Chapter 7
POPPY
As I follow the directions from Google Maps on my phone, I’m taken aback by the drastic change in scenery as I cross over the sound and onto the island.
Pristine streets lined with pretty palm trees that climb high up into the cerulean sky, sprawling mansions locked away behind fancy wrought iron fences, and lush, green gardens.
This is a whole other world than what I’m used to, and I am completely out of my depth.
I do not belong here. My rusted blue Ford Focus with its missing hubcap certainly doesn’t belong here.
When I’m forced to stop at a big set of gates, a security guard waving at me to wind my window down, my breath hitches in my chest because… am I trespassing? Oh God. Am I going to be thrown in jail?
“Hello,” I say with a slightly wavering smile as my window glides down. When it shudders and then gets stuck halfway, my smile turns into more of a grimace. “Sorry… it’s… broken.”
“Name?” the security guard practically barks at me.
“Oh, I’m Poppy.” I’m smile again.
He deadpans. “Name of the person you’re here to see.”
“Oh…” I laugh nervously, but when he just blinks at me, not seeing the funny side, I clear my throat and square my shoulders. “Brookes Devereaux.”
The security guard stares at me, one brow slowly arching and when he doesn’t say anything, I realize he doesn’t believe me. And why would he? I’m sure I’m not the first woman who’s tried to lie her way in to get close to the sports star. I’m probably not even the first woman today.
“I have a meeting with him.” I glance at the time on the clock in my dash. “In, like, three minutes…”
“Stay here.” The man turns, and I watch as he walks into the gatehouse and picks up a corded telephone, his dark, no-bullshit gaze trained on me the entire time like I’m about to step on the gas and plough my Ford Focus straight through the three-inch-thick steel bars.
A few seconds later, I’m startled by the gates as they creak and groan, opening slowly.
Glancing at the man, he waves a hand, indicating for me to drive and, at the risk of him changing his mind, I don’t hesitate, continuing in through the gates and gasping at the scene spread out in front of me.
We are certainly not in Kansas City anymore, Poppy…
When I pull into the open gates of the address Brookes texted me earlier this morning, I’m not sure what to think as I navigate the driveway lined with perfectly manicured hedges and trees before coming to a stop outside a contemporary glass and concrete structure that looks more like some fancy modern art gallery than someone’s house.
A white Lamborghini SUV sits parked in the circular drive, a sporty black Porsche parked behind it and, quite frankly, I’m embarrassed to pull up to a stop anywhere near the display of luxury vehicles.
But I do. I’m in no position to waste time; I start my shift at the club in an hour.
I just hope my car doesn’t leak oil all over the pristine white concrete.
With a deep, fortifying breath, I smooth my hair and give myself a mental pep talk my mind doesn’t even listen to before hopping out of my shit box and walking in the direction of what I assume is the front door; with these kinds of new architectural-style home designs, it’s hard to tell.
I tug at the hem of my Vista Palms polo shirt, suddenly more self-conscious than I’ve ever felt before, which I hate.
This is so not me. But, before I can talk myself out of it and run back to my car, I knock on the huge oak door and wait, nervously wringing my hands behind my back.
After a few long beats, the door edges open, but instead of Brookes, I’m met with an unfamiliar man dressed like he stepped straight out of the nineteen fifties, slicked back hair, a smarmy smile, predatory eyes.
I’ve never met this man before, but he’s almost a carbon copy of the men I deal with on the course daily.
“You must be Poppy.” The man looks me up and down, blatant in his assessment. “Come on in.”
“Um, thanks.” I step over the threshold, trying to ignore the knot that balls in the pit of my stomach.
“I’m Blake Mestroni.” He holds out a hand. “Brookes’ agent.”
“Poppy… Crawford.” Tentatively, I shake his proffered hand, my gaze flitting about nervously, taking in the inside of the house. It’s all polished concrete, sleek stone and glass, and it screams expensive. Expensive but… sad, almost. No life whatsoever.
“Come on in, Poppy.” Blake turns and leads me down a wide corridor lined with very expensive-looking framed art that, at first glance, makes no sense to me whatsoever.
We come to an opening and I’m momentarily rendered speechless by the view. To the left is a massive kitchen, to the right a sprawling living area, but straight ahead, a wall of glass that looks out over the crystal-blue water of the South Atlantic Ocean.
“Wow,” I say under my breath.
“You must be Poppy.”
Startling, I spin around, noticing a man perched at the massive island counter, dressed casually in a t-shirt and shorts. Hopping up, he rushes toward me, holding his hand out.
“I’m Cam, Brookes’ manager.”
Cam smiles, and I shake his hand, the tension in my shoulders easing some from his presence.
He looks about the same age as Blake, but where Blake looks like the kind of man who has multiple pending sexual discrimination cases against him, Cam looks kind.
Nice, almost; his smile appears to be genuine, at least.
“These are fucking shit!”
I jump, whipping around at the sound of the deep voice that booms behind me, balking when I notice the figure filling the wide doorway, wrestling with what appears to be a shirt stuck over his head.
Brookes. Naturally, my eyes rove downwards, taking in his body, because holy crap.
The man is stacked in all the right places; smooth skin pulling tight over taught muscles, and that V that dips down into a pair of little athletic shorts that leave little to the imagine. Ten out of ten. No notes.
“I can’t even… get this… fuckin’ thing… off!” Brookes groans, thrashing side to side.
“Oh my God,” Cam mutters, stepping around me and swooping in like a father helping a toddler on the verge of tantrum.
I glance sideways to find Blake pinching the bridge of his nose, shaking his head to himself.
“Quit fighting it!” Cam hisses.
“I’m trying!” Brookes cries, incredulous.
