12. Poppy
twelve
Poppy
Izzy settles the last of her stuffies on the dining room chairs, and I lift her onto one of the empty counter stools. I’ve set up a mirror in front of us, and the kitchen table is topped with a spray bottle of water, a couple of pairs of scissors, a selection of brushes and combs, an electric shaver, and a bucket filled with hair clips, ribbons, and ties.
“Welcome back to Poppy’s Princess Parlor,” I say, swirling a lemon-yellow towel around Izzy’s neck and securing it with a peg. She swings her feet happily, her new leather cowboy boots peeking out from underneath the towel, and watches herself in the mirror as I fluff around with her long dark curls.
I snap my gum nice and loud before blowing a big pink bubble. “What’s it going to be today, honey?”
“I start a new school tomorrow,” Izzy informs me, her serious stare holding my attention in our reflections. “I think I need something that makes me feel good about myself.”
“A new school, huh?” I grab the water bottle and spritz her hair. “That’s exciting.”
Izzy shrugs. “I suppose so.”
“No?”
We’ve been talking about her new school all week and practicing strategies she can use if she feels overwhelmed or scared, like five-finger breathing, listing her favorite animals in alphabetical order, visualizing a peaceful place, or squeezing the little stress ball she’s going to hide in her pocket.
I’m proud of her. Transferring schools in the middle of the school year is tough. Transferring because she’s having trouble fitting in raises the stakes. But if there’s one thing I know about Izzy, it’s that she’s resilient and funny with a flair for drama, and in the right environment, she’ll make a heap of great friends. Everyone at this new school is going to love her. And if they don’t, they’ll have to answer to me.
“I have to wear a uniform ,” Izzy says, scrunching her nose in disgust.
I drag a comb through her hair one last time before reaching for my tote bag, and Izzy’s eyes light up immediately. “I read your uniform policy yesterday, and while it’s true you have to wear the plaid skirt and the blue shirt and that funny little necktie, there’s no rule against hair accessories. So, guess what?”
Izzy bounces with excitement. “What?”
I pull out a clear plastic case filled with hair ties and scrunchies and decorative clips in navy and indigo and cobalt and azure and every kind of blue I could find. Izzy gasps when I offer it to her and accepts it almost reverently.
“I bought you these, and …”
I hunt around in the bag and pull out a bottle of powder-blue nail polish. “We can’t paint your fingernails, but we can paint your toes. You’ll be wearing shoes and socks, so none of your teachers will know.”
She tips her head to one side and furrows her brow. “So, what’s the point?”
“You’ll know,” I explain. “And it’ll make you feel good. It’s a trick all women should know. What you’ve got on underneath your…uh…socks is a secret weapon for self-esteem.”
“Under my socks?” she asks. “Are you sure?”
I’m sure you’re not old enough for a discussion about lingerie .
“Positive. So why don’t you have a look through the case for something to wear in your hair tomorrow, and I’ll give you a DIY pedicure later this afternoon?”
“Okay.” Izzy rips at the zipper and paws through the hair accessories before pulling out a sparkly blue scrunchie. “This one,” she says as she hands it over.
“Excellent choice, and may I also suggest…” I dig around in the little bag until I find what I’m looking for, then hold up a set of silver hair clips with bluebirds attached to the sides. “These? To keep those pesky flyaways under control.”
Izzy skates a little finger over the birds. “Wow. They’re so pretty.”
“Which makes them perfect for you.” I boop her nose. “Now, before we do a trial run for tomorrow’s hairstyle, what do you say to a little trim?”
I catch a lock of hair between two fingers, skimming to the ends and holding them up with a scandalized look. “ Split ,” I whisper.
Izzy sets her palms to her cheeks and gasps. “No!”
I roll my lips to stop a smile, closing my eyes with a sympathetic nod. “Afraid so.”
“I can’t start a new school with split ends .”
