15. Poppy
fifteen
Poppy
We’re in trouble. So much trouble. Because we didn’t just cross a line today. We blew straight past it. Literally. And I’m not sure there’s a way to walk it back.
I’m less sure that I want to.
But I’m certain I don’t have the willpower to even try.
By the time we return to the truck, Dylan needs to get back to the restaurant, so I run my errands alone. I pass the hours in a type of stunned haze, replaying the morning over and over like I might forget that I made Dylan Davenport come in his pants. Why does that make me feel kind of powerful? And why was it so freaking hot?
I pick up Izzy from school and take her to her trumpet lesson. We call Dylan on the way, and Izzy chatters from the back seat while I drive, telling us all about her new school, potential friends, and possibly her first wobbly tooth. Bottom line: she’s happy.
Thank the freaking universe.
Today’s music class is Izzy’s third, and after I wave goodbye, I do the same thing I’ve done the last two weeks. I roam the campus, feeling less like an intruder than I did the first time I was here, and lose myself in an entirely different unreality. One where I’m the kind of woman who can handle books and learning. Someone with the smarts she needs to come here every day and work toward something wonderful. The type of person who understands numbers and theories and walks out of here with a cap on her head, a diploma in her hand, and the confidence to run her own business. Build her own brand.
As impatient as I am to get back to Dylan, Izzy and I always go for milkshakes on Mondays, and a predictable routine helps with her anxiety. So, it’s just before six p.m. when we walk through the restaurant doors, nervous anticipation fluttering in my throat and stomach.
But then Dylan steps out of the kitchen and into the dining room, and I cover a choked-up laugh with one hand. Izzy looks up at me with a puzzled frown, and I nod toward her father. He’s wearing a tall, white chef’s hat instead of his usual scruffy man-bun-in-a-scrunchie, and I don’t know why it’s so funny—he actually looks kind of sexy—but I’m a child, and I find it humorous.
The restaurant is empty and not yet open for dinner, so Dylan spots us almost immediately. An amused smirk curls his mouth in a way that, after today, will always look dirty, and he crosses the room in a hurry to swing Izzy up in a hard hug.
“Hey, Little Bee! I missed you.”
She returns Dylan’s embrace with a short, sharp squeeze around his neck, then pokes at the soft cotton tower on his head. “Why are you wearing this?”
Dylan looks up as if he can see his own hat. “I lost my hair tie, and it was either this or a hair net, and I can’t pull that off. Why? Don’t you like it?”
Izzy shoots me a conspiratorial grin. “Poppy thinks it’s funny.”
“Does she?” Dylan’s glance warms me for only a second before it bounces away again, and he sets Izzy down with a love tap on her tush. “Why don’t you sit at our table while I organize dinner? There might even be a new set of pencils and an origami set waiting for you.”
“Oh, and a sticker book,” I add, giving Dylan a friendly but still highly amused smile. “Don’t forget the sticker book.”
Dylan fights a grin and tucks his hands into the back pockets of his jeans. There’s a charged buzz between us. An energy that could light up this entire restaurant.
“Right,” Dylan agrees. “And a sticker book. Oh, and a book about wild cats.”
Izzy’s expression gets brighter with each revelation, and her cheeks look about to burst when we get to the part about the book. Wild cats are her thing this week.
“Did you know that snow leopards are more closely related to tigers than other leopards?” she asks. “And they can’t roar, but they’ve got fur between the pads on their paws to protect them against the snow.”
She runs off before we can reply. Dylan and I watch her fly across the room, a tiny hurricane in navy tartan that falls on the stack of activities on her usual table.
“So.” Dylan turns toward me, and I don’t realize how close I’ve been standing until that one small movement puts us almost chest to chest. Suddenly I’m extra-aware of his body heat and the scent of his cologne, the way he towers over me, the hard plane of his chest, the ridged lines of his crossed forearms and the fine bones of his wrists and hands. “You don’t like the hat, huh?”
“The hat?” I pretend that he’s not turning my brain to mush and my veins into raging conduits of pure, burning need. “It looks kind of like a penis on your head.”
