7. Dylan
seven
Dylan
“What on Earth are you eating?”
In almost perfect unison, where they sit on the couch wearing black-and-white headbands with cat’s ears attached, Poppy and Izzy startle hard enough that milk sloshes over the side of the bowl Poppy’s holding under her chin. Sensing danger, Izzy shovels the last of whatever muck she’s eating into her mouth like her life depends on it.
She’s been the nanny for three days, and Poppy has already turned my daughter into a cereal fiend.
I swipe up the remote control, hit pause on the cheesy music blaring from the television, and extract the little plastic bowl from Izzy’s death grip. Then I pin Poppy with a disapproving scowl.
“Cereal in front of the television an hour before dinner? Are you serious?”
“I thought I was supposed to bring Izzy to the restaurant at six?” she asks without a hint of remorse. “What are you doing here?”
“It’s Wednesday and the restaurant is quiet, so I came home early to cook something here.” I take Poppy’s bowl, shaking my head in disgust at the remnants of sugar and multi-hued milk in the bottom. “And you didn’t answer my question.”
“I thought it was rhetorical. But look.” She points at the television screen where a frozen frame shows a blonde Julie Andrews wrapped in a hideous green curtain. “We’re watching The Sound of Music . You can’t get more wholesome than that. Plus, it’s research.”
“Research?”
“Yeah. You know. How To Be a Nanny 101.”
I rub my eye with the heel of my palm to massage away the beginning of a headache. “Are you planning on making Izzy clothes out of the drapes?”
“No, but if you’re not careful, I might teach her how to yodel.”
“You don’t know how to yodel.”
Poppy’s eyes sparkle with mischief. “Exactly.”
“Jesus freaking…” I cut off when I notice Izzy watching me with curious eyes. “How was school, Little Bee?”
She thrusts her pointer finger in my face, the tip wrapped with a princess-printed bandage. “I got a booboo.”
“Oh, no. At least your teacher had a cool bandage to make it all better.”
“Poppy gave me this one,” she corrects me. “And you know it’s not all better yet, right?”
“Right.” With a solemn frown, I take her hand in mine and press her finger to my lips. “Is it all better now?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“But aside from the booboo, did you have fun today?”
She shrugs. “I guess.”
I dart a glance at Poppy, wondering if there’s anything she can tell me about Izzy’s day with nothing but a look. She doesn’t seem concerned, and it makes me hope today was better than the last two. I’m glad Izzy told someone she was having trouble with her friends, even if it was Poppy and not me, and though I was ready to storm into that classroom and demand someone fix it, the upside is that I’m now more comfortable with the decision to transfer schools. Izzy needs to be in an environment that rewards her achievements, not punishes her for them.
“And your Spanish lesson this afternoon,” I say. “How was that?”
Izzy glances at Poppy for guidance, and Poppy nods supportively.
“ Muy buena ,” Izzy says slowly, eyes on Poppy’s lips as she mouths the words at the same time.
“Very nice,” I compliment her before turning to Poppy with an eyebrow raised. “Are you learning Spanish too, Pippi? Or is it Heidi now? I’ve lost track.”
Poppy sticks her nose in the air in pretend offense. “I’m a woman of many names. Many talents.”
I snort out a short laugh. I bet you are.
A lull in our conversation highlights the fact that the house is quiet.
“Is Daisy still at the stables?” I ask.
“Yep.” Poppy stands and makes a swipe for the remote control, and I hold it up out of her reach. “She sent me a text to say she won’t be done until after eight.”
“And I suppose Charlie is still at the reception house?”
“All I know is she isn’t here.”
Poppy lunges for the remote again, but I’m over six foot and she can’t be more than five-three, so all I have to do is raise my arm a little to keep her jumping for it. She grunts when she misses it again, and Izzy takes that as her cue to climb onto the sofa and dive for my back. She weighs next to nothing, hanging from my bicep, but when she wraps her legs around my torso and starts tugging and giggling, I pretend I can’t take it anymore, groaning with defeat as I lower my arm and surrender the remote to Poppy.
