10. Poppy
ten
Poppy
I love it when Dylan calls me a brat. I love that I get under his skin. Acting up was the only way to draw his attention as a teenager, and I should have grown out of it by now, but the impulse is coded into my DNA. Every time that thick blue vein throbs in his neck or his hands curl into fists or he closes his eyes and breathes real deep like he’s about to lose control and it’s all because of me, my pulse pounds with a twisted type of high.
The exact opposite to how I feel now.
I cut my eyes to the booth in the corner, where Dylan is sharing a drink with the tall, attractive Molly. Her legs look great in her tight black jeans, and her dark hair is cut into a sleek, sexy bob. She’s also prettier in real life than she was on her socials—because of course she is.
And it gets worse because Dylan looks so damn good tonight.
I had an awesome day with Izzy watching her chase a ball at her soccer skills academy, make a mess in her ceramics class, then changing her into a tutu and cleaning the clay from her fingernails at our DIY beauty salon she named Poppy’s Princess Parlor. But today, when he wasn’t working, Dylan was shopping for new jeans and running product through his hair and sampling colognes until he found the one that makes me want to hand him my underwear and all self-respect.
And it was all for Molly .
To top off my night from hell, the barstool that’s usually taken by Wade is empty. As if I wasn’t feeling bad enough, the guy I’m not even interested in chose tonight of all nights to decide he’s not interested in me either.
It’s times like this that I remember why I ran away.
I’m distracted by another customer when Dylan approaches the bar, so I’m startled when I turn around and find him leaning against the timber top.
“What can I get you?” I ask, sticking with the carefully controlled politeness I’ve worn like armor ever since the night he licked my wrist, acted like a jealous boyfriend, then tried to pretend it never happened.
Dylan’s forehead creases. “Are you all right?”
“Me? I’m fine. Do you need more drinks?”
“Club soda and a white wine. Thanks.”
“No problem.”
I try hard not to say anything else. I really do. But as I pour the drinks, the words spill out of me. “So, how’s your date?”
Dylan spares a quick glance at the booth where Molly waits with her back to us. “It’s…fine.”
“She’s pretty.”
“Yeah.”
“And funny? Smart?”
“She’s—”
“I’ll add these to your tab,” I say before I hear something I can’t un-hear, like yes, Molly is funny and smart and the love of my life.
I set Dylan’s drinks on the counter between us. “You don’t want to keep Molly waiting.”
“Poppy. About the other night…”
I respond with a blank smile, blinking like I don’t have a brain between my ears and ignoring the lurching flip of my stomach. “What night was that?”
Dylan hesitates, then picks up the drinks and shakes his head. “Never mind. Thanks.”
The flip drops into disappointment. “You’re welcome.”
Dylan turns to leave, but he’s blocked from taking another step by Wade’s broad, obnoxious frame. Dylan throws me a look that’s part question, part accusation, and I ignore it in favor of tormenting him. It’s his own fault. He shouldn’t make it so easy.
“Hey, Wade.” I grab a glass and pour him a beer, disregarding the weight of Dylan’s eyes on me. “I’d about given up on you tonight.”
“Had a problem at the ranch,” he says, eying Dylan with old wariness as he slides onto his stool. “But I couldn’t miss date night.”
“ Date night?” Dylan spins so fast that wine spills over the lip of the glass, and he spears me with a glower that’s a hundred kinds of hot. “What’s he talking about?”
“Inside joke.” I nod toward his booth, where Molly has twisted around to see what’s taking Dylan so long with her drink. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”
Dylan flares his nostrils, staring at me hard like there’s something he wants to say. I’ll never know what it is because with a final scowl, he turns his back and stalks away.
His irritation is a point to me, but I still feel like I’ve lost.
“So,” I say to Wade as I mop up the spill on the bar. “What was the problem at the ranch?”
“Couple of the cattle are sick,” he says before he stops himself and raises a suspicious eyebrow. “Why are you interested in my ranch all of a sudden?”
“Just trying to pass the time.”