“And I wouldn’t dream of sending you.” I pick up the scissors and give them a metallic little snap as I examine the length of Izzy’s hair. Even with a generous wave, it falls to the small of her back. “What do you say to a quarter of an inch?” I hold up my thumb and finger to demonstrate the length I plan to remove. “You won’t even notice, but it’ll give your curls a fresh bounce.”
“Sounds good.”
“Fantastic.” I set gentle fingers on her head and tilt her chin to her chest. “Okay, Izzy. Stay very still.”
I take my time trimming her ends, not wanting to mess it up and take more than absolutely necessary. When I’m done, I rub in a little product to smooth away frizz, then collect her thick tresses in a high ponytail that’ll swing when she walks. The whole time, Izzy watches in the mirror, her face so still I can’t tell if she likes it or not. If I were a weaker woman, I’d crack under the pressure of that unforgiving stare.
“And now for the clips,” I say. “Would you like one on each side or two on the left, just to be different?”
“One on each—” Izzy stops herself, pursing her lips like she’s thinking, then starts again. “Two on the right , just to be extra different.”
I wink at her in the mirror and slide the accessories into her hair. “Atta girl.”
After she bounds down from her stool, I leave her twirling in her orange tutu, talking and dancing with her stuffed toys, while I sweep up the bits of hair on the hardwood floors. I don’t even realize we’re no longer alone until Izzy exclaims, “Daddy!”
She runs over to where he stands in the archway between the kitchen and the living room, his arms open as Izzy rushes into his whirling hug. I can’t believe Dylan doubts himself as a dad. He’s so good with Izzy. Patient and funny, and the way he loves on her is enough to break my heart in the best way. Maybe neither of them knows it now, but one day, Izzy is going to grow up and sit beside her father and hold his hand while she thanks him for all the days and years of love he gave her.
I lower my head to wipe a tear from my eye before it falls. These two don’t know how lucky they are.
Dylan sets Izzy down, and she skips back to her toys—she’s given them paper tickets with numbers to indicate who’s next in line for the hairdressing chair—and as he moves into the kitchen, he casts a nervous eye over the pile of dark curls I’ve scooped into a neat pile at my feet.
“Do I want to know?” he asks.
“We’re getting ready for tomorrow,” I explain. “Working out how Izzy wants to wear her hair for her first day at the new school. I gave her ends a tiny trim while we were at it.”
Dylan’s brows shoot up, but his mouth gives away his amusement. “Are you serious?”
“Yes. I looked it up on YouTube.” I flick the yellow towel hard enough that it whips through the air with a crack and cuts off whatever Dylan intended to say. “Who’s next?”
Izzy runs over and presses a slip of paper into Dylan’s palm. “Daddy’s turn!”
“Oh, no.” Dylan waves his palms and takes a step back, prompting Izzy to circle around and push him forward, her little hands digging into those glorious glutes.
He stumbles forward a little, and I grin as I give his mop of hair a professional examination. “You could use a tidy-up. And those scrunchies have got to go.”
His neck flushes a little red as he swipes the orange hair tie from his head, but it leaves his hair sticking up at odd angles, and it’s just too adorable.
Izzy continues to shove at him, grunting with effort, while I swap the counter stool in front of the mirror for a dining chair and gesture for Dylan to take a seat. He looks at it askant.
“Are you scared ?” I tease.
He looks at me like the answer should be obvious. “Uh…yeah?”
I laugh as Izzy puts her shoulder into it, and with one big heave, Dylan stumbles forward and drops into the seat. I throw the towel around his shoulders, and electricity sparks when my fingers brush his neck.
In our reflections, our gazes snap together. Shit .
Has it really been seven days since he kissed me? Seven days since we admitted mutual attraction and decided not to let it rule us? Seven days of Dylan never letting on that he wanted more than that one moment. Seven nights of me wondering if a kiss was all he needed to get me out of his system. If maybe that’s why he’s been so easy this week. He stopped wanting me.
But now…tingles. Everywhere.
