Chapter 30
THIRTY
Does the pink literally not pop?
SOPHIE
Again, I wake in a cloud of soft sheets and realize I've fallen asleep in Micah's bed. When I blink awake, the room is dim with evening light—it’s almost eight. For a second, everything that happened earlier feels like a bad dream. Or maybe that’s just what I want to believe.
I step out of the room and pause. The entire sofa area looks like it was attacked by a pink explosion.
Throw blankets, cushions, and plush rugs in every shade of blush and rose cover the space.
There’s a pink and white striped pajama set folded neatly on the chaise lounge, surrounded by a small army of stuffed animals.
In the kitchen, there’s a vintage-style popcorn machine and an entire spread of drinks lined up beside it—sparkling waters, fruity sodas, a bottle of pink lemonade.
And Micah.
His hair is tousled, like he’s run his hands through it a hundred times trying to get everything just right. He’s wearing a thin white t-shirt that hugs his chest and arms in a way that should be illegal.
“Did a pink unicorn throw up in here?” I joke, stepping closer as he blends something pink and frothy in the kitchen, surrounded by frozen fruit packs and a half-unpacked bag of marshmallows.
“Good morning, baby,” he says with a crooked smile. “Well—evening, I guess. Did you sleep okay?”
I smile. He was right—it is nice waking up and having him be the first person I see.
He probably looked all this up or asked Grant again what girls like.
I could tell him that not everything needs to be pink just because I’m a girl—but I don’t want to shut him down.
Especially when he’s trying so hard. When he’s making magic out of thin air just to make me smile.
“Did you do all this for me?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He nods, proud. “Yeah. I thought we could have a movie night. I heard girls love pajama movie nights.” He grins. “Don’t worry—I asked Poppy this time. Not Grant.”
“I love it,” I tell him honestly. “That explains why Breakfast at Tiffany’s is playing on the TV.”
It’s Poppy’s favorite movie and she watches it at least once a week.
He opens his arms. “Come here.”
I walk right into them. He wraps me up like I belong there.
“I love you, Sophie,” he murmurs into my hair. “I want you to feel at home here.”
“I love you too,” I say softly. “But you really don’t have to redecorate your entire home for me.”
“It’s not a problem,” he says, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. “I know your favorite color is white, but I didn’t want the place to look like an asylum or anything. Poppy said there should be a pop of color. Or at least I think that’s what it was.”
I laugh, tipping my head up to look at him. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously in love with you,” he smiles.
MICAH
She’s curled up beside me, so close our thighs are touching. Her head leans softly against my shoulder, the sleeves of her striped pajama top brushing against my arm as she adjusts the blanket. On screen, someone is delivering a dramatic monologue, but I don’t have a clue what he’s saying.
Because all I can focus on is her.
Or more specifically, the way her hand just landed on my thigh. Close. Too close to the growing tent in my pants I’m desperately trying to ignore.
I try to breathe through it. Be good. Be patient. She’s been through enough today.
But then she stirs again, fingers lightly grazing higher, whether she realizes it or not. I glance down. She definitely realizes.
She looks up at me with those round eyes—wide and warm and just a little mischievous—and I swear they could undo me with a single glance. Her soft brown hair falls just beneath her chin, slightly tousled from the way she’s been curled up against me.
“You’re not paying attention to the movie at all, are you?” she asks, her voice sweet and teasing.
I huff a laugh, voice low. “I wouldn’t even be able to tell you the name of a single character. Besides Tiffany, of course.”
“There’s no one named Tiffany,” she laughs before kissing me—soft and sweet, then deeper. Her hands slide up my shirt, and her fingers brush my bare skin.
Okay. That’s a green light.
I kiss her back, pulling her into my lap so she’s straddling me, one hand sliding behind her neck, the other moving to unfasten the buttons of her pajama top. She lets me. No hesitation—just her trust.
She looks up at me, flushed and kiss-bitten, her shiny eyes blinking up at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.
Her chest rises and falls, and I lean in to kiss along her jaw, then down her neck.
Her skin is so soft it makes my chest ache.
I trail kisses down to her chest, slide her pajama top open, and close my mouth around one perfect breast, sucking slowly, gently.
She gasps, her back arching and fingers threading into my hair.
My hand starts to move downward, tugging at the waistband of her pajama pants—
Ding. The elevator.
I freeze. “For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, immediately helping her back down beside me.
I smooth her hair with quick fingers, trying to make her look a little less like she just got wrecked. Doesn’t help. Her lips are swollen, her cheeks are flushed, and her soft brown hair is a little mussed around her face. She looks so fucking good it’s painful.
The elevator doors slide open. I don’t even need to look to know who it is.
“I swear to God, Grant—” I start, but Sophie grabs my arm.
I follow her gaze.
It’s Grant. And Poppy. And Poppy’s crying.
“Poppy! What’s wrong? What happened?” Sophie rushes over, hastily buttoning her pajama top as she moves.
But Poppy’s already staring around the apartment, tears brimming, looking half devastated, half confused.
“What the hell, Micah?” she says, motioning toward the pink explosion of blankets and stuffed animals on the couch. “I said a pop of color.”
I blink. “Yeah. Does the pink literally not pop?”
She looks at me like I’m speaking another language, then turns to Sophie.
“H-he broke up with me,” Poppy starts sobbing again, wiping at her eyes. “Wyatt. He said he can’t do this. That he made a mistake. He’s getting back together with his ex.”
What the fuck? “What? Kate? Wait—he just…” I blink, trying to make sense of it.
