Chapter 12
POPPY
Iwake from a dream I can’t quite remember, pulled from a deep, blissful sleep, my eyes fluttering open to a stream of bright light flooding in through the sheer curtains.
It takes me a moment to remember where I am, sitting bolt upright in a state of utter panic.
It’s only when I blink hard enough to see the ocean sparkling outside that it all comes rushing back to me.
Rubbing my gritty eyes, I scan the room, my lips curling up at the luxury surrounding me. I know my situation is hardly conventional, and possibly illegal in some states, but I feel so lucky just to be here, even if it is only temporary.
My phone shudders from somewhere, and I look around, trying to figure out where it is. It shudders again. And then again. And then a few more times.
I search through the tangled mess of bedsheets, finally finding the device buried under one of the three thousand pillows, my brows drawing together when I see the screen.
Why do I have over four hundred Instagram notifications?
Unlocking my phone, I scroll to the social media app I rarely ever use, and my eyes bug at the number of likes, comments, and new followers I have. I click on one of the notifications, sucking in a gasp and choking on it when I see the image on my screen.
It’s Brookes and me from last night. But it’s not the photo I thought he’d taken, the one with my fake ass, forced smile.
It’s one he took while he was blowing raspberries on my cheek.
He’s grinning, looking at the camera, his smiling lips pressed to my skin, and I’m laughing, my head thrown back, eyes closed and crinkled at the corners.
And as I study the picture, I honestly can’t recall a time I’ve ever looked so genuinely happy.
Tugging on my bottom lip, I read the caption that simply says HARD LAUNCH, and my eyes widen because the comments that follow are chaotic to say the least, ranging from people who appear to be happy for Brookes, people who want to see him show that kind of motivation back on the course, and people who apparently hate me and want me to die, one even mentioning that she hopes I get impaled by Brookes’ monster cock. Nice.
A text message pops up on the screen. Rodrigo. And I’m thankful to have something to take my mind off the horrible comments of people wishing me death by dick.
Rodrigo: Girl, way to hard launch.
I don’t really know what to say to that, so I just respond with a heart eyes emoji.
Rodrigo: So… are we affirmative on the monster cock theory?
Me: Rodrigo!
Rodrigo: Oh, you know I’m taking that a yes.
Rodrigo: Get it girl.
I roll my eyes and shake my head on a laugh because honestly, this man.
Rodrigo: By the way, Julie-Anne is on “stress” leave.
Me: OMG
Rodrigo: Kendall is going around basically telling this whole ass story about how you swooped in and stole Brookes from her.
Me: Lies!
Rodrigo: Oh girl, I know. This place is a telenovela in real time, I swear.
A phone call interrupts my conversation with Rodrigo, Brookes’ contact popping up on the screen, and I don’t know why, but nerves suddenly bubble deep in my tummy. My first instinct is that I’m in trouble and I don’t even know why—the price of being a chronic people pleaser, I guess.
“Hey.” I clear the morning rasp from my throat. “What’s up?”
“Switch your social media profiles to private.”
I rear back. “Well, good morning to you too, I guess,” I say with mock cheerfulness.
“Sorry. Good morning,” Brookes mutters.
I bite back a grin. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure half the internet now wants me dead. Death by monster co—” I snap my mouth shut when I realize exactly what I was about to say. “Socials to private. Got it.”
“Ignore them. I’ve turned off all comments,” Brookes says. “But people are assholes.”
“Speaking of assholes,” I begin. “Were you and Julie-Anne ever…”
“Who’s Julie-Anne?” he asks on a bored sigh.
“She’s a cart girl. Blonde. Huge boobs. Kind of… squeaky.”
“No idea who that is,” he says simply.
I snort. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
“I’ll be out all day, but I left a credit card and a few other things on the island counter,” Brookes continues, clearly not interested in discussing Julie-Anne, which only makes me smug as hell. “We have to attend a charity gala tonight. For the children’s hospital.”
My heart jumps up into the back of my throat. “Tonight?”
“Yes,” he says flatly. “You’ll need a dress, shoes, and all that… stuff.”
Easy for him to say. “You’re such a boy.”
“Yeah…” Brookes clears his throat. “I’ve gotta go.”
“Good chat.”
“Bye.”
