20. Poppy
20
Poppy
“ S o, I kind of forgot,” I say, as I buckle myself into my seat on board our flight to Sacramento, “but I’m not a great flier.”
Wyatt waves this away. “You’ll be fine.” He shoves his bag into the overhead compartment, then wedges himself into the seat beside me, and it reminds me what a big guy he is when I see his knees jammed into the back of the row in front.
I grimace. “I should have gotten us better seats.” Though, in all fairness, I got the best seats I could afford at the last minute.
He places his hand on my arm. “These seats are perfect.” I direct a wry smile to his cramped legs, and he laughs. “I’m used to it.” Then he withdraws his hand, and I have to fight the urge to ask him to put it back. To comfort me through the upcoming ordeal.
I don’t know how I forgot what a terrible flier I am. I guess since I haven’t been on a plane in years, it was easy to forget. That, and I was so eager to do this for Wyatt that I let myself overlook it.
But now, as the crew announces what we’ll need to do in the event of an emergency, my gut roils with nerves. I mean, it’s not a great start is it, focusing on the absolute worst-case scenario? Why not spend a little time riffing on how wonderful our destination is first to ease us into it?
You’ll be fine .
I repeat Wyatt’s words, but they don’t stick. To distract myself, I fiddle with the in-flight magazine, flipping aimlessly through the pages, but by the time we’re taxiing down the runway, I can hardly breathe.
We’re going to die. I know we are. I’m going to die without telling Bailey about the business. Without getting to kiss Wyatt.
That’s what stings the most, actually.
This past week, I’ve focused on getting ready to test the catering idea with his crew next week, and even though I’m still livid at what Kurt did, I refuse to let it stop me.
I’ve looked into commercial kitchens, and while there’s nothing I can afford right now, that hasn’t killed my hope. In fact, it’s easy to remain positive with Wyatt’s encouragement, especially when he pitched the idea to his team a few days ago. Over half the guys are on board—I think sending samples of my cookies really helped—and Wyatt spent two nights helping me plan menus he thinks they’ll like.
The more time we spend together, the more I wonder if he feels the same as I do. I mean, look at the way he cared for me when I had my period cramps, the way he got so angry when I told him about Kurt ruining my job, the way he came up with the perfect solution to help me.
But it’s more than those things. That’s what any friend would do, what any father would do, which is initially what I thought was going on—that he was just being fatherly and protective. But that doesn’t explain the way the atmosphere changed when he rubbed my feet, the way he held me tight when I told him about the plane tickets to this awards show. It’s hard to put my finger on what, exactly, it is, but there’s something. Something that tells me he feels this too.
And now I’m going to die, without ever getting a chance to find out.
I search through the back of the seat in front of me, looking for something else to distract me. Anything to stop me from blurting my feelings to Wyatt in a moment of panic.
He notices my agitation, turning to me with concern. “Wow, you really weren’t kidding.”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, trying to suck in a deep breath. Heat washes over my face, adding embarrassment to the mix. As if my spiraling anxiety wasn’t enough.
“Hey, Poppy. It’s fine.” Wyatt’s large, warm hand slides into mine, and the sensation is enough to capture my attention. The roughness of his palm against mine, calloused and worn from hours of working with his hands. The very fact that he’s holding my hand. Fuck .
And somehow, my pulse slows.
I look at him, studying the amber of his eyes, those beautiful eyelashes of his. I’ve never been this close to him, close enough to see the gold flecks in his irises, to study the gray sprinkled through his dark beard, to really notice the creases beside his eyes as he regards me with care. I’m close enough to peek below the collar of his T-shirt, where I can see the beginning of the tattoo on his chest, the hint of dark hair I know is there from that time I rubbed Deep Heat into his back. Close enough to smell the earthy, rich scent of his cologne, that note of sage, the faintest intoxicating trace of his sweat.
It’s not until he squeezes my hand that I notice we’re in the air. He distracted me enough to miss takeoff, and I’m so grateful I want to lean forward and press my lips to his, to see if they’re really as soft as they look, nestled in that beard.
Hell, I want to do a lot more than that.
