Chapter 21
21
Laird
Poppy’s drunk . . .
On cheap wine. On love. On me.
I’ve seen it before with fans and their goo-goo eyes, but I love it this time because I’m drunk on her as well—just not from alcohol. She didn’t have to tell me she loves me for me to know it. She’s shown in every kiss and when she shares her stories, her past, and her fears.
She worries if I’m being fed properly, though she is a chef, and I guess we still need to figure out that contract and financial compensation.
I’m fucking in love with her all over again. But this version is different in ways I can’t explain. She’s not quite as spontaneous but still has a wild side that comes out, like now, how she’s shaking her ass at the jukebox.
She’s still the same incredible woman but has lived a life that’s drawn me even more into her orbit. Experience and pain can reshape people, so I wouldn’t wish it upon the love of my life. But I can see the change in her and hear it in her words. Every scar and the healing that came after has made her more beautiful. Stronger.
Giddy to the point of distraction, she broke out in a fit of laughter twice. Her happiness is too much to contain. That she feels that level of exuberance from me telling her I love her, damn, I can only imagine how she’ll react when she finally remembers our time in Austin.
I finish my beer and watch my personal distraction work her way back over to the table. “I’m starved,” she says, her hands landing on the table as she curves her body into the booth.
Considering we just ordered like ten minutes ago, I’m thinking we have a little wait since the place is packed. “It should be out soon.”
The server returns with another beer for me. She’s extra attentive tonight, flashing her name tag until I say her name—Lori. Although Poppy told her we were together the last time we came to the restaurant, I think she’s suspicious. Ironic since we weren’t then, but we are now. This mess of a drunk is all mine.
Lori asks, “Would you like pretzels for your friend?”
I look at Poppy, who’s cocked her head sideways at the server. I say, “Pretzels will be good.” She turns on her heels, leaving me with Poppy glaring at me. Raising my hands in surrender, I laugh. “You need food.”
“She wants you.”
“Most women do.”
Poppy’s jaw drops, and then she laughs. “Yeah, but you want me.” Leaning forward across the table, she whispers, “Because you love me.”
“I do.” The phrase doesn’t feel as foreign as it should, and it didn’t even anger me to say it.
Holding a finger in the air, she asks, “Did you know— ”
“Here you go,” the server says, sliding a metal bowl of pretzels toward Poppy. She makes the mistake of touching my shoulder. I have to admit she’s a little handsy.
That finger Poppy was holding swings her way. “I see your eyes on my guy, but he’s taken, so you need to find another . . .” She waves her arm out, scanning the joint. “One of them.”
Lori crosses her arms over her chest, unamused. “Oh really?”
Poppy is having a good time, though I wonder if it’s too good of a time. I wonder if I should stop her before this gets out of hand. “Yes, really. He may be my boss—”
“Your boss, huh?” Lori gets an injection of hope.
Oh shit. I’d get Poppy out of here, but her jealous streak entertains me.
Poppy says, “A boss I have lots of sex with, like overtime pay sex. It’s that good.”
“You’re a call girl?” Lori’s eyes dart to me. “Um, I’m not into this.”
“Me either,” I say, needing to end this. “This is getting out of hand. She’s not a call girl. She’s a chef. I am her boss, but—”
“We are having sex.” Poppy raises her chin as if she’s checkmated.
Reaching over, I cover her arm with my hand as a hint. “We don’t need to continue this conversation.” Not a hint at all.
Lori is already backing away. “I don’t want to be involved in your kinkery. This is a small town, buster. You can keep your big-city lifestyle in the city of devils.” When she turns her back to us, she mumbles, “I hate out-of-towners.”
“That didn’t go well.” As soon as we’re alone, I add, “ You’re getting rumors started when I’d prefer to keep a low profile in Deer Lake.”
“What?” she asks with doe-eyed innocence. “If telling the truth gets the rumor mill spinning—”
“Babe, we don’t want to do that.” Why do I feel like the grin on my face is undermining the message?
It all started in the truck. I thought Poppy was happy, but maybe she was horny?
I’ve never said no to a blow job before, but with spots of ice to avoid, I thought it was best for safety measures—hers and mine. The level of threat to my dick was exponential, so I erred on the side of caution. Now I’m wondering if I should have pulled over, and we wouldn’t have made it to Maggie’s to discuss our sex life with the whole of this small town because we all know gossip around small towns travels fast.
I’m also beginning to wonder if that Lackmont Valley house wine is moonshine in disguise.
One note comes blaring from the jukebox, and I know what it is. Three notes have her clapping her hands excitedly. “My song is finally on.”