I look down at the screen, shaking my head. He is so hard to read. Last night over dinner, he was being borderline nice. This morning, he’s back to the closed-off, gruff Brookes he’s always been on the course.
I shrug a shoulder and, scrolling back to my messages with Rodrigo, I grin like the cat that got the canary as I tap out my reply.
Me: I just asked Brookes and he doesn’t even know who Julie-Anne is.
Rodrigo: Because she’s a liar.
Me: I need a dress for a charity gala tonight. Where should I go?
Rodrigo: That depends… is Brookes buying?
Me: Yes.
Rodrigo: Bellamy’s, baby.
My eyes widen at that. Bellamy’s is a super high-end department store on Worth Avenue which is basically the Rodeo Drive of Florida.
Luxury, designer stores lining a pristine Palm Beach promenade, the kind of place where people like me can’t even afford to window shop.
But today I’m not Poppy Crawford in her rusted Ford Focus with less than eighty bucks in her checking account; today, I’m Poppy Crawford, girlfriend of Brookes Devereaux. I can do this.
The second I step foot inside Bellamy’s, I realize I was wrong. The way the shop assistants look at me, some doing wide-eyed double takes, like they can’t believe someone like me would have the sheer audacity to even consider walking in here. I can’t help but cower.
And sure, maybe I could have dressed up a little.
Maybe my jean cut-offs and tank top aren’t appropriate attire for a place like this, but that’s why I’m here.
I don’t currently own anything these people would consider appropriate.
Outside of working at Vista Palms, I live in jean cut-offs or leggings and tank tops. This is Florida, after all.
“Can I… help you?”
I startle, turning to see a beautiful woman dressed head to toe in crisp white linen, looking me up and down with a smile that doesn’t even come close to matching the look of utter contempt in her icy gray eyes.
I tuck a lock of my wavy, air-dried hair behind my ear, forcing a smile as I say, “I… I’m looking for a dress.”
“A dress.” The assistant’s eyebrows climb slightly higher as she asks, “What sort of… dress?” Her words smack with condescension, making me feel an inch tall.
I look around at the racks of garments. “Umm. Something… formal, I guess. I’m attending a charity gala.”
Her tight smile remains, her gaze shrewd as she looks me up and down again. “Size?”
I swallow hard, tugging at the hem of my slightly cropped tank top. “Sixteen.”
“I’m sorry, what?” She blinks.
“Sixteen,” I say again. Shrugging a shoulder, I add, “Fourteen, if it’s stretchy.”
The woman huffs a laugh, blinking at me before turning and looking out over the sprawling, sleek store. “Ladies, do we stock anything in a…” She huffs another laugh before continuing, “Sixteen?”
“Sixteen?” someone in the back practically hollers.
“Did you say six or sixteen?” someone else yells.
The sales assistant glances at me with another tight smile. “Sixteen.”
I shift uncomfortably on my feet, gripping the strap of my purse, my face flaming from the weight of all the stares I’m on the receiving end of.
I’ve never had an issue with my size. People have been calling me names ever since I was twelve years old, but I never paid it any mind.
I grew up believing that it was their issue, not mine.
I’m fat. There’s literally nothing wrong with it.
I’m healthy. And, in my opinion, I’m fine as hell.
I’ve always been confident with my appearance, despite the hang-ups of other people.
But right now, I’ve never felt more self-conscious.
The urge to curl in on myself like an armadillo and roll right out of the store is high.
“The biggest we have is a size twelve pant suit,” someone says after a moment.
“I’m sorry,” the woman in front of me says, entirely unapologetically. “I don’t think we can help you. You’re a little too… big for this store.”
“There’s a Macy’s out at Gardens Mall,” another person adds with a derisive scoff. “I think they have a plus-size section…”
I hold my chin up despite the heaviness I feel in my bones. And, with a smile, I nod. “Thank you,” I say under my breath, turning and hurrying back out of Bellamy’s, fully aware of the snickers echoing throughout the store as I exit.
It isn’t until I’m back in the safety of Brookes’ blacked-out Range Rover, hidden away from the judgey gaze of those nearby, that I allow my tears to fall.
I hate crying, especially over horrible women like the sales associates in Bellamy’s.
But I’m also only human, with human emotions that sometimes get the better of me.
Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I pull my phone out with trembling hands, not sure what to do. It’s almost midday. Oh my God, Brookes is going to fire me after my first day, I’m so sure.