“I can think of much more exciting ways to pass the time.”
“I am not going to sleep with you,” I say, but the insolent twinkle in his dark brown eyes makes me smile a little. It’s the twinkle I loved so much when we were sixteen.
I swat him with the towel. “Stop it.”
He raises his eyebrows, all innocence. “Stop what?”
“Stop looking at me like that.”
“Can’t help it.” He spins his glass on the bar, a wet ring of condensation pooling underneath. “I’ve always looked at you that way.”
“Not true.”
“It is.”
I set my elbows on the bar and lean in, mirroring his smirk as I crook my finger and pretend that whatever I’m about to say is so personal that he needs to lean in too. And he does, a victorious grin dancing under his thick, dark mustache.
“You weren’t looking at me that way when you were making out with Kayla Noonan-Kearns at homecoming.”
It takes a second for Wade to realize the seductive tilt to my lips and the pleasant tone of my voice don’t fit the words coming out of my mouth.
“And you weren’t looking at me that way when you were breaking up with me in front of everyone at Howie Walker’s summer party.”
Wade’s throat bobs in an uncomfortable swallow.
“And you weren’t looking at me that way when you drove me out to the grad night bonfire, rolled out a blanket in the bed of your truck and promised me the night of my life, then drank so much beer you threw up on my feet.”
“Poppy—”
“It’s okay, Wade.” I straighten and take his empty glass before finding a clean one and pulling him another beer. “I’m over it. We’re older now. Smarter. Wiser. We know better than to make the same mistakes we made as kids. We’re not the same people anymore.”
“Uh. Right.”
Wade takes a sip of his drink, watching me over the edge of the glass, and it’s clear he’s got no idea what I’m trying to tell him or why I’m calling out his shitty behavior now when I’ve let it slide for the last six months. He doesn’t realize the reminders are for me, because if there was ever a night I might finally fall for Wade’s quasi-charm, it’s tonight.
I risk another look at Dylan’s booth and wish I hadn’t. It’s empty, the drinks not even finished, a tip dropped carelessly on the tabletop. My heart plummets. They must be enjoying themselves to slip out of here so quickly and without even saying goodbye.
Were they in a rush to find somewhere they can enjoy each other’s company alone? Is he kissing her right now?
The possibility hits me like a punch, and I suddenly need a breather.
“I’m going to take a bathroom break,” I mumble to nobody in particular.
“I’ll be waiting,” Wade assures me.
“Lucky me.”
I step into the hallway that leads to the bathroom, the lights here dimmed and the shadows deep. Tears burn my eyes. How is a crush now at twenty-eight more painful than it was at fifteen? It doesn’t make any sense. I know so much more. I understand the way the world works. Why is it so hard for my head and my heart to get on the same page and accept that Dylan is not the man for me?
I dash at my eyes and walk faster, needing to splash my face with cold water before I try to finish my shift, but I don’t make it halfway down the hallway before someone takes hold of my arm and spins me around.
It’s Dylan, and he doesn’t let go as he towers over me with his blue eyes flashing and chiseled jaw flexing. Thick vein pulsing in his smooth, bronzed neck.
“Wade needs a bucket for the drool he’s dropping out there,” Dylan says.
My confusion lasts only a moment before a familiar sense of power rushes through me, hot and fast from my hairline to my fingertips. Power and yearning.
“So?” I retort.
“You’re doing it on purpose.”
“Doing what?”
“Flirting with Wade because you know it makes me crazy.”
Flirting with Wade? If believing that is what’s required for Dylan to act like a caveman, I’m not going to correct him. It’s too satisfying. Too arousing.
I drop a cool glance at Dylan’s hand wrapped around my arm tight enough to pinch. He lets me go, but he doesn’t back out of my space.
“What happened to your date?” I ask.
Dylan’s gaze moves over my face, his breath coming hard through his nose. “Over.”
I can’t hide my surprise. “Already?”
“Already.”