Dylan snorts and swipes at his hat, running his other hand through his flattened hair. “Better?”
“Much,” I fib because now I kind of prefer it on—and he knows it.
“Liar.”
He smirks down at me with a twinkle in his blue eyes before his chin suddenly lifts and he looks around the room. He clears his throat and takes a small step back.
I know it’s the right thing to do, but it hurts.
Before I can offer to make myself scarce until it’s time to take Izzy back to the house, Dylan says, “Stay for dinner? I want to hear all about Izzy’s day, and I missed— Will you stay?”
Was he about to say he missed me? Missed Izzy? Missed being there to pick her up? Missed not going to her music lesson? Missed the chance to repeat what we did this morning?
Will there ever be a day I don’t take every word he says and turn it over and over in my head, searching for meaning that’s not there?
“Sure,” I reply. “I haven’t asked her too many questions because I didn’t want to exhaust her after such a big day. So, it’ll be the first I’m hearing about it too.”
“Great. Give me ten minutes, and I’ll meet you at the table.”
With a flirty wink that makes him look so much like the young, fun-loving kid he used to be, Dylan returns the hat to his head, adjusting it so it sits a little off-center and flops to one side. I shake my head with a laugh as he disappears into the kitchen.
Izzy and I tackle an origami bunny while we wait for Dylan. When he appears at the table, it’s with dishes expertly balanced on his arms, wrists, and hands, and I’m temporarily stupefied by how sexy that is. Is it just me, or is competence a total turn-on?
“Basil and almond pesto farfalle,” he says as he sets the first item down in the middle of the table. I inhale with appreciation as Dylan presents a soupy-looking chicken dish with long green beans floating in the sauce. “Tomato chicken braise. House- made sourdough with Silver Leaf olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Lemon arugula salad with parmesan and pine nuts.”
“This looks delicious,” I say as Dylan spoons a little of each onto three large plates.
“Thank you,” he replies, but there’s something in his tone that makes me look up, and I’m surprised by how pleased he is by the compliment.
Izzy’s the first to take a bite, but I’m not far behind. Dylan’s eyes drink me in as I take the first mouthful, and it’s a moan-worthy explosion of tomato and garlic and rosemary. He’s still watching when I spear a pretty little butterfly-shaped piece of pasta and hum with delight at the rich hit of basil.
“You like it?” he asks, his plate still untouched.
“It’s incredible.” I point to his dinner. “Don’t you?”
“Just working up an appetite,” he murmurs, smirking when my eyes round in reply.
I spent so many years wishing Dylan Davenport would notice me, but I was forever invisible. Now he’s looking at me like I’m the only woman in the room.
“So, Little Bee,” he says. “Tell us more about your new school. You said you had a good day?”
“It was the best!” Izzy says, shoveling a forkful of pasta into her mouth.
Dylan’s shoulders soften slightly, but he does a good job of hiding that he was anxious. “That’s awesome. Do you like your teacher? Are the kids nice?”
We get a solid ten minutes of extra info out of Izzy—all positive things that indicate that she’s off to a hopeful start at this expensive private school—but it’s not long before she starts to slow down. When her responses dwindle to one and two words each, and her little mouth widens into an impressive yawn, Dylan gives me an apologetic frown.
“I think it’s time to take her home,” he says.
“I think you’re right.”
He checks his watch, and a shadow of disappointment crosses his face. “I’ll be home to tuck her in, so I guess I’ll see you back at the house in an hour.”
Back at the house where Daisy will be. Possibly Charlie. We realize at almost the exact same moment that after this morning, there won’t be many opportunities to be alone.
And that’s a good thing, I remind myself. If we can’t control ourselves, we’ll just need to rely on fear of getting caught to keep us on our best behavior.
Izzy drags herself to her feet, and I take her hand to encourage her toward the exit. If I were a stronger woman, I wouldn’t look back when we get there, but what happened this morning is proof I’m not a strong woman, so as I push on the door, I glance over my shoulder. Dylan watches me, and the hunger in his eyes makes my heart skip and my thoughts race.
