Chapter Twelve Before—Poppy
| Twelve |
Before—Poppy
He showed up. We walked a few blocks to Central Park and found an unoccupied bench. It was a gorgeous June day, the temperature hovering right below eighty and the sun shining brightly.
“I wasn’t sure if you liked turkey, tuna, or roast beef.” He pulled out three sandwiches. “Hopefully one of these will do.”
“I happen to like them all. But I think I’ll go for the roast beef.” He handed it to me, along with a napkin, and I put both on my lap.
He pulled out two bottles of Evian water and handed me one. “I’d have brought a nice wine, but since you’re going back to work—”
“Day drinker, are you?”
He laughed. “Sometimes my days and nights get mixed up. I was up writing until six. A few hours’ rest, and here I am.”
“You don’t have a more regular writing schedule?”
He tilted his head. “When the muse strikes, I keep going.”
I nodded, understanding. There were many nights I stayed up working on my collages only to look at my watch hours later and realize it was the middle of the night. “I get it. When I’m not working two jobs…” I hesitated, watching his expression. “I’m an artist too.”
He smiled. “I had a feeling there was a lot more to you than you’d yet revealed.”
“We’ve known each other all of what, fifteen hours?”
“Practically a lifetime,” he said.
I laughed. “What do you write? Comedy?”
“Horror actually.”
I knew that. Of course I’d looked him up. He hadn’t told me that he was a number one New York Times bestselling author with over ten million books sold and translated into over forty languages. I’d been shocked to read his bio.
“Yeah. I called my local bookstore and they’re holding a copy of Promise Me Never.”
“Oh.” He looked embarrassed.
“Well, in this day and age, you didn’t think I wouldn’t google you, right?”
“I suppose not. So much for old-fashioned romance.”
I gave him my best smile. “Don’t write off romance yet.
” I leaned in and kissed him, the kind of kiss you give your lover, and he returned the fervor of that kiss in a way that let me know we had chemistry.
He was not only hot-looking, but I bet he’d be good in bed.
When I pulled away, he looked at me with desire.
“That was unexpected but welcome.”
“Plot twist,” I teased.
“Poppy Morningside, I think you might be the death of me.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of that, so I didn’t say anything.
I took a bite of my sandwich and thought about what I wanted to happen next.
There was no question I was crazy attracted to him.
He was rich and famous, but that wasn’t what drew me to him.
I was attracted to the fact that he was allegedly talented.
I would reserve judgment until I read his book.
I knew all too well that bestseller status was not always a barometer of quality.
But I had a feeling that he was the real deal.
And the idea filled me with excitement and something I hadn’t felt in a long time. Hope.