I swallow and smile, pretending that nothing happened, as I pick up a pair of scissors and a comb. Then I turn to Izzy, who frowns at her father’s mess of hair.
“How much should we take off?” I ask her as we evaluate the situation.
“Just a trim,” Dylan insists, but we ignore him.
“An inch? Maybe two?” I suggest.
Izzy’s face screws up, and I choke back a laugh at Dylan’s growing panic.
“Half an inch,” Izzy decides.
Dylan releases a relieved breath, which catches again the moment I push my fingers into his hair.
Oh, Jesus, take the wheel.
Dylan’s hair is thick and soft, and as it brushes against my skin, I decide I prefer it long. Dylan wore it shorter when we were younger, but he’s older now and it suits him, a hint of the man he’d be if he let loose. The same with the scruff around his jaw. It’s rugged and primal, the way he behaved at The Tipple. The way I imagine he is in the bedroom.
I massage my fingertips against his scalp, noting the subtle way his eyes roll back in his head when I do it, then drag them back to let the strands slip through my fingers. I do it again, not because I need to but because it feels so damn good.
“Here,” Izzy says, handing me the spray bottle. “You take care of Daddy while I let the other customers know they have to wait.”
“Good idea, Iz,” I say, struggling to maintain a natural tone.
She turns to scoop up as many stuffies as she can fit in her small embrace. “They’ll be happier on the sofa,” she explains as she carts them out into the other room.
“That’s very considerate of you,” Dylan replies, and when he clears his throat, I realize I still have a hand in his hair.
I slide it out and shower his hair with water, distributing it with my fingers and then gathering the strands back from his forehead. A single droplet of water falls from his hairline, trailing across his temple, and I watch it fall in the mirror. I forget myself for the moment it takes for the droplet to travel the distance to his jaw, imagining it’s not water but evidence of exertion. Sweat dripping from physical activity. Proof he’s fighting hard to keep moving, stay in control, delay the finish.
I blink away the image as I set the water bottle aside, then thread my fingers through his hair again and apply more pressure to his scalp. I’m rewarded with a quiet moan, and I barely hold in a whimper as I pull free.
“I like your hair long,” I tell him as I pick up the scissors.
His mouth ticks up on one side. “You like the man bun?”
“Actually, I do.” My lashes flick up as I catch his glance in the mirror. “It suits you.”
His lips twitch as he shakes his head, dropping his eyes to the side. “It’s lazy and messy and—”
“It’s sexy.”
His eyes find mine in the mirror, and the tension we’ve been ignoring snaps taut between us. We didn’t resolve it. We didn’t get it out of our systems. We only tricked it into believing one kiss and one promise was all we needed to neutralize it.
“Don’t move,” I order, collecting a lock of hair between two fingers and snipping a quarter-inch off the end before he has time to protest. I let that section drop and find another, my fingers skating the back of his neck, warmth flaring at the contact.
My breath comes short and shallow, and I focus on the sound of Izzy in the next room chatting to her toy friends.
“Izzy seems ready for tomorrow,” I comment as I snip another piece of hair.
Dylan blinks as whatever spell between us is broken by the mention of his daughter. “Uh, yeah. Thanks to you. She’s told me about the strategies she can use to talk to the butterflies in her stomach, like naming animals in alphabetical order. That’s a good one.”
Alligator. Bear. Cat. Dog.
Too bad it doesn’t work for me.
I focus on my hands as I work through the last few strands of Dylan’s hair. “She’s going to do great,” I agree. “I’ve got a good feeling about it.”
“Me too. Izzy could use a fresh start.”
“Speaking of fresh starts…” I set down the scissors and dig my hands back into Dylan’s hair, aware that after today, I won’t have an excuse to do this again. I rub at the roots to give his hair a little lift after the water weighed it down, and when I finally let go, Dylan shakes his head like a puppy, letting the new cut settle around his face.