“Nice work, Izzy!” Poppy holds up her palm for a high-five and Izzy gives it with a resounding smack before she lets go of me and drops onto the couch with a soft thud.
“Traitor,” I grumble, tweaking my daughter’s nose. “I guess that means you want extra vegetables for dinner tonight?”
Izzy bounces to her feet again, and I catch her as she throws herself into my arms. “Yes!”
I tip her upside down as she shrieks with giggles, then swing her right way up. “You must be the only kid in the world who likes veggies. It makes it hard for me to be cross, did you know that?”
Izzy squirms and laughs from her belly as I tickle her ribs. “Ye— Ye— Yes!”
Poppy watches on with horror. “Izzy! Vegetables ? How could you?”
“They’re good the way Daddy makes them,” she says, a little breathless as I set her down. “I promise.”
Poppy screws up her nose and pokes out her tongue. “I’ll take your word for it.”
But she’s a terrible actress. Poppy’s loving this—whatever this is. And so am I.
“How about I make those salmon burgers you like?” I say to Izzy. “The ones with the sweet potato.”
Izzy bounces on her toes. “Yes!”
I glance toward the kitchen and then check the clock on the wall. There’s a little time left before dinner, and I try to surreptitiously give myself a sniff. I’ve spent a full day in the kitchen and I’m still in my whites, and although I’d love to shower before I do anything else, I’m less thrilled about leaving Izzy unsupervised.
Apparently, my stealthy odor check isn’t stealthy enough.
“Yes. You smell.” Poppy shoves me out of the path of the television before she hits play, and the music starts blaring. “Take a shower while we write a list of a good nanny’s favorite things. Number one: whiskers on kittens.”
“Meow,” Izzy purrs, pretending to paw at the cat’s ears on her head.
I boop her on the nose as I say to Poppy, “Are you sure you don’t mind hanging out a little longer?”
“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” she confirms with a wink at Izzy.
My daughter tries to wink back—it’s a lopsided blink that she tries twice—and I pass a hand over my scruffy jaw to cover a grin.
“Okay. Thanks. I won’t be long.”
“Take your time.” Poppy drops on the sofa beside Izzy, and just like that, I’m forgotten.
I take the stairs two at a time, stripping off my clothes as I go, and they hit the hamper in my bedroom just before I hit the floor, cranking out fifty push-ups before I step into my ensuite bathroom. Random bursts of exercise are the only way I find time to stay fit these days. It’s not much, but it’s the only thing that stops me from feeling like I’ve let myself go completely.
I take a few extra minutes in the shower to wash my hair, and as I pass the mirror on my way to slip on my comfy old sweats, I stop and scan the golden-brown whiskers on my cheeks. As much as I insist that I don’t mind a scruffy look, it’s not particularly comfortable, so I pull out my shaving cream, hunt down a new razor, and shave for the first time in nearly two weeks. I run an actual comb through my hair, disliking the length as it falls across my forehead and curls around my neck, then brush my teeth and put on deodorant. I ignore my sweats and drag on a pair of soft jeans instead, as well as a navy t-shirt without stains. By the time I head downstairs, I feel like I’ve earned the right to be called human again.
It’s got nothing to do with wanting to look good for Poppy, but when she does a double take as I enter the living room again, I walk a little taller.
“Daddy!” Izzy jumps up and reaches for me, and the moment I scoop her up, she runs her warm palms over my cheeks. “You’re so pretty , and you smell good.”
Poppy makes a sound like she’s choking and a hot flush creeps up the back of my neck. “Thanks, Iz. You’re pretty too.”
I pluck the remote from Poppy’s hand and turn off the television, then make my way to the kitchen with Izzy hanging off me like an adorable, if inconvenient, sloth. “Dinnertime, Little Bee, and you know the rule.”
I set her on her feet, and she does a happy little skip before dragging out her step stool and positioning herself at the sink so she can wash her hands. “Ready, Chef!”