“You’re safe with me,” he murmurs.
A tiny laugh huffs from me. As if he could actually stop the plane from going down. As if he could actually protect me from all the bad things in the world, from the pain that’s a natural part of life, pain I’ll inevitably have to face one day.
But there’s also a rightness to his words. I do feel safe with him—safer than I’ve felt with anyone. There’s something about his presence that makes my nervous system calm, makes me feel like I can breathe. And I realize that it doesn’t matter where I am, if he’s there, I’ll be okay. Bad things can still happen—like Kurt showing up at our house, or getting me fired from my job—but with Wyatt, I have a soft place to land. With him, I feel protected.
“Thank you, Wyatt.” His nostrils flare as I say his name. “You always make me feel…” My words die as lightning flashes in his eyes, his gaze holding mine as if daring me to tell him the truth.
And what is the truth? He makes me feel safe, yes, but it’s more than that. He makes me believe my cooking is good. That it matters that I do it. He makes me feel good about who I am, in a way that no man ever has.
And that’s before we even get to the physical. The way he makes me feel hot. Restless. Horny. And so fucking desperate for him to kiss me.
I look down at his hand, still gripping mine. Electricity dances, crackling and alive between us. He must be able to feel this, surely? He must know what it does to me when his skin meets mine, the way it makes every nerve ending in my body tingle, lighting me up with need.
When I glance back at him, there’s no mistaking it. His eyes are piercing, simmering with desire, and heat curls through me.
“Safe,” I finally whisper.
He looks like he’s going to turn away, and I’m desperate to draw this moment out, to make it last. I stroke a finger on the inside of his wrist, over a tattoo of a butterfly, provoking a visible, visceral reaction. His pupils dilate, his breath falters, and I watch as he swallows hard, shifting in his seat.
I knew it. He feels what I feel.
I stroke the spot again, watching for his reaction, but with an agonized expression, he pulls his hand away.
Say it , I beg silently. Say you feel this, too .
When he shoves his AirPods into his ears, I know the moment is over. Of course he won’t say it. I’m his daughter’s best friend, for fuck’s sake. He’d never do anything to make me uncomfortable, and he’d never want to hurt Bailey. I don’t want to hurt her either.
But I also can’t deny I have feelings for her dad that I’ve never had for anyone.
The house is un-freaking-believable. It’s a massive five-bedroom home with four bathrooms, a gym, a pool, a movie room, and a view across the vineyards of Napa Valley. When our Uber pulls up, the sun is already high in the sky, the air hot and thick, and I pause on the paved driveway, taking in the terracotta stucco exterior, the red tile roof, and the wrought-iron railings.
Bailey and Dean aren’t there when we arrive, but we have instructions to get the key from a lockbox and let ourselves in. The interior is like something out of a magazine, with cream-colored walls, high ceilings, and enormous windows framing the sweeping view of the vineyards. We find our way to the kitchen, which boasts an eight-burner stove, a separate wine fridge, and black marble countertops, and Wyatt and I glance at each other, wide-eyed.
“Wow,” I breathe.
“Very nice,” he agrees.
My phone buzzes with a text, and I pull it out to check. It’s Daisy, sending a picture of her and Sugar snuggled on the sofa. Wyatt was right. She was shocked to learn what happened with Dave, and told me how disappointed she was that we wouldn’t be working together anymore. We’ve made plans to catch up when I’m back in the city, and she offered to watch Sugar while we were out of town.
I show the picture to Wyatt, who grins, then I slide the phone away and turn my attention back to the house. There’s a guest book on the counter with instructions for how to operate things like the hot tub—there’s a hot tub?—and what to enjoy in the local area, but what really catches my eye, in the scorching August heat, is the glimmering blue water of the pool through the glass doors.
“Do you think we could swim while we wait for the others?” I ask hopefully, and Wyatt shrugs.
“I don’t see why not.”
We grab our bags, heading to our rooms so we can change. Along the hall we find multiple large bedrooms, each with their own bathroom, and we separate to change into our bathing suits. I’m so excited by the huge four-poster bed and claw-foot tub that I don’t even consider how much more exciting it will be to see Wyatt in his swimming trunks until we’re out by the pool.