I glance at Grant, whose jaw is tight, unreadable. Something’s off.
Sophie’s already fired up, voice sharp. “He what? Poppy, you just moved in with him today. You literally have nowhere else to go right now!”
“I’m gonna stay with Grant,” Poppy says quietly, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “In his spare room. Temporarily.”
“What?” Sophie says, stunned. Then she turns to me. “No—she can stay with us. Right, Micah?”
Those beautiful chocolate eyes lock onto mine—soft, pleading, impossible to say no to.
But before I can answer, Poppy cuts in. “It’s fine. I’m not going to be a third wheel while you two play house. Grant offered first, anyways. Just until I find my own place.”
Sophie presses her lips together but nods. “Okay. For now.”
Grant looks at me. “Come on. We need to go talk to Wyatt.”
My jaw tightens. “Alright. Let’s go.”
“Yes, please!” Sophie fires back, hands in fists at her sides. “Go talk to him—and maybe punch him in the face while you’re at it, Micah. What the hell is wrong with him?”
I’ve never seen her this worked up before—pacing, protective, ready to throw hands for Poppy. And despite the chaos, it’s cute as fuck.
I fight the urge to smile. God, I love this woman.
There’s a bright yellow duffle bag sitting beside Wyatt’s sofa. Although his place is smaller than mine, the interior is way more refined. Clean lines, soft lighting, art on the walls. Wyatt has expensive taste and it suits him.
He’s on the couch with a beer in hand. Wyatt rarely drinks—especially on weekdays. That’s how I know there is definitely something going on here.
“So, is anyone going to tell me what the hell is going on?” I ask, stepping toward him. Grant stays quiet behind me.
Wyatt exhales, long and heavy. “I fucked up.”
“Yeah, you fucked up my night with my girl, that’s what you fucked up,” I snap. “And why the fuck are you back with Kate? I thought you were done with her using you for your money and status.”
Grant walks over to the fridge, cracks open a beer, and glances at me. “Might want to sit down and have a drink.”
“No thanks.” I don’t touch the stuff when I’m with Sophie—won’t risk her smelling it on me. Not when she’s been through what she has.
I look back at Wyatt. “Seriously. What the hell happened? And you chose today—the day Poppy moved in—to blow everything up?”
Without a word, Wyatt tosses something onto the coffee table.
It’s a pregnancy test. My stomach drops.
“Kate’s pregnant,” he says flatly.
My jaw tenses. “You didn’t use protection?”
“She wouldn’t go on the pill,” he mutters. “Said it made her gain weight. We usually used condoms, but the last time…” He shakes his head. “She said she wanted to feel me bare. I pulled out, but I guess that wasn’t enough.”
“You’re a fucking idiot,” I mutter. “What did Poppy say?”
“She doesn’t know. I just said it’s not going to work between us.”
“Why? She would’ve understood. And she’s going to find out eventually when you have a whole baby to take care of. Why didn’t you just talk through it with her?”
“When Kate came by earlier, while Poppy was in class, she handed me the test and said she’s not going to be a single mom.”
I run a hand through my hair. “You do know you have a choice, too, right? You can still be there for the kid, support the child, without being with Kate. You don’t have to throw everything with Poppy away.”
He scoffs. “I don’t have a choice. Kate said—and I quote—‘What would people think if the son of a Supreme Judicial Court justice abandoned his pregnant girlfriend?’ She’s going to blow this up. Media, headlines, my dad’s name dragged through the mud. I can’t let that happen. He’s a good man.”
And he is. Wyatt’s dad is actually one of the rare ones—respectable, humble, and nothing like my father.
“Shit,” Grant mutters.
“Yeah. I fucked up,” Wyatt says again, softer this time.
“The worst part? She was going to drag Poppy down too—tell people she ‘stole me from my pregnant girlfriend.’” He lets out a humorless laugh.
“I was really starting to like Poppy. She’s everything Kate isn’t.
She doesn’t care about money, doesn’t give a damn who my dad is.
She just likes me. I really thought she could be the one for me. But I guess I’ll never know.”
“You should’ve told her,” Grant says. “You didn’t have to break her like that.”
“I did,” Wyatt insists. “Kate doesn’t want anyone knowing about the pregnancy yet.”
He takes a long pull from his beer, jaw tight.
“How was I supposed to end things without telling her the truth? I couldn’t give her something to hold onto. No hope. No waiting around.” His voice drops. “If she thinks I’m an asshole—if she hates me for it, it’ll be easier for her to let go.”
“What did you say to her?” I ask.
“She came back when Kate was still here,” he says, staring at his beer. “And Kate said we were back together. I think Poppy assumed we’d slept together or something…and I let her think that.”
I shake my head. “So you let her think you cheated? And that you’re back with your crazy ex?”
He doesn’t answer.
I continue, “She’s devastated, man. And clearly so are you, seeing how you’re drinking.”
He takes a sip of his beer. “Fuck. I just can’t drag her into this.”
The room is silent.
Grant crosses the room and grabs the bright yellow duffle bag. “I’ll take this. It’s Poppy’s, right?” he says quietly. “She shouldn’t have to come back here.”
I nod, then turn to Wyatt. “I need to get back to Sophie. She’s, uh, had a day. I just—I need to be there for her right now.”
Wyatt nods without looking up. “Yeah. I get it. Thanks for stopping by, guys. And Grant, please take care of her, okay?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” I add. “Really.”
He just lifts the beer to his lips. Doesn’t say a word.
Grant and I head for the door.