Poppy raises an eyebrow as she removes her cat headband and lifts her tote from where it’s hanging off the corner of a dining chair. She’s wearing those jeans again, the ones with the tear in the ass, and a baggy purple cardigan with a neck so deep my eyes keep falling to the smooth line of her collarbones and the milky softness of her full chest spilling out of the tight white tank underneath.
“So, this is a working kitchen, is it?” she asks.
“Yep.” Izzy nods proudly. “Daddy gives me the important jobs because he’s worked so hard at the restaurant all day.”
Poppy glances at me with an affectionate wrinkle across her nose, and I clear my throat and look away. It’s one thing to try to be a good dad when it’s just me and Izzy. It’s another thing to share our quirks with someone new. But this is Poppy . She’s seen me at my worst—the gangly teenage years, the summer I was grounded by my parents, the day Finn beat my ass when I challenged him to a wrestling match—so it’s a little weird to worry about impressing her now.
“Well, you two make a great team, and I don’t want to get in the way,” Poppy says. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Izzy. Bright and early to help get you ready for school, okay?”
“ No! ” Izzy clasps her hands under her chin and makes the pretty please face that even I have a hard time saying no to. “Stay for dinner. I’ll even let you have one of my big jobs if you like?”
I turn to take a plate of leftover grilled salmon from the fridge, which means I can avoid looking at Poppy directly as I hang on her answer.
Say yes and stay a little longer.
Say no, so I don’t have to spend another minute distracted by your incredible mouth.
“I don’t know,” Poppy murmurs, and I sense that she’s waiting for me to make the call. “I’m not a very good cook.”
“That’s okay. Daddy’s the best chef in the world. He’ll teach you.”
Izzy’s desperation to keep Poppy here settles it, and I set two heavy red sweet potatoes in Poppy’s hands. “Think you can handle these and a vegetable peeler?”
Poppy’s lips twitch, and I imagine how soft they’d feel under my thumb. “I think we’re about to find out.”
While Poppy peels and chops the sweet potatoes, I show Izzy how to flake the salmon into pieces. As she focuses on that, her pink tongue stuck out the side of her mouth, I transfer the potatoes to the steamer, chop some herbs, and prepare a mustard mayonnaise. I’m in such a flow that I don’t notice when Poppy abandons her station in favor of a glass of wine, a bag of nuts, and a seat at the dining table.
“Smells good,” she comments as she sets her feet up on another chair and takes a sip of her Silver Leaf chardonnay.
“I’m glad you think so.” I point at her legs stretched out under the table. “Are you comfortable?”
She hits me with a shit-eating grin and pops a pistachio into her mouth. “Very.”
My disapproving grimace is just for show because I like the way she looks in my kitchen. And I enjoy cooking to the soundtrack of Poppy and Izzy chatting in their high-pitched voices. As Izzy helps me mash the sweet potato and stir it into the salmon with a few other ingredients, Poppy asks her questions about the music she likes (anything by Taylor Swift), the movies she watches (anything with a princess), and the activities they have planned for the weekend (horse-riding with Daisy, DIY pedicures with Poppy, and if there’s any time leftover, maybe a little attention for her dad squeezed in there somewhere).
As I move around the kitchen, I keep coming back to why this feels significant. It’s not like we don’t do something similar when Charlie and Daisy are home, but the energy between Poppy and Izzy is different. My daughter is more engaged somehow. More animated. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I’m not worrying so hard about whether I’ve got this parenting thing right.
“Okay. Time to fry the burgers.” I lift Izzy from her step stool and usher her to the table, pulling out a chair and then handing her a sudoku book and cup of pencils. “Hot oil and little hands don’t mix, so you stay here while I do that part.”
“I’ll help.” Poppy jumps to her feet. “My hands are bigger than hers, and it’s only fair.”
“Are you sure?” I ask a little dubiously.
Poppy picks up a dish towel and swats me with it. “Come on. Let me try. How hard can it be?”
“I’ll try not to be offended,” I mutter, stealing the dish towel. “Turn around and raise your arms.”
“What? Why?”
