right for you. Whatever that is, Kurt shouldn’t influence you.”
Now that I agree with, even if it’s easier said than done.
Wyatt studies me with compassion. “I hope you know you deserve so much better than him.” There’s that fatherly tone again. Like when he stood up for me with Kurt. That’s what it was—he defended me like a father. And I’m grateful for him, too, just as I am with Bailey. All these people who want to make sure I’m safe and well.
“Thanks,” I murmur, adjusting the heating pad on my belly. “You deserve better, too.”
He scratches his chin in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“You deserve a relationship with Bailey that isn’t built on a lie.” This feels like a bold statement to make to Mr. Mathers, but I figure we’re well past the point of tiptoeing around each other. Besides, it’s true, and I’m not sure someone has ever told him that. “And you deserve to get married, if that’s what you want, too. Bailey will understand. Hell, I bet she’d be thrilled.”
He issues a faint laugh. “She probably would, but…” Wiping his hands on a napkin, he kicks his feet up on the coffee table and leans back. “Honestly, you’re supposed to get married when you’re young, then have kids. I’m forty-two and a single dad…” he trails off here, and I shake my head.
“No way. You do not get to tell me it’s not too late for me, then say it is for you.”
His gaze slides to me. “It’s not the same.”
“How is it different?”
“I’m seventeen years older than you, for one.” He watches as Sugar jumps into my lap, licking the pizza grease off my fingers.
“So? People get married in their forties all the time. Older, even. There’s no cut-off point. And as for having a kid already, there’s no way you’re alone in that.”
He’s quiet for a while, mulling this over. “I guess I feel like I screwed my whole life up, you know?” As if realizing the meaning of his words, he shakes his head. “Not with Bailey. I’m so glad to have her and I wouldn’t change that for anything, but it didn’t happen the way I wanted, obviously. I wanted a family, a wife… I didn’t want to miss the first twelve years of my kid’s life, for fuck’s sake. It happened all wrong.”
I gaze at him, at the way he picks listlessly at the sofa pillow, and my heart squeezes. This big, tough guy, who really just wants someone to love. Now I know what he meant when he told Marty that life can be cruel.
“It’s not too late, Wyatt.” I put a hand on his forearm, not caring that I shouldn’t. His skin is warm under my fingertips, and he swallows as he looks at it. “It’s never too late to be happy.” There’s more I want to say, like how he doesn’t let himself ride his motorcycle anymore, even though he clearly wants to, but I feel I’ve said enough for one night.
His amber eyes are sad when they meet mine, and he gently pulls his arm away from my touch.
“You know what will make this all better?” he asks, rising from the sofa.
I sigh, trying to ignore the way my fingertips still tingle from the heat of his skin, the way it feels a little like he’s pushed me away. I keep wanting more from him than he can give, more than I’m allowed, and it’s my own fault it hurts.
“What’s that?” I ask, forcing a bright smile onto my lips.
He pulls something from the freezer and, keeping his back to me, dishes whatever it is into bowls. Sugar nestles into my belly, clearly enjoying the heat from the heating pad, and it occurs to me I’ve hardly noticed my cramps since talking to Wyatt. Maybe that’s because the Advil and heating pad are doing their job, but I sense it’s more than that.
Wyatt appears in front of me, brandishing a bowl proudly. “Salted caramel ice cream.”
I take the bowl, scrutinizing him. How on earth did he know my favorite flavor of ice cream? Unless it’s simply a coincidence…
“I asked Bailey,” he says, sinking back down onto the sofa beside me. “Got it delivered with the pizza. I figured you could use a treat since you’re feeling crappy.”
I gaze at him over my bowl, my heart melting faster than ice cream on a hot day. He went out of his way to learn my favorite flavor of ice cream, just to cheer me up? Kurt would never in a million years have done something so thoughtful, but there’s really no comparison between him and Wyatt, is there? Kurt is a boy who has to manipulate people to get them to stay, whereas Wyatt is a man who knows exactly how to make a woman happy.
In more ways than one, I imagine.
But it’s not only a physical attraction I feel for him anymore. Yes, he’s hot as fuck, but he’s also the sweetest, most caring man I’ve met.
And he’ll never be mine.
“Thank you,” I say hoarsely, turning back to the TV. David’s face was frozen while we talked over dinner, and I feel the sudden, overwhelming urge to unpause the show and stop talking.
Because if Mr. Mathers says or does one more kind thing for me, there’s a very good chance I might fall in love with him.