My song, to be specific.
Requesting my music in public is not something I do. It’s something I avoid. I never asked her not to, but I didn’t think I had to when I said to keep things on the down low.
So let me get this straight. First, she gets into it with the server. Second, she blares a Faris Wheel song through the restaurant and the bar area. I can hardly wait to see where the night leads us.
It’s hard to be mad at her when she’s so fucking stunning, and I’m the root cause of it. I get up and bump her over on the pleather booth. Wrapping my arm around her shoulders, I sit in pride that drunk or sober, Poppy’s my girl. And apparently a big fan of me and the band. “You know how I asked to keep a low profile here?”
“Yes.” She takes another sip of wine. “And I ignored that because it’s more fun to break the rules than to play by them?”
I bring her head closer and kiss her on the temple. “You’re trouble, Miss Stanfield, and I fucking love you for it.”
She angles toward me, her foot crossing my ankle when she stakes claims of her own with a leg draped over mine. She looks me in the eyes and says, “I love you, too.”
The car was towed.
I don’t know why it bothers me, but I think it has to do with cutting our alone time short. I know it is.
Sipping a whiskey by the fire, I watch as the flames flicker—the blue edges and the orange burn brighter. I’ve been left with my thoughts as Poppy changes into something more comfortable. I’m hoping it’s nothing but her birthday suit. I already miss being inside her.
A guitar appears. My guitar, out of the case, held next to me.
“Will you play for me?” she asks, shifting the guitar so I can see her naked body. Tease.
I grin, setting my glass down on the table, and then shift the guitar back where she held it, waving my arms on the sides of its curvature. “The guitar is inviting, but you’re sexier.”
“Please.”
“I love it when you beg. Please make love to you? Absolutely. You don’t have to ask me twice.” I start to stand, but she pushes the acoustic closer, and I flop back on the couch and take it. “I’m thinking you want me to play for you,” I say, trying to be funny.
“I’m glad you got the unsubtle hint. Play for me, Laird.” She grabs a discarded blanket from the chair and curls up on the couch next to me. “Just one song only for me.”
Looking back over my shoulder, I catch her eyes. “It’s not that I don’t play. I play the guitar all the time. It’s still one of my biggest outlets, along with surfing. But . . .” Should I confess my fears? She shared hers, so is this only fair?
“But what?”
There’s a reason I didn’t want her to know I was in a band. “I don’t want you to see me differently. The fame is nonsense. The money is . . . it’s whatever.”
“The music is what matters, Laird.” She reaches forward to rub my shoulder. “You don’t have to play if you don’t want to. I won’t be upset.”
I strum, still glancing back at her. The drunken delight she wore on her face at Maggie’s has changed. Her eyes are hooded, and her smile is softer, one that I have a feeling most will never see. It’s the one she smiles when looking at me. I reach over and tap her nose because she’s irresistible, but then start playing a song this time. “I’ll leave the singing to Nikki.”
“You sing with her, sometimes even duets.”
“Why do you have to call me out like that?” I give her a wink and a click of my tongue.
“What can I say? I’m a fan.”
Turning back to watch my fingers move across the strings, I hide my grin from her. She’s a fan. I fucking love it. I glance back. “I’m a fan of yours as well.” I kick into the chorus and sing a few lines about sunsets over San Diego and getting laid at the beach on Coronado. “Nikki still laughs every time I sing those lines. She doesn’t know they’re based on real-life experiences.”
“Trying to make me jealous again?”
I keep singing, improvising as I go along, “If by jealous you mean telling all of Maggie’s that I was a great lay? Then yes, that’s what I’m doing.”
“Those weren’t my words.”
“What did you say, then?”
“I’ll have the cheeseburger with extra pickles.”
“Same thing.” I keep playing until she’s laughing so hard she falls back.
After a quick wipe of tears from laughter, she says, “If this is how it’s going to be every time we go out, then I might have to keep you at home.”
Home. It’s not lost on me. Home with her sounds like something I want to happen. “I’m yours. I’ll give you anything you want, baby.”
Setting the guitar down, I lean over to kiss her, but as always with her, one thing leads to another. She stops suddenly, her eyes focused on mine, and grabs my shoulders. Her mouth falls open, and she takes a breath. “Say that again.”
“What? I’m yours. Is it not obvious?” I chuckle.
Sounding serious, she says, “No, the other part.”
“I’ll give you anything you want?”
“That.” She scoots forward on the couch, and tears overwhelm her. “I just had a memory.”