It’s not often I get the upper hand over Poppy, so I hit her with a smirk and say nothing as I take her by the shoulders and spin her away from me. I slide my arms around her body, take hold of her wrists, and unfurl her crossed arms before guiding her hands high over her head. Her breath catches on an inhale, and my heart lurches at the sound.
“Hold up your hair,” I order, and as she collects her reddish curls, I position the towel over her chest and tie it into place across her shoulder blades.
Once the towel is secured over her sweater, Poppy looks down at the green-striped cloth. “Well. That’s attractive.”
“It’s to protect your clothes from the oil,” I explain.
“Right.” She breathes deeply, rolls up her sleeves, and plants herself in front of the stove. “Let’s do it.”
I swirl a couple of tablespoons of olive oil into a wide frying pan, then switch on the burner underneath. When the oil is hot, I hand Poppy the plate of salmon burgers and a spatula.
“They don’t need long,” I tell her. “Just a few minutes on each side until they’re hot in the middle and crispy golden on the outside. It might spit a little, so be careful.”
“Yes, Chef.”
My head snaps up, and I meet Poppy’s slightly surprised eyes. A tiny smile dances along her glossy mouth, and I drag my bottom lip between my teeth. The honorific I hear every day has a different impact coming from her. A decimating impact.
“Quit being a brat,” I reply. “And focus. If you need me, I’ll be over here making the salad.”
I force myself not to hover as Poppy eases the burgers into the pan, but I can tell by the way they sizzle that she’ll probably get them in and out of the oil without ruining the meal, so I stick to my job and leave Poppy to hers. Barely a minute later, a loud pop sounds from the pan, and Poppy cries out in pain.
I drop my knife onto the cutting board and rush over to her just as Izzy jumps to her feet, her little face afraid. “Poppy! What happened?”
I hold up a hand to let Izzy know she isn’t allowed to come any closer as I close in on Poppy’s injury.
“I’m okay,” Poppy reassures her with a tight smile. “I just got too close to the oil.”
Poppy has her right hand wrapped around her left wrist, her brow is creased, and her gray eyes are glassy. I know without asking that she’s burned herself. Moving with the experience of someone who’s worked in a kitchen since he was eighteen years old, I switch off the heat under the pan, turn on the faucet, and wrap my hand around Poppy’s arm, directing her wrist to the cold running water.
“Keep it there,” I tell her.
It’s a miracle—or perhaps an indication of the pain she’s in—that she doesn’t argue. While she’s standing at the sink, I flip the burgers onto some paper towels and retrieve the first aid kit before turning off the water so I can examine Poppy’s wrist.
“It’s not too bad,” I say with relief. “It’ll sting for a day or two, and you may have a blister, but it shouldn’t leave a scar. Do you want a bandage?”
“No, thank you.” Poppy’s voice is a little shaky as she pulls her arm away. “I think I’m okay.”
She lifts her wrist to get a better look at the pink scald mark over her pulse point, and my eyes drop to her mouth as her lips form a pursed “o” to blow on the spot.
“Kiss it better!” Izzy shouts.
My head jerks up at the same time as Poppy’s, both of us glancing first at Izzy before our gazes snap together like magnets.
“That’s okay.” Poppy’s focus falls to my mouth, then drifts north to my eyes again. “I don’t think—”
“Daddy’s kiss will make it better,” Izzy insists. “Trust me.”
Poppy’s throat moves in a deep swallow. “You don’t have to,” she whispers, even as she offers me her hand.
I accept it, then dip my head and press my lips to her wrist. I don’t mean for it to happen, but my tongue sweeps across the burn, caressing her skin as I drink in the flutter of her pulse. It’s a long, slow lick meant to soothe, and Poppy responds with a quivering exhale.
I glance up from where I hover over her wrist. Her pupils are dilated, and her chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, but it’s only when my body responds with a hot rush of arousal that I realize what I’ve done.
I drop Poppy’s hand and step back. Fuck. Fuck .
“Someone named Wade is calling you,” Izzy announces.
I assume she’s talking to me, but I don’t have any phone contacts named Wade.
