Chapter 35
POPPY
We have been back from Texas for a few days, and Brookes has been so busy with more interviews and meetings and golf practice, I’ve barely even seen him.
But he’s been climbing into my bed late every night.
The first night it happened, I stirred, and in my sleep-filled daze, I asked him if he wanted a blow job because apparently, in my sleep, I’m now the reigning queen of blow jobs, it seems. But he simply shushed me, pressed a light kiss to my shoulder, and held me from behind while murmuring words I’m not sure I imagined or not, but words that have stayed with me ever since.
“I sleep better with you in my arms.”
My phone shudders in my hand, interrupting my idle scrolling through social media, and I smile at Brookes’ name displayed on the notification.
Brookes: Truth or dare?
I’m fully aware I’m smiling like a goofball, but I don’t care.
Me: Truth.
Brookes: Do you think you’re strong enough to carry my golf bag?
My eyebrows tug together at his random and completely unexpected question.
Me: Um… I don’t know. I guess. Why?
Brookes: Truth or dare? But you can’t say truth.
Shaking my head to myself, I laugh, more confused than I’ve ever been.
Me: Dare.
Brookes: I dare you to caddy for me tomorrow.
Tomorrow is the annual Pro-Am charity tournament at Vista Palms. It’s a huge event with some of the world’s most renowned golfers, both current and retired, and they all come together to play against an amateur golfer.
The pros pledge their money to a charity of their choice, and the amateurs get to keep whatever they win.
It’s never serious, and it’s a lot of fun.
But as I stare at Brookes’ message, I can’t help but shake my head again, because what?
I know Max is playing in the tournament, but I thought Brookes had a replacement for the day.
Me: I thought your trainer was going to caddy for you.
Brookes: His needy-ass wife went into labor two weeks early. So inconsiderate…
I can’t help but laugh at his sarcasm.
Me: I guess I can give it a go…
Brookes: One rule though.
Me: Oh, God… what?
Brookes: You have to do exactly what I say. No ifs, buts, or coconuts.
Me: You’re the boss.
Brookes: Atta girl.
“Well now, if that’s not the face of thoroughly fucked woman!!”
Snapping my head up from my phone, I look up to find Lori sashaying up the sidewalk toward me, her smirk knowing.
“Lori!” I chastise her inappropriate words and tone, blanching when the woman walking past offers a scoff of disgust.
“Hi, honey!” Lori ignores my reaction, wrapping me in a big hug as I stand from the bench.
“I’d ask how Texas was but I can tell by the glow.” She waves a hand in front of me, winking salaciously.
I roll my eyes suddenly regretting asking her to meet me for another shopping trip.
But I’m flying out to Puerto Rico over the weekend with Brookes to attend his friends’ wedding, and I have nothing suitable to wear.
Hell, I’ve never even been to a wedding.
When my mother remarried, she and her husband eloped, surprising us all when they returned home sharing a last name.
“Come on, baby girl,” Lori links her arm through mine. “Junie Bug’s waiting for us.”
I tuck my phone back into the pocket of my jean shorts and allow Lori to lead me up the sidewalk to June’s boutique.
By the time I make it back to the house, I’m exhausted, both physically and mentally. I love Lori and June—they’re a whole-ass vibe, especially when they’re together, feeding off one another’s extra-ness—but right now my head is killing me.
As I pull into the garage, Brookes’ Bronco is still missing from its usual parking spot. I had planned on getting a start on constructing my latest earring design, but I think instead, I might take a long hot shower, throw on some ugly sweats, and rot in front of the television.
I unload my shopping haul from the back of the Range Rover and struggle to carry all the bags inside because screw making more than one trip, but when I make it through the door, I notice a box sitting on the hall table next to the entryway, and it’s addressed to me.
Weird. Aside from Brookes, Cam, and Blake, no one even knows I’m living here.
Cautiously, I pick up the box and carry it and my bags through to my room where I spend at least half an hour carefully unpacking everything I bought today for Puerto Rico with Lori and June’s help, hanging it all in the closet.
Then, glancing at the box I placed on the coffee table, I pull my phone from the back pocket of my shorts.
Me: I got something delivered here today… but no one knows where I live.
Brookes’ response comes through in less than three seconds.
Brookes: I know where you live
I quirk a brow.
Me: Did you have it sent to me?
Brookes: Did you open it?
Me: No, I was scared it might be a decapitated horse head, sent by one of your deranged fans.
Brookes: Bit dramatic.
Me: What is it?
Brookes: It’s for tomorrow.
Me: The Pro-Am?
Brookes: Yep.
Confused, I move to the sofa and take a seat, unwrapping the postage paper and discovering a shiny black box embossed with gold letters that just say PULSE.
Assuming it’s something for my lipedema to help me survive eighteen holes on my feet tomorrow, I lift the lid, but the second I see what’s inside, my mouth falls open on a gasp and I slam the box shut, glaring at it like it’s done me an injustice.
And, I mean, I’m not the most knowledgeable when it comes to this stuff, but I know exactly what that is.
Grabbing my phone, my thumbs fly across the keyboard, tapping out my reply.
Me: You bought me a vibrator???
Brookes: A wearable vibrator.
Me: I don’t even know what that means!
Brookes: Remember earlier when I told you my one rule?
Before I can respond, he sends a screenshot of our text conversation from this morning where he told me that I needed to do exactly what he said, no ifs or buts, and I deadpan, glaring at the screen.
Me: I thought you were talking about golf!
Brookes: Rules are rules, Pops.
I scoff, tossing my phone onto the couch cushion next to me, tentatively lifting the lid off the box and peering in at the…
device. It’s an ungodly shade of bright pink, shaped like an egg with a long skinny thing attached to it.
I don’t even know how it’s supposed to work.
I thought they were all shaped like dicks or something.
Taking the brochure out, I open it, my eyes widening at the illustrations when I realize exactly where it’s supposed to go. Inside of me.
“Oh my God,” I huff, reading the instructions. It’s both terrifying and, if I’m honest, a little intriguing. Three speeds. Four patterns. Five hours of continuous use. Holy crap.
I quickly stuff the brochure back into the box, close it up, and slide it as far away from me as possible, staring at it like it’s about to grow legs and come at me.
Absolutely not. Not happening. There is no way in this life or any other that I am using that… thing.
Picking up my phone, I tap out another reply to Brookes.
Me: Rules are made to be broken.
Brookes: Something tells me you’ll be a good girl and do exactly what I say.
I gape at his response, simultaneously offended and turned on by his bossiness. There’s just something about a bossy Brookes that makes my insides flip in the best kind of way. God, what is wrong with me?
Me: I am not wearing that thing tomorrow. It’s a UTI just waiting to happen.
Brookes: We’ll see…