Chapter 40
brOOKES
“Fuck!” Dallas roars when his ball shanks left, landing deep in the bunker for the fourth time today.
Everyone laughs, but then our laughter is interrupted by a baby crying.
“Shit,” Dallas mutters under his breath, rushing back to his golf cart, to where there is a baby carrier—yes, a baby carrier—fastened right next to the driver’s side. “Aw, I’m sorry, baby, Daddy didn’t mean that,” he coos, lifting the infant out of the capsule and rocking her in his arms.
“I have to say, in my sixteen years playing golf, I can’t recall ever seeing a baby on the course,” I mutter to Happy.
Happy laughs. “Yeah, man. Tell me again, why is your five-month-old baby with us while we play golf?”
“I told you,” Dallas says, looking up at his daughter, Calla, as he holds her in the air like the opening scene of The Lion King or some shit.
“Momma wanted a spa day,” he says, talking like a baby.
“And Daddy hasn’t had sex in almost a month, so Daddy said he’d take baby Calla so Momma could relax, so maybe she can give Daddy some lovin’ later…
isn’t that right, baby girl?” He bounces the baby just enough to make her cackle with laughter.
“Do you guys have sex in front of Calla?” Robbie asks, his question laced with genuine curiosity, I assume since he’s on his way to first-time fatherhood.
Dallas snorts. “I mean, it’s not like she’s watching us while taking notes, but… if the mood hits and we can’t move it to the next room, then… yeah.” He shrugs.
Robbie nods contemplatively.
“Way to permanently scar my niece, bro,” Logan, Dallas’ soon-to-be brother-in-law mutters, rolling his eyes as he takes a sip from his beer.
“It is beautiful, and it’s natural,” Dallas states matter-of-factly, spearing Logan with a pointed look. “Besides, our pediatrician told us it’s totally fine until the kid’s like, one,” he adds quickly.
“So, how’re things going with you and your girl, man?” Happy asks, tapping me on my shoulder and pulling me from the complimentary comedy show that his teammates and best friends are unknowingly putting on in front of us. “She seems nice.”
“Yeah, it’s… it’s good.” I nod slowly, trying not to think too much about how different Poppy has been acting today.
Yesterday was amazing. But when she came into the kitchen this morning for her coffee, I noticed something flash in her eyes.
It was gone so fast, I doubt she meant for me to see it, but it was there.
A sadness that hit me straight in the gut.
All day she’s been acting a little different from usual.
Avoiding me. Almost ignoring me. It’s like there’s this cloud hanging over her.
I keep asking her if she’s okay—probably to the point where I’m being annoying as fuck—and she keeps telling me she’s fine, but there’s something wrong.
I can tell. And it has been eating at me all damn day.
I need to keep reminding myself that this isn’t real, and come October, it will be over, and as much as it fucking stings, I’m paying her. But that only makes me feel worse because I think—no, I know, and I’ve been fooling myself these last couple of weeks—I don’t want this to be fake anymore.
I’ve never been in a relationship. Nothing of substance, at least. Hell, I wouldn’t even know the first thing about being someone’s boyfriend.
But something changed in Texas. In fact, I think the defining moment was in Tulsa, when I learned about Poppy’s lipedema.
Finding out that she has this chronic disorder that makes her feel sick or in pain, something that she’s just learned to put up with, I’ve never felt that overwhelming need to protect anyone or anything before.
But I did then. I knew at that moment, more than anything, I wanted to keep her safe, I wanted to make her feel better.
And since then, it’s been this ongoing need.
I need to know that she’s okay. I need to know that she’s safe and happy.
That’s not normal. Not for me, anyway. I wouldn’t say I’m a selfish a person at all, but I’ve definitely never felt this before, so I know it means something.
“You look happy,” Happy says, pulling me from my thoughts. “Happy and healthy.”
“I am.” I nod again, realizing he’s right.
I am happy. And I am healthy. And for as long as Poppy’s been around, the voices in my head, the ones that come out at night and try to remind me how long it’s been since I’ve had a drink or popped a pill, the ones that taunt me and make the silence almost unbearable, they’ve been absent.
Fuck, I haven’t even realized that until right now.
“I’m proud of you, man.” Happy holds up his gloved hand, and I bump his fist with mine.
“Uh, guys?” Dallas says. “I think we have a code brown situation.”
Happy and I turn right as all hell breaks loose.
