Chapter 21
brOOKES
Poppy: What the hell is this?
Inarrow my eyes to get a better look at the message on my screen, my phone hidden out of sight, beneath the shield of the tabletop. When I see the photo of the box almost as big as she is, sitting in the middle of our suite back at the hotel, I can’t help but bite back a grin.
Me: Looks like a box.
Poppy: Did you order this??
Me: I don’t know. Maybe…
Poppy: Brookes! These things are like a thousand bucks!
That brand specifically, in that model, having it shipped same day cost me almost four grand. But I won’t tell her that. She’s too adorably clueless.
Me: Maybe you should just quit bitching and use it.
Poppy: Brookes, this is way too much!
“Amazing comeback today, Brookes!”
I snap my head up from my phone, taken aback to see all eyes in the room focused on me, remembering that I’m currently in the middle of a press conference after coming back from the bottom of the board and finishing equal second.
And I’d love to say that I’m just that good, but it would be a blatant lie; my comeback has nothing to do with my golfing ability and everything to do with the way Poppy’s presence instantly calmed me out there today.
Clearing my throat, I move closer to my designated microphone. “Thanks.”
“We saw a sudden shift in the back nine,” another reporter says, glancing down at his notepad before continuing. “Is this the comeback you were hoping for?”
I shrug a shoulder. “I mean, yeah. This is infinitely better than my performance at Hilton Head, but I still have a long way to go. Anything could happen this weekend. That’s what makes this sport so exciting.”
“You almost lost your cool on that left-side shank on the par three,” someone says. “Does the pretty brunette have anything to do with the new cool, calm, and collected Brookes Devereaux?”
I look from that reporter to a few others, glancing at the tour PR reps standing off to the side because what kind of questioning is this?
Refraining from rolling my eyes, I shift in my chair and heave a sigh.
“I’ve been doing a lot of work on my anger and how I handle stress with my team.
But, yeah… my girlfriend, Poppy, helps center me.
” It’s only after the words leave my lips that I realize how true they are.
“Awww….” someone coos from the back of the room, and a few others chuckle.
My jaw clenches, because what the fuck is this?
Beside me, Jackson Taylor snorts, and I snap my head to the side, glaring at him and his stupid-ass smirk.
“Jackson, how do you feel after falling three spots during the last four holes?”
Jackson looks at me then, and with a menacing glimmer in his eyes, he shrugs a shoulder and looks back out over the sea of the reporters. “What can I say? Brookes’ girlfriend was more than a little… distracting.”
A few people snicker around the room. Someone sucks in an audible gasp.
Another clears his throat. And I see fucking red.
This motherfucker, sitting here, grinning like a smug asshole, commenting on my fucking girlfriend.
Fake or not, that’s crossing a line and he knows it.
Plus, he’s married. What a fucking creep.
I wrap my fist around my mic stand, squeezing it so damn hard my hand trembles.
I know he’s goading me, and fuck him because it’s working, the darkness at the edge of my vision causing everything around me to fade.
But then, just when I’m about to jump up from my seat, flip this goddamn table and launch myself at the skinny prick, I’m stopped by my cell vibrating against my thigh. Blinking hard, I look down and see Poppy’s name on the screen with a new text message.
Poppy: Thanks Brookes. For everything x
And just like that, the rage inside of me simmers to a low boil, and I manage to catch a breath. Leaning into my microphone, I flash Jackson a casual grin I know doesn’t meet my eyes before turning and looking out over the press.
“Well, you better get used to seeing her out there, Jackson,” I say with a cocky certainty. “She’s my lucky charm, and she ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
When I make it back to the hotel, I walk into the suite, stopping in my tracks at the sight of Poppy sitting on the floor in the living room, her lower half encased in the compression suit I ordered for her, a room service picnic laid out all around her while a movie plays on the TV.
She turns, her eyes wide when they spot me, and I notice a flush in her cheeks as she looks down at herself before back at me. “I… thought you’d be back later.”
“Don’t let me interrupt.” I chuckle, tossing my keys onto the table. Stepping down into the sunken living area, I take a seat on the sofa, looking at her.
“How is it?” I nod my chin at the suit, hopeful because I remember just how swollen her legs were after walking the entire back nine with me today. I felt so bad. Again.
Poppy rakes her teeth over her bottom lip, looking down at the controller next to her. But then, peering back up at me, her smile is infectious. “Brookes, if I could marry this suit, I would.”