Thoughts about how soon we can be accidentally on purpose alone again.
It’s nearly midnight, and I’m in bed under the covers watching Rapunzel on my laptop when my phone chimes. Dylan’s name flashes on the screen, and I kick my feet. I actually kick my feet before I remember that I’m his kid’s nanny, and this might be about work.
I hold the phone against my chest, close my eyes, and take a calming breath. Don’t be disappointed if this is about Izzy. It doesn’t mean anything one way or another.
Do my heart or my lady parts listen? No, they do not.
My fingers tremble as I swipe to open his message, and I squeak as I read and re-read the single word before burying myself deeper into my blankets.
Dylan
Hey.
That’s it. That’s the message. And with one little word, he’s got me wrapped around his finger.
Hey. You’re up late.
Dylan
Yeah. Can’t sleep. Did I wake you?
Nope. I’m watching a movie.
Dylan
Let me guess. Something with a once upon a time and a happily ever after and a whole lot of mess in the middle?
Exactly.
Rapunzel.
Dylan
That’s a good one.
It’s my favorite.
You’ve got an outlaw-prince vibe going on, you know. The hair. The charm. The dashing good looks.
Dylan
Here comes the smolder…
It’s cute that Dylan knows the line, but not surprising because I know for a fact Izzy’s a fan too. The thought of the two of them sharing popcorn and watching cartoons together adds a different type of buzz to my already vibrating body.
I reach across the bed to my nightstand and attach my phone to the charger before the battery dies and ruins my life.
The three little dots that indicate Dylan is typing keep flashing on the screen, and I can’t look away, even though the wait is long enough I nearly gnaw a hole through my bottom lip.
When his message comes through, it’s worth the wait.
It’s a picture of Dylan in his bed, taken from below his waist. His smooth, hard chest is bare, his nipples are hard, and the bulge beneath the waist of his sweatpants teases me. He slouches against the headboard and stares down the lens with a smolder that puts all others to shame.
I toss back the covers to get some cool air on my skin.
You do that well.
Dylan
Thanks. I won’t tell you how many tries it took to get a shot that really captured the smolder.
I save the image to my camera roll, then go back to my messages.
So…have you tried counting sheep?
Dylan
Huh?
You said you can’t sleep.
Have you tried counting sheep?
Dylan
Ah. No. Hasn’t worked too well for me in the past.
So, what have you tried?
Dylan
Are you sure you want to know?
I know it’s not smart to read into tone via text, but I sense a kind of sexy challenge in Dylan’s message that makes the hairs on my arms stand on end.
I’m sure. Tell me.
Three dots of hesitation flash on my screen.
Dylan
Why are you still awake?
I smile at the screen and tap my fingers with a shake of my head.
Way to avoid the subject.
I guess I can’t sleep either.
Dylan
Why not?
You tell me yours, and I’ll tell you mine.
I wonder if the person who invented the three dots of an incoming text reply knew it would someday be used as a low-level torture device.
Dylan
I can’t sleep because I keep replaying what we did today.
My fingers tingle, my head spins a little, and I force myself to take three deep breaths before I pass out.
I’ve been thinking about it too.
Dylan
I’m trying to count all the colors I saw on your body, but that’s nothing like counting sheep.
I sit up higher in my bed, wriggling back against the headboard, losing all sense of where I am and what I’m thinking outside of Dylan Dylan Dylan .
Really?
Dylan
Yeah.
How many have you got so far?
Dylan
Four. A pale kind of blue. A bright kind of pink. A little bit of purple. And gold. But a dusty kind of gold. Subtle. Almost invisible.
I read back his text a dozen times, stunned that he paid that much attention, and that he still remembers all that detail after so many hours.
There’s also indigo and violet.
Dylan
Really? Where?
I don’t think twice about the wisdom of what I’m about to do before I close our chat and swipe through to my camera. Then I settle on the pillows, lift my t-shirt just enough to show off a little under-boob and the lines of the dragonfly on my sternum, take a picture from the vantage point that Dylan had today—from my hips looking upward—and hit send.