And suddenly, the view over the valley pales to nothing. Not when I have Wyatt here, his complexion golden, nipple piercing glinting in the sun, ink covering the contours of his muscles like a map to his soul. Every tattoo has meaning, I’m sure, and I want to know them all.
Instead, I settle for removing the wrap around my hips and lowering myself onto a pool lounger. I’m in my favorite swimsuit: a shimmering emerald-green two-piece with white ruffles along the hem. It’s both cute and sexy, at least I think so, but what I really want to know is what Mr. Mathers thinks.
His gaze flashes on me, then away, as he pretends to study the pool. Or maybe he actually is studying it, I don’t know. It’s beautiful out here, the pool area paved with large slabs of stone, lavender bushes in planters beside us. They hum with bees, their flowers fragrant.
I force myself to focus on them while applying sunscreen to my face and body. Being a natural redhead, my skin burns easily, and as I rub the sunscreen over my legs, I wonder if I can use that to my advantage.
“Wyatt?” I ask, shielding my eyes from the sun so I can see him properly. He stands at the edge of the pool, hands on his hips, that massive tree tattoo spreading across his back. I want to get up and touch the leaves, feel the way they dip over the muscles and tendons under his skin, like I did when I massaged his sore back. I did not make the most of touching him when I had the chance.
He glances over at me, shielding his eyes, too. “Yeah?” he chokes out.
“Would you mind…” I hold out the sunscreen and motion to my shoulders. “I can’t quite reach.”
He stares at me, unmoving.
Ah, maybe I’m pushing him too much. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable.
I shake my head, setting the sunscreen on the table beside the lounger. “Don’t worry.” As long as I don’t turn over, I’ll be fine.
Wyatt exhales long and hard, then strides over, picking up the bottle. “You’ll burn in this sun,” he admonishes, and in that moment he really does sound like a father. “Turn around.”
I wriggle around on the lounger so my back is to him, and he lowers himself behind me. The sunscreen makes a squelching sound as he squirts it into his palm. Then there’s a long pause where nothing happens. I sweep my hair over one shoulder and glance back to find him staring at my back, his jaw locked. I’m about to ask if he’s okay, when his hand meets my shoulder. It’s nothing at first, just the gentle movement of his fingertips as they massage sunscreen into my back. His movements are stiff and awkward—mechanical, almost. Like he’s trying to touch me without touching me.
But something happens when his hands move lower. He lets out a long-held breath and his hand melts into my skin, cupping the curve of my waist. There’s something about feeling the warmth of his palm spread over me that forces me to swallow a moan. When he shuffles closer, and his breath fans over the back of my neck, the heat that’s simmered in my belly for hours bursts into flame.
Then his hand leaves my skin, and I almost shiver, despite the heat. It can’t be over. I need more.
“All done,” he says, in a voice so low and rough I almost don’t recognize it. Shit, he’s as turned on as I am.
“Uh,” I begin, grasping for something to say that will keep him touching me. “Could you…”
I swing my legs under me and shuffle down on the lounger, so I’m lying on my stomach. The bottom half of my bikini is a G-string that exposes my ass, and his eyes trace the curve of my backside. I fight the urge to grin triumphantly.
“Would you do the back of my legs, too?” I’m playing with fire, I know that. I have a much more modest bathing suit I could have worn, but I chose this one intentionally.
Wyatt freezes beside me, his reluctance to take this further clear, but I can feel something else. Heat, rolling off him in waves. The way he’s pulsing with energy that needs to discharge somewhere, somehow.
He rises from the lounger, and just when I think he’s about to walk away, he lowers himself to kneel on the stone beside me. The sunscreen squelches again, and his warm hands meet the backs of my thighs.
Holy shit.
He’s using both hands now, one on each thigh, and he’s not kidding around—fingers firm on my flesh, thumbs sweeping up my inner thighs. I can’t help myself—I lift my ass ever so slightly, urging him higher. His hands follow, as if they’ve got a mind of their own.