There’s a beat of silence as I wait for more information, but Dylan’s jaw remains clenched. His hands curl into fists at his side, and suddenly words I shouldn’t say come tumbling out.
“ If I was flirting with Wade,” I poke, “and I’m not saying you’re right, but if I was, why do you care?”
A low sound rumbles through his chest, so much like a growl that a rush of wet warmth pools between my legs. “Because he’s not—”
“Do not tell me he’s not good enough for me,” I snap. “I’m not sixteen, and I don’t need you to save me from my own bad choices. We’re not children. I’m not your problem anymore.”
“Why are you like this?”
“Like what?” I try not to tremble as his eyes flash and desire twists tighter in my core.
“Frustrating. Challenging.” His eyes drop to my mouth. “Exasperating.”
“And still not your problem.”
My heart races as I push a little bit more. I’m playing with matches. Please let us burn.
Dylan’s blue eyes turn hooded and tortured, and he moves a step forward, making me step back. He takes another, forcing me to give way, crowding me until my back hits the wall. His hips meet my stomach, and I gasp at the hard hint of his cock.
Dylan dips his head until his mouth brushes my ear. “You’ll always be my problem.”
He swallows my whimper with his lips against mine.
Dylan’s mouth is hot and demanding, and the tears that threatened to spill over earlier leak down my cheek. Only now they’re tears of disbelief and desperation and release. I clutch at his shirt and meet his greedy tongue with my own as his hands slip under my shirt.
“Fuck,” he mutters, pressing me harder against the wall. “I knew you’d taste like cherry.”
I moan against his mouth, the salt of my tears mixing with the slippery sugar of my lip gloss and the delicious flavor that is Dylan Davenport. His fingers brush the underside of my bare breast, his dick twitches against my body, and my nipples harden into tight, tingling furls.
Is this real? Are we doing this? Oh, God. We’re doing this.
Without warning, his hands disappear, his mouth pulls away, and a cool air-conditioned draught passes between us. Dylan takes a long step back and pushes his hands into his hair, tugging at the ends and staring at me like he doesn’t know me—or doesn’t know himself.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
I touch my burning, swollen lips, and then the remnants of tears clinging to my cheeks. “You’re…sorry?”
“Fuck,” he whispers, then louder. “Fuck! I never should have— I lost control for a minute. This was a mistake.”
My throat closes enough that it’s painful to swallow, and suddenly I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe .
I settle a hand over the ache in my chest and force a reply past my trembling lips. “What? Why?”
“We can’t do this. I can’t do this.”
He paces three steps up the hall, then back again, and all I can hear are the words sorry and mistake .
Me. I’m the mistake.
Dylan drags his gaze from the floor, and when it lands on me, his expression falls. He reaches out but I weave out of his way.
“Don’t worry about it,” I manage to say. “Let’s forget it.”
Sheer stubbornness is the only reason I can swallow my tears of rage and humiliation. With a purposeful stride, I stalk to the bar, tearing the white apron from my waist as I go. A delinquent urge to do something provocative crashes over me, and I don’t care if it’s stupid as long as it makes me feel better.
“Mona?” I say as I pass her pouring beers. “Do you mind if I finish up early?”
“Go ahead, honey.” She catches my apron as I toss it over the counter and hangs it on the wall behind her. “The crowd’s a little thin tonight anyway.”
“Thanks.” I scoop up my phone from behind the bar, then grab a hold of Wade’s hard, bulky bicep. “Hey. Let’s—”
“Poppy!” Dylan calls, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning around to listen, even as his footsteps draw nearer and his voice sounds just over my shoulder. “Don’t do this.”
“Is he giving you trouble?” Wade stands, tucking his thumbs into his pockets as he stares down his nose, even though he’s at least two inches shorter. “I’d be only too happy to take care of it for you.”
“No trouble,” I say. “I’ve just had enough for one night.”
I collect my ex’s dirty hat from the bar, and then tug on his callused hand. I remind myself that I know what I’m doing, even as a hurricane of butterflies spins in my stomach.
“Come on, Wade. Let’s get out of here.”