Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Any hope that Cooper had been joking, saying his crew usually started at six a.m., was shattered the next morning when Poppy woke to what sounded like a pneumatic drill boring straight through her skull.
A peek out the window confirmed it: the construction site was a hive of activity.
Even those earplugs weren’t going to help her now.
Time for Plan B.
She turned on the radio loud to try and drown out the racket next door. “One way, or another . . .” she sang along, as she unpacked the rest of her things in the antique bureau.
Aunt June always had eclectic taste, and the old house was filled with trinkets and souvenirs from her travels—from the tribal masks in the staircase to the Australian didgeridoo leaning up against the hall.
Downstairs, the beachy living room opened up to a big butter-yellow kitchen with windows out to the back porch.
Poppy scavenged in the cupboards and found some instant coffee, which she poured into a polka-dot mug and took outside to sit on the back steps in the morning sun.
She breathed deeply, the sea air whipping her hair around her face.
It really was beautiful out here: the ocean was glinting, blue and wide across the horizon, and the early-morning fog was already clearing to bright skies.
Aunt June’s garden was full of climbing roses, lavender, and seagrass, with a winding path all the way to the sand.
If it weren’t for the yells and banging breaking the calm, it would be a picture-perfect scene.
Almost pretty enough to make her forget everything she’d left behind in New York.
Poppy’s heart sank. The guilt was still digging away, hard behind her ribcage. She could only imagine what Owen and his family were saying about her now, and she didn’t blame them. Walking out on a wedding with only a few weeks to spare was unforgivable, but what else could she do?
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
They’d met online two years ago, after such a long, lonely spell of bad first dates and lackluster fix-ups that Poppy had almost given up hope she would find someone.
She was twenty-seven, spending every day writing great love affairs for her characters, and her weekends at new baby showers or engagement parties, watching those love stories come to life right in front of her.
But at the end of the night, she always went home alone.
To the apartment she loved, in the life that she was proud of, sure—but it still filled her with that lonely ache when she looked around and wished she had someone there to share it with her.
To snuggle up in bed with on a Saturday morning, and bicker with over the TV remote at night.
She wanted holiday traditions, and pet names, and, one day, a family of her own.
So when Owen sent a message through the latest online dating site—with actual punctuation, and no lewd photos attached—she was ready.
True love might take a little effort, but she was willing to try.
And it worked. He was sweet and steady, and sure, he preferred to read thick military histories, and his eyes glazed over a little when she tried to talk to him about the chapters she’d written that day, but it wasn’t the end of the world.
She didn’t really understand his work, either (something to do with cyber-security and systems administration), but not every couple had to share each other’s passions.
They had fun together, the relaxed, easy kind of conversation that made it feel like she’d known him for years, and slowly, Poppy wondered if maybe this could be the forever she’d been looking for.
Still, it took her by surprise when he proposed—getting down on one knee during his parents’ anniversary picnic.
It seemed to come out of nowhere, and for a split second, she’d almost turned him down, but looking at his excited expression, and hearing the gasps and whispers all around them, she couldn’t help but tell him yes.
After all, it made sense: they’d been together a year already, and it was all going fine.
Great, even. This is what you did next—got married, moved in, built a life together—and it would have been foolish to throw it all away just because her stomach didn’t flip when Owen walked into the room or slid into bed with her at night.
But as the months passed and the wedding plans reached fever pitch, her doubts became impossible to ignore.
The whispers in the back of her mind became shouts, and she found herself sitting in front of the TV at night beside him, trying to imagine if this was her forever.
If this was it, the rest of their lives just like this, would it be enough for her?
Or would her heart still ache, imagining a great love that was out there for her, somewhere?
Owen deserved more than that. They both did.
And as much as she felt guilty now, practically stranding him at the altar, Poppy knew that it would have been even worse if she’d said “I do” when her heart wasn’t in it.
She’d saved them both from heartache. She just had to hope that one day, Owen believed it too.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and Poppy pulled it out, glad of the distraction.
Or not.
“Quinn,” she greeted her literary agent. “How’s it going?”
“What do you mean, ‘how’s it going’?” Quinn’s voice demanded. “I log on to look at photos of the happy couple, and find a bunch of people bitching about how you walked out on him. How do I not know this?!”
“You were at that conference in Germany,” Poppy protested weakly. “I was going to tell you when you got back.”
“They have wifi in Germany!” Quinn exclaimed, then calmed herself. “What happened? Are you OK? Did you walk in and find him in bed with that bridesmaid—you know, the step-cousin who was giving you attitude about the shoes? Bastard!”
“Whoa, it’s not his fault,” Poppy interrupted quickly. “I promise. I just realized he wasn’t the one for me.”
“Oh.” Quinn paused, then changed tacks. “Then you did the right thing. You’re so much better off without him. Plenty more fish in the sea!”
“Oh, yes?” Poppy couldn’t help replying. “How’s that working out for you?”
Quinn groaned. “Don’t ask. What’s Owen’s number?
Maybe I’ll give him a call. Kidding,” she added, but Poppy wouldn’t put it past her.
Quinn was a force of nature who let nothing stand in her way.
It made her a great agent, but her love life was more like a crime scene: full of bad accidents and police tape reading “do not pass.”
“Anyway,” Quinn moved on quickly, like she had another ten calls to make that morning. “Does this mean I can tell your publisher they’ll be getting a manuscript soon? Since you’ll be writing now, instead of feeding him chocolate-covered strawberries on honeymoon in Bora-Bora?”