When Cam successfully manages to unleash Brookes from the confines of his shirt, Brookes’ pale blue eyes go wide when they find me standing here and despite his flushed cheeks, his hair that’s sticking up in every direction, and his breathlessness, he casually places his hands on his narrow hips and juts his chin at me like he wasn’t just fighting for his life, trapped by a shirt. “What’s up, Pops?”
Pops? I press my lips together in a semblance of a smile and avert my eyes from where they’ve been outright ogling his perfect nipples.
“Tell the designer that shirt is a goddamn death trap!” Brookes points at the shirt still in Cam’s hands before walking past me and into the kitchen.
I stand awkwardly rooted to the floor, not sure what to do as the three men go about their business.
Brookes opens the door to the built-in refrigerator; Blake steps into the living area to take a call on his cell; and Cam moves back to where his laptop is set up on the island, tapping something into it.
“Did one of you assholes have the last grape Gatorade?” Brookes yells from where he’s buried deep in the fridge.
Cam turns his head, spearing Blake, who is currently chugging back a grape Gatorade while obliviously on his phone and, honestly, I can’t help but feel like I’m stuck in some frat house right about now.
I make a point of clearing my throat loud enough so that at least Cam acknowledges me.
With a tentative smile, I take a step toward him, nervously tucking my hair behind my ear as I say, “I’m kind of… in a hurry.” I indicate the Vista Palms logo on my polo shirt for effect.
“Brookes, come on!” Cam says, his tone taking on an authoritative tone.
Brookes slams the fridge door shut and hurries over like he’s in trouble, his blue gaze flitting from Cam to me and back again. “What’s up?”
Ignoring Brookes, Cam smiles at me and slides a stack of papers across the shiny travertine benchtop toward me. Confused, I look down to see a whole lot of words, my brain racking itself in an attempt to try to make sense of the legal gibberish.
“It’s a standard Non-Disclosure Agreement,” Cam explains. “It protects Brookes as well as you. You can take it home and have your lawyer read over it.”
My lawyer? Yeah. Okay. I barely refrain from rolling my eyes as I skim over the six-page document like it’s no big deal.
“And this is the contract which stipulates the terms, how you’ll be remunerated, any claw backs, etcetera, etcetera.” He slides across another document, but the first thing I see is a dollar figure, and I’m forced to grip the countertop to stop my legs from giving way.
“Everything okay?” Cam asks.
I lift my head, noticing the worried look in his eyes, the crease wedged between his brow.
“I told you it wasn’t enough…” Brookes mutters from the corner of his mouth.
“Um, no…” I shake my head, my voice tight and breathless. Forcing a smile, I shrug a shoulder, trying so damn hard to act nonchalant while simultaneously trying not to hyperventilate. I’ve never seen so much money in my life. “No, this is… this is fine.”
“You’ll get half when you sign, and then the balance when the contract comes to an end.”
I swallow hard. Holy shit. Not only will I be able to find a place to rent on my own, far away from Simon, but I’ll finally be able to buy the acrylic cutter I’ve been wanting to get for so long. Play it cool, Poppy. Do not cry.
“You’ll receive a credit card for incidentals such as clothing you might need for an event, or…” Cam shakes his head, seemingly searching for words. “Shoes. Nails. Hair… whatever else women spend money on.”
“Ozempic!”
I snap my head in the direction of the living room where Blake is relaxed, sitting back on the cushy white sectional tapping something into his phone with one hand, the Gatorade bottle casually resting in his other hand, and my brow furrows as I try to figure out if he actually just said that. To me. Out loud.
Blake slowly lifts his head, and when he realizes not only I, but both Brookes and Cam are gaping at him, he shrugs a shoulder. “What? Women love that shit.”
Biting hard on the inside of my cheek, I turn back to Brookes and Cam to find Brookes’ jaw ticking as he glares across at Blake, Cam shaking his head to himself.
“Anyway,” I say with an indignant huff because what a dick, “are we done, because I really need to get to work.”
Brookes and Cam turn back to me.
“Car,” Brookes murmurs, nudging Cam’s shoulder.
“Oh, and you’ll get the keys to Brookes’ Range Rover to drive while you’re… under contract,” Cam says, looking down at his laptop.
“I… have a car?” I say more like a question rather than a statement because what?
“No, you have a shit box,” Brookes mutters with a derisive snort.
And, sure, I’m fully aware my car is a shit box. I call it a shit box. But it’s my shit box.
“What Brookes is trying to say,” Cam grits out, smacking Brookes’ stomach hard enough to make him grunt, “is you’ll need a… um… a slightly more… reliable mode of transport.”
“One that will actually fit more than my left leg,” Brookes adds.
“Fine,” I say with a roll of my eyes, picking up the pen that sits on the counter. “Okay, where do you want me to sign?”
“Oh, you… you don’t want your legal team to go over it?” Cam asks, his brow furrowing with concern more than confusion.
“No, it all looks fine to me.” I wave a dismissive hand.
“Besides, if it all goes tits up and you try to sue me, that shit box out there is literally all I own, so go nuts.” I shrug, signing my name where it asks before sliding the completed agreement back across the counter to Cam with a saccharine smile.
“Okay, so when will you be moving in, because I need to make sure Remi has the guest room ready.”
I blink at Brookes, wondering for a moment if a) he’s talking to me and, if so, b) whether I just heard him correctly. “I’m sorry, what?”
“When will you be moving your stuff in? So I can make sure your room is ready,” he says, slowly, like I’m an idiot, folding his ropey tattooed arms across his broad and very much still naked chest.
My eyebrows knit together. “Move in?”
Brookes huffs, shaking his head to himself.
“It’s part of the terms, Poppy,” Cam says gently, tapping a pen against the documents I literally just signed. “You’re to live here in the house while under contract.”
Oh. Shit.