Rubbing my jaw, I laugh. “That good, huh?”
“Like instant relief!”
“Well, I’m glad it works.”
“Thank you,” she says, and I’m not sure if it’s the low light, but her eyes almost look glassy, like she’s on the verge of tears.
“But please, will you let me give you money? My first fake girlfriend payment dropped into my bank account today and, I don’t mean to boast, but I’m kind of loaded.
” She grins playfully. “Plus, I know how expensive these are. I’ve been wanting one for years.
I feel really bad that you bought it for me. ”
“Poppy, it’s a gift.” I say with a shrug. “Just accept it.”
Her lips twist to the side. “You’re, like, really rich, huh?”
I consider her question. My family dates back to the Revolution and, although that isn’t something I’m proud of because it means I come from a long line of slave owners and straight-up evil pieces of shit, it also means that I’ve never wanted for anything, that I’ve lived a life of privilege.
Even after going no contact with my family, I’ve made my own wealth with golf.
But having money isn’t something I’ve ever taken for granted, and I’ve always done everything that I can to try to give back to those in need.
I nod slowly. “Yeah.”
Her eyebrows tug together a touch, a small crease burrowing between them as she studies me for a long moment.
“What?”
She looks at me for another beat, but instead of saying what she’s so obviously thinking, she just shakes her head and waves a hand over the plates set out all around her. “Wanna join me? I ordered enough for a family of four.”
I hesitate, not sure if I should. But then I see the deep-dish pepperoni pizza with extra cheese and honestly, I couldn’t say no even if I know I should. Hopping up, I slide down to the floor, settling in next to her.
“What are you watching?”
“Ten Things I Hate About You,” she answers easily, plucking a cheesy fry from its plate and stuffing it into her mouth. “It’s my favorite.”
“It looks terrible,” I mutter, reaching for a slice of pizza and taking a big bite.
“That’s blasphemy by the way,” Poppy says. “This movie is a classic.”
I glance at her from the corner of my eye, watching her watch the movie, her lips moving in time with the words being spoken by the characters, and I can’t help but smile as I settle back against the couch, eating my pizza while watching Poppy watch her favorite movie, her compression suit humming with every rhythmic pulse.
I wake with a start, bolting upright with a snort.
With one squinted eye, I search the darkness around me, momentarily wondering where the hell I am.
It’s only when I feel the slight tweak in my neck that I look down realizing I’m still here, on the living room floor in the hotel suite, slumped back against the sofa.
When I hear the faint sound of a shuddered breath, I glance to my side, narrowing my eyes and making out the body lying on the floor next to me.
Poppy. She’s asleep, curled up into a tight ball with her back to me, but her body is twitching, and as I look closer, she’s breathing really hard, almost panting, like she’s having a bad dream.
I reach over, but then I pause, my hand hovering mid-air when I hear her broken plea, her voice soft and small, each word punctuated with a sob, sending a jolt of something straight through me. “No… Please… Stop…”
Pulling my hand back, I stare at her as she moves about, a soft whimpering cry slipping from her lips, and my heart cracks a little because this isn’t just a bad dream; this is so much more.
“Poppy?” I say softly, placing my hand on her shoulder.
She doesn’t stir.
“Pops?” I say a little louder, squeezing her gently.
“No!” she cries out, and I rip my hand away.
Gasping for a breath, Poppy jumps, and then she’s clambering to sit up like she’s afraid the floor is about to open up and swallow her whole.
Her back still to me, shoulders heaving with every one of her racking breaths, she turns, glancing over her shoulder, her face illuminated by the dull light of the deep night shining in through the French doors.
And it’s then that I see the telltale tear tracks glistening her cheeks, see the dazed look in her glassy, heavy-lidded eyes.
“Hey?” I rasp. “Are you okay?”
Poppy sniffles, wiping the back of her hand over her cheeks, but when she realizes her own tears, her face cracks and she bows her head, fresh tears falling.
“Hey, you’re okay,” I whisper, shuffling closer, and hesitating only for a second, I wrap my arm around her and coax her to me. “C’mere, I’ve got you.”
Poppy comes willingly, burying her face into my chest, her tears soaking through my polo shirt.
And as I hold her, resting my chin on her soft hair, I rub my hand over her back, soothing her in the way she soothed me almost instantly today when she came out onto the course.
But as she continues crying softly, her sobs racking and heartbreaking, I can’t help but wonder what the hell happened to her. Who fucking hurt her?