Logan is keeled over, hands on his knees, retching. Robbie is hurrying away, holding a hand over his mouth. And Dallas just stands there with Calla in his arms, poop exploding out of her diaper and sliding down her chunky baby legs.
“O–kay,” Happy says on a sigh. “I think that’s enough golf for one day.”
When I arrive back at the villa, the whole place smells like Poppy.
She has this scent that is so quintessentially her—vanilla, mixed with a touch of cherry, and what I imagine sunflowers to smell like.
I’ve never sniffed a sunflower. I don’t even know if they smell.
But if they do, that’s exactly what Poppy smells like, and it immediately makes me smile.
“Pops?” I call out, leaving my golf bag by the door and kicking off my spikes.
“I’m in here.”
I pause outside the door to the bathroom. It’s opened just a crack, but I don’t invite myself in, instead knocking gently. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah.”
I push open the door to find her standing in front of the mirror with nothing but a fluffy white hotel towel wrapped around her, her tan skin all dewy, her long dark hair pulled back into a slick low knot, her face glowing.
Suddenly, I imagine this being part of our day-to-day life. Me getting home from a round of golf. Poppy standing in our bathroom. Maybe a little Poppy or Brookes getting up to mischief somewhere.
Fuck. Where the hell did that come from? I’m forced to rub at the pain that comes out nowhere and stabs me right in the center of my chest.
Painting her lips a pretty peach color, Poppy’s inky-blue eyes find mine in the reflection of the mirror, her brows knitting together a touch like she’s wondering what I’m doing just standing here staring at her. Can’t say I blame her.
I clear my throat. “How was the… uh… the spa?”
She smiles. “So good. I got the best lymphatic massage I’ve ever had.”
I gasp, clutching a hand to my chest, mock offended. “Better than mine?”
She giggles, and the sound is like music to my fucking ears, releasing the tension that’s been bunched in my shoulders for the last twenty-four hours.
“A close second,” she says with a wink, turning back to the mirror. “How was golf?”
“It was okay. Nice course.” I shrug a shoulder, leaning against the doorjam, arms folded across my chest as I watch, enamored, while she continues painting her perfect lips with the utmost precision; it’s almost hypnotizing. “But we only made it to the eighth hole before Calla shit herself.”
Poppy’s eyes go wide as she tries to stifle her laughter. “I’m sure Emily will love that.”
“You look pretty,” I say before I can stop myself.
A hint of pink tints her cheeks as she looks down, securing the lid of her peach gloss, and I see her smooth shoulders rise and fall with a breath.
Swallowing around the lump of trepidation that’s been wedged in my throat all day, I take a step closer to her, stopping just shy of touching her, yet feeling her everywhere.
“I promised myself I wouldn’t keep asking you if you’re okay,” I begin, keeping my voice low, barely above a gruff whisper, noticing the way she reacts, goosebumps flaring over her skin.
“But I will ask you this—” Her eyes lift, meeting mine in the reflection of the mirror yet again. “Are we okay?”
In the mirror, Poppy’s gaze roams over my face, dropping down to my chest, taking me in before meeting my eyes once more.
I can tell she has something to say, the way she rolls her glossy lips together, and when she turns to face me, tilting her chin and peering up at me, there’s that same flicker of sadness in her eyes that I swear I saw this morning when she walked into the kitchen.
But, just like this morning, it’s gone as quickly as it appeared.
I touch her, my hands rubbing up her arms, following the curve of her shoulders, my fingertips skating up her slender neck before stopping to carefully cup her cheeks, not wanting to ruin whatever makeup she’s applied. “Pops, talk to me. Please…”
She reaches out a hand and smooths it over my chest, my thundering heart, like she’s trying to placate me while also unintentionally lighting a fire against my skin through my shirt because, suddenly, I need her more than I need food and water.
And I need to show her how much I need her.
I need her to know that this isn’t just fake.
I don’t know what’s real anymore, but I know this isn’t the same as what it was when it started, and I need to prove it to her.
Ducking down, I crash my mouth against hers, shiny peach gloss be damned.
Sliding my tongue between her lips, I groan at her taste, and she meets me with fervor, moaning into the kiss, her hands moving up into my hair, nails scratching my scalp, fingers tugging on the longer lengths, spurring me on.
I kiss her hard, with everything I have, moving my hands down her back, over the curve of her ass and hiking her up off her feet. I carry her out to the room, stopping at the edge of the huge bed and depositing her onto the mattress.