Dylan replies straightaway.
Dylan
Fuck. I’ll never get over that view.
Send me another one.
I rearrange myself on the bed again, taking care to make my hair look a little wild and adjusting the neck of my baggy t-shirt to hint at cleavage. Then I settle on the pillows, hold my phone high overhead, and take a pic.
And I don’t love it. It’s cute but it’s not particularly sexy, so I do the first risqué thing that comes to mind. I slip my hand inside my underwear and try again.
And it’s hot.
The pic only shows my wrist and belly button, but it’s obvious where I’ve got my hand. Is it too much? Maybe, but the thought of Dylan lying in his bed, getting turned on by a photo of me, touching and stroking and sweating over it, makes me ache, so I attach the image and hit send.
And I wait.
It isn’t long before another picture from Dylan pops up on the screen. It’s from the waist down this time, his hand tucked into the soft gray cotton of his sweats, the fabric tented by his erection. I’m already breathless at the size of the thing when I notice the live photo symbol in the corner. I hold my finger to the screen and whimper as his fist works his cock underneath his pants. Up and down. Up and down.
Oh, God. I want him so badly. I want mine to be the hand he thrusts into.
I set my camera to video mode, point the lens toward my thighs, and watch the screen as I slide my fingers into my underwear and through my slick folds. I find my core and plunge two fingers deep inside, and then pump once. Twice. A third time. With a quiet, needy moan, I extract my wet fingers and stop the recording.
I attach the video to a message and hit send.
While I wait for Dylan to reply, I slip into my underwear again, fingering myself and playing with my clit until I’m on the edge of orgasm. My phone chimes before I get there, and when I open the message from Dylan, I desperately tap to open the clip attached.
His dick isn’t in his pants anymore. It’s in his hand. Pink and swollen and glorious. He thrusts into it, thighs tense and hips lifting off the mattress as he fucks his palm with strangled grunts. I rub my clit with increasing frenzy as Dylan jerks off to the camera, and when he explodes all over his stomach, glistening white cum painting his washboard abs to the soundtrack of his muffled groans, I switch with a frantic hand to my camera so I can film the moment I come against my fingers, crying out against my pillow as my pussy clenches and releases around nothing.
I send the video to Dylan, drop my phone, and close my eyes as I ride the fading waves of my climax. It dissolves in gentle pulses as I catch my breath.
Wow. Holy freaking wow . I’ve never come like this. Never. And if it’s this good now, how shattering will it be when we do this for real?
And I can’t imagine a future where we don’t.
I collect my phone when it chimes and read Dylan’s text.
Dylan
Fuck. That was so fucking pretty.
I want to know what your orgasm feels like on my fingers. I need to feel you come around my dick. I want to know what it tastes like when you fall off the edge. I’m going fucking crazy here.
Sorry, not sorry?
I’m about to say more when a notification appears at the top of my screen. It’s a message from Daisy, and a wave of guilt crashes over me. I jerk upright and open her text.
Daisy
Galentine’s Day is next Friday. You want to order in some food and hate-watch Sleepless in Seattle with me and Charlie?
I bow my head over the screen and squeeze my eyes shut, but I feel like the worst best friend in the world. I never want to hurt Daisy, so what am I doing? What the fuck am I doing ?
I heart Daisy’s messages, then return to Dylan’s thread, my fingers shaking for other reasons now.
Daisy just messaged me about Galentine’s Day. We’re having a girls’ night in.
The three dots fade in and out on my screen, and when a message doesn’t follow, I crack and send one more.
Should we stop?
I type out one more question but then delete it. Should we tell her?
Yes, and Daisy never forgives me. No, and Dylan as good as confirms that there’s nothing worth saving between us. Either answer will ruin me.
The dots in our chat fade in and out again, mirroring the pendulum of my emotions, before Dylan’s message flashes up on the screen.
Dylan
I don’t want to stop.
He wants me, and I hate myself a little for wanting him back.
Neither do I.