“Like that?” he rasps, and before I can stop it, a whimper slips from my mouth. I cringe, expecting him to stop, but it seems to encourage him. His thumbs sweep higher, closer to the spot I’m aching for him to touch, the spot that’s already wet despite me having been nowhere near the pool.
“Poppy?” he says, as if seeking permission, and I nod.
“Yes. I need it… I need it there.” I think we both know I’m not talking about the sunscreen at this point.
He grunts, thumbs sweeping higher still, and just when I think he’s about to brush my clit, he swerves away, massaging up toward my hips. Disappointment flickers briefly in my chest, until I feel his thumbs softly caress my bare ass cheeks.
“Here?” he asks roughly, checking again.
“Yes,” I pant. God, touch me everywhere .
Again his thumbs slide across my skin, kneading the flesh of my ass. My breath shudders out and he shuffles closer, until he’s pressed into my side. Something hard digs into my hip, and when I realize what it is, I moan, which only urges his hands on.
Holy hell. Mr. Mathers is touching my ass, and I’m so wet and horny I might just jump his fucking bones. My thighs press together, seeking friction, and I glance at him. His eyes lock with mine, glinting with heat, and as I’m about to sit up and kiss him, a sound from the house makes us both freeze.
“Hey, guys!” Bailey calls from the doorway.
Wyatt’s hands leave my skin in a flash. I roll away, almost falling off the lounger. My pulse scatters, and I whip my wrap over myself, sitting up awkwardly.
“Hi!” I say in a sing-song tone that hopefully covers my clanging heart. “You made it!”
“Hey, kiddo.” Wyatt’s voice is strangled, and he clears his throat.
Bailey pushes her sunglasses up her nose, staring out the door. My stomach capsizes.
Fuck. Did she see that? Honestly, what was I thinking, asking her dad to rub sunscreen on me? Pushing him like that? I don’t dare look at Wyatt, too afraid to see the expression on his face.
But the view distracts Bailey. “Isn’t this place to die for?” she asks, motioning to the valley beyond, oblivious to any tension in our corner.
Relief floods my chest, and I rise from the lounger, pulling my wrap tight around me. “It’s amazing.” I cross the patio and pull Bailey into a tight hug. Tears press at my eyes, but I quickly blink them away. “It’s so good to see you.”
“You too.” She squeezes me tight, then studies my face when we part. “Are you okay? You look weird.”
“Just…” I shake my head. “The flight. I forgot what a bad flier I am.”
She gives a sympathetic nod. “Right. How was it?”
Without my permission, my gaze slides to Wyatt. We lock eyes for a moment, then he looks away.
“It was fine in the end and I’m glad we’re here.”
Bailey grins, shoving her sunglasses into her hair. “Me too. Dean’s putting our bags away. I’ll go change, then we’ll join you by the pool.”
I watch my friend head back inside, leaving me alone again with Wyatt. Her father . My gut twists like a rag as I walk across to him. He’s sitting on a lounger, staring out at the vineyard, his jaw hard. I can tell instantly he regrets what happened, and guilt swoops through me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, and Wyatt’s head snaps around.
“Don’t.”
I grimace, sinking onto a lounger, and he shakes his head.
“Don’t apologize when you’ve done nothing wrong.” He sags with shame. “I’m the one who should be sorry.”
I glance back over my shoulder, checking we’re still alone. “You haven’t done anything wrong either,” I point out.
He drags his hands down his face, exhaling heavily.
“I mean it, Wyatt. I wanted…” I swallow. “I want…”
Bailey’s laughter drifts closer to the door, and he sighs. “Let’s forget about it, okay?”
I watch my friend saunter out to the pool, boyfriend at her heels, and my heart sinks, because I don’t want to forget it. I want the opposite.
But that’s not why we’re here. I’m here to see my friend, Wyatt’s here to get his award and see his daughter. And I don’t want to ruin either with my behavior.
So I nod, painting on a bright smile. I toss my wrap aside and dive into the pool, pretending I don’t feel Wyatt’s gaze on me as I swim. Pretending I don’t wish we hadn’t been interrupted.