“I hope so,” Poppy said. “I’m at my aunt’s place for a few weeks, trying to get it finished.”
“Hallelujah,” Quinn cheered. “I didn’t want to say anything, but I’ve been fielding angry calls all month.
I’ve held them off as best I can, but even I can’t work miracles.
Are you sure I can’t send them any pages?
” she added, her voice taking on a pleading note.
“I know you hate showing your manuscripts until they’re finished, but even just a few chapters would go a long way to buying us some time. ”
Poppy gulped. “Sorry,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “The first chapters need some major rewrites. It took me a while to settle into the voice, I don’t want anyone seeing it like that.”
Quinn sighed. “OK, whatever you need. Just remember, they’ve pushed your deadline twice already. Any longer, and they’ll have to move your release date back next year.”
“I promise, I’ll have something for you in a few weeks,” Poppy vowed. “I’m actually in the middle of a scene right now, so I should get back to it.”
“Don’t let me keep you. Laters, babe!”
Quinn rang off, and Poppy lowered her phone. Lying to her agent? Just add it to her growing list of crimes. Everyone at her publisher thought she was already halfway through the book, but the truth was, she hadn’t written a single word.
Poppy had writer’s block, and she had it bad.
But all that was going to change, starting today.
She jumped up and headed back inside, retrieving her laptop then heading to the old study.
It was a shady room lined with old bookcases, and it also happened to be the farthest room away from Cooper’s construction site.
Still, the shouts and banging echoed through the windows as Poppy sat down at the desk, opened her screen, and started a new document.
The cursor blinked at her, taunting. This part should be easy.
It was the final book in her series, the conclusion to a love story that had spanned a century and three continents.
She knew these characters inside out—and knew exactly what her readers were expecting from her.
Still, as Poppy stared at her notes, all the careful plot ideas and outlines, she still couldn’t find those first words.
What did she know about true love?
A whole lot of nothing.
The banging came again, louder. She slammed her screen shut.
She was going about this the wrong way. Back home, she’d treated writing like a real job: getting up every morning, getting dressed, and going out to write at the library or coffee shops around the city.
No wonder she couldn’t start writing—she was sitting around in her pajamas, messing up her usual routine!
Poppy headed back upstairs. She grabbed some towels from the linen closet, and stepped into the bathroom.
June must have had it updated since she was there last, because the chipped sink had been replaced with a gorgeous expanse of blue tile, with a deep tub and a walk-in shower.
Poppy turned on the water, feeling determined.
A shower, some fresh clothes, and then she’d find somewhere to hunker down and write. The words would pour out of her, then.
They had to.
She stripped her clothes off, tied up her hair, and stepped under the hot water. Ahh, that was better. She would get back on track in no time, she just had to—
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Cooper heard the screams clear from next door, even over the sound of construction. For a long, panicked moment, he thought something terrible had happened. Poppy had fallen down the stairs, or been attacked by a drifter, or cut off some vital limb . . .
He dropped his tools and raced across the yard. “Poppy?” he yelled. The back door was open, so he charged inside and up the stairs. “Poppy? Are you OK?”
“I’m going to kill you, Cooper Nicholson!”
Maybe not.
Poppy came barreling out of the bathroom, straight into him. “Whoa,” he said, automatically putting his arms out to steady her. His hands closed around silky, wet skin, and he realized she was wearing nothing but a towel.
A very small towel.
“Christ, woman, I thought you were getting murdered up here.” He cleared his throat. He didn’t know where to look. Her hair was pinned up, revealing the slim arch of her neck, glistening with water. The postage stamp of a towel was barely covering her long legs and the swell of her—
He dragged his eyes back up to her eyes. Her furious, shooting-daggers eyes.
“You wish,” Poppy looked furious. “But I’ve half a mind to throw you down the stairs myself.”
“What did I do this time?” Cooper sighed. “I’m sorry about the noise, but—”
“It’s not the noise!” Poppy yelled. “Here.” She grabbed his hand, yanked him into the bathroom, and turned on the shower. A parade of X-rated images flashed in Cooper’s mind. Like what it would be like under the spray with her—
“Well?” Poppy demanded. She was staring at him expectantly, like he was supposed to know what the hell she was going on about.
“You’re going to have to spell it out.”
“There’s no hot water!” Poppy cried.
“Oh. That.” Cooper smirked. “We had to shut off the gas this morning for construction.”
He knew he should apologize, but man, she was cute when she was spitting mad. Her brown eyes were flashing, and she’d forgotten her towel was slipping lower with every angry gesture, revealing inches more of that soft, wet skin.
“Sorry. It’s only for another few days.”
“A few DAYS?” Poppy’s voice went up an octave.
He grinned. “Maybe it’s for the best. It looks like you could use a little cooling off.”
“You— You—” Poppy spluttered. “I’ll give you cool!”
She grabbed the hand-held shower head and blasted it straight at him.
“AAAIII!” Cooper yelped, hit in the face with a spray of ice-cold water.
He leapt back, out of range, as Poppy laughed. “Are you crazy?” He demanded, icy droplets dripping down his neck.
“Only because you’re driving me round the bend!” She exclaimed. “All I’m asking is some peace and quiet to get my work done, not this— this— chaos!”
“And I could use two weeks on a boat in the Caribbean,” Cooper drawled, knowing it would turn her pink cheeks even redder with rage. “But as the Stones said, we can’t always get what we want.”
He turned and left her in the bathroom before she hit him with another spray again — or he was tempted to do something he’d regret. Like kiss the mouth that was spluttering insults behind him.
Now that would really heat things up around here.