Seriously. That’s all it takes. A shake of the head, a few adjustments with his fingertips, and he could step out onto a runway.
“Thanks,” he says, noting with curious fingers that although it doesn’t look much different, the bits at the front don’t catch on his eyelashes anymore. “You did a good job.”
“I always do a good job,” I reply, and though I don’t mean the innuendo to be so obvious, we both hear it.
I close my eyes with mild embarrassment, but when I open them again, Dylan’s watching me in the mirror with a smirk on his lush mouth.
“I bet you do.”
“Are you serious?” I smack his arm, and he chuckles. Who is this man, where did he come from, and how do I make sure he never goes anywhere ever again?
Dylan runs a hand across his jaw. “What about the beard? Should that go too?”
I stand behind him and regard his reflection. It’s not hard. I could stare at his face all day. In fact, there have been times in the past when I’ve done exactly that.
“No,” I say.
“No?”
“Absolutely not.”
I know it’s naughty. I know I shouldn’t. But I slide a hand up over his shoulder then around to his cheek to gently caress the rough whiskers with my fingertips. He watches with steady eyes, but he doesn’t tell me to stop.
“I like you a little rough,” I murmur, captivated by the image of my hand stroking his face. “Wild. A little out of control.”
His throat works, and I cup his perfect jaw, my fingers skating over his shadowed skin. Without thinking, my thumb moves toward his mouth, sweeping out to trace the shape of his lips. I watch with wonder as in the reflection, Dylan parts his lips and I slip inside, grazing his teeth as the warm wet touch of his tongue hits my finger.
My pussy pulses, and I take a long, shaky breath. “Dylan…”
“Oh, my God! What’s going on here?”
The sound of Daisy’s voice makes me jump, and I leap back from Dylan as shame burns through my veins. Dylan tears at the towel around his neck and gets to his feet, but as he rushes to put a little distance between us, we realize that Daisy isn’t talking to us. She’s in the living room with Izzy and asking about the toys and her hair.
Dylan and I exchange a relieved look. Relieved and underpinned by guilt.
A moment later, Izzy pulls her aunt into the kitchen to show her our DIY salon.
“See? Poppy cut my hair, and then she cut Daddy’s.” Izzy squints up at her father. “She could have cut it more.”
“It was just a trim,” Dylan protests, shoving a hand through his shorter hair.
“It doesn’t catch on his lashes anymore,” I add, weakly. “And it’s a little shorter around the neck.”
“I like it.” Daisy gives me a goofy two thumbs up, which makes me laugh, and then spins to show us her back, where a smear of mud mars her black Silver Leaf Ranch shirt. “I just came home to get changed before the next ride, so I can’t stay.”
As Daisy hurries upstairs and Izzy returns to the living room, I release a tense breath. On the other side of the table, Dylan does the same, mirroring the sag in my shoulders.
“That was…” Close? Hot? Both? I don’t know how to end the sentence, but Dylan seems to understand.
“Yeah.” His eyes move to the clock on the wall, and he stands a little straighter. “I just came by to check on Izzy between shifts, but I’ve got to head back, so…”
This time, Dylan’s the one lost for words, but I don’t need them either.
“Yeah.”
He gives me a tight smile before moving to the living room for a quiet chat with Izzy, and once I’m alone, I brace myself on the back of the nearest dining chair. My knees are weak, my breathing is uneven, and my heart refuses to beat the right way.
I absently note the sounds of Daisy rushing out of the house, followed by the front door opening, then closing again behind Dylan. With the two of them gone, I find the strength to stand on my own, pick up the broom, and sweep up the new hair clippings. I haven’t tidied more than a third of the mess before I forget what I’m doing and stop to stare at the tip of my thumb. The one I slipped inside Dylan’s warm, willing mouth.
What was that? Will I spend the next week obsessing about this as hard as I did our kiss? And how far would things have gone if Daisy never interrupted?
But the hardest questions of all: How far would we have let it go? And why did neither of us insist it can never happen again?