“Who?” I ask, distracted by Poppy’s wide eyes and parted lips, until she wrests her gaze from mine and rushes over to Izzy, who holds up a vibrating phone that doesn’t belong to me.
“It’s nobody,” Poppy says as she silences the ringtone.
It’s not nobody . Not if he makes her react like that. And slowly, the thinking part of my brain starts to work again.
“Is that…” I take a step toward her, my hand coasting through my hair. “That’s not Wade Mitchell, is it?”
Wade Mitchell was Poppy’s on-again, off-again high school boyfriend, not to mention an asshole with barely six brain cells and a habit of breaking her heart. I can’t count the number of times I warned him to stay away from her all those years ago, but it only ever stuck for a day. A week. A month. No matter how badly he hurt her or how many times I told her she could do better, Poppy always forgave him, and I never understood why.
Now she stuffs her phone in her bag like she’s trying to hide evidence. “It might be.”
The fire Poppy lit in my blood flashes white-hot. “Why the fuck is Wade Mitchell calling you?”
Izzy gasps. “Daddy said a bad word!”
Fuck .
I take one of those breaths that parents are supposed to take when they’re about to lose their shit. It doesn’t help. If anything, I feel more insane.
“I should go.” Poppy slings her ridiculously large bag over her shoulder, then pulls out an orange scarf and winds it around her neck.
“Wait a second,” I say, more to myself than anyone else. I need a moment to think. One minute, we’re cooking and laughing, and my tongue is on Poppy’s wrist and her hand is trembling in mine. The next, her phone is ringing and she’s collecting her stuff and walking out the door. Whatever’s happening here is happening too fast.
Is she leaving because of Wade—or because of me?
“I’m sorry, Izzy,” I say in a rush to earn back a couple of parenting points. “You’re right. That was a very bad word, and I shouldn’t have said it.” Then I turn to Poppy, keeping my voice as even as I can. “Why is Wade calling you?”
Poppy tips her head to one side and purses her pouty lips. “Why do you want to know?”
She knows why, but if she needs to hear it again, then I’m only too happy to say it. “Because he’s a di— He’s not a nice guy. You can do better than Wade fu— Wade Mitchell.”
She laughs quietly under her breath, then drops her eyes as she hitches her bag higher onto her shoulder. “Wrong answer.”
“Are you leaving?” Izzy asks her. “What about dinner?”
Poppy rounds the table to drop a kiss on the top of Izzy’s head. “Your dad is going to be a superstar and make me a burger to go,” she says. “My mom needs my help with something at home, and then I need to go to bed because we’ve got another big day tomorrow. School and then your first ballet lesson, remember? Did you decide which color tutu you’re going to wear?”
“The green one,” she says.
“Good choice,” Poppy approves.
After a loaded pause while Poppy stares at me and I try to think of the right answer, I admit defeat with a sagging breath and dig around for a takeout box. I assemble a burger for Poppy, pack it up, and she accepts it with a smile that only lifts one cheek.
As she disappears into the living room and the front door clicks shut behind her, Izzy releases a dramatic sigh and props her cheek in one hand, elbow on the table. “I miss Poppy already.”
I smile like I’m not just as disappointed that Poppy’s gone, not to mention riddled with guilt that my idiot moves just ruined Izzy’s good mood. “You’ve still got me, Little Bee.”
Izzy gives me an unimpressed look as I serve up her dinner, then join her with a plate of my own. Her low mood hits me hard because with everything going on in her life right now, Izzy feeling caught in the middle of tension between me and Poppy is not an option.
Our little family is complicated enough without my thoughtless kisses, stupid jealousy, and desperate curiosity to know if Poppy is dating her old high school boyfriend. I can’t afford to wish that I was the one calling her phone because I missed the sound of her voice. That I was the one telling her how incredible she is. Touching and teasing her until she’s writhing in my sheets.
There’s no space for any of that in my world.
I can’t be the reason for more uncertainty in Izzy’s life, which means I can’t be selfish or reckless the way I was tonight. I need to be smarter and more mature. More responsible. I need to keep my mind—and my mouth—off Poppy.