Chapter 21
Xander
A lush green canopy overhead provided shade from the late afternoon sun as Penelope and I entered the garden. The spindling
vines climbed up and along the broad palm leaves creating a giant interconnected umbrella.
“Why the Singapore Botanic Garden?” I walked a few steps behind Penelope, who traversed the path like she’d memorized it:
her head was on a swivel.
Penelope shrugged. “I wasn’t allowed to go to many places as a child. But I was allowed to come here.
“Everyone likes to go to the Gardens at the Bay,” Penelope explained as she walked ahead, reading the signs next to the flowers
carefully. “And it’s lovely.” She kept walking, scanning the landscapes along the path for something. “But this one is...”
She stopped in front of a patch of flowers that didn’t look like they had much adornment around them. A little bit away from
the orchid gardens, the landscape was mostly filler flowers and foliage as a bland contrast to the opulent orchids that awaited
us up the path.
The flowers in question were red with black centers.
My heart dipped.
She stopped in front of poppies.
I always wanted to know why, of all the things she could have grown and killed in her house, she chose poppies.
“Poppies?” I caught up to her and looked at the patch of unassuming flowers.
“They grow everywhere. Here, London, Scotland. In the snow. In the sun.”
She took a deep, shuddered breath and knelt down. It made a little more sense now. Shuttled between homes on different continents.
Poppies were there regardless. Something she could expect in a life where so much was expected of her.
“Everywhere except your house,” I teased.
She looked up, passing her fingers over the velvet petals. Her eyes widened and something about that made that statement twinkle
for a fleeting second; her mouth opened and immediately closed before she blinked it away.
“Yes, well.” She stood up and ran a hand down her dandelion-colored dress a few times. “Not everyone has a green thumb.”
“You don’t really need a green thumb to take care of them,” I quipped, throwing an arm over her shoulders, unable to resist
touching her in any way I was allowed to. “It’s hard to destroy poppies, they’re tenacious.”
Mine certainly was.
“I’m an overachiever.” She didn’t do anything to move my arm, so I left it there.
“Well, I like your choice of venue.” I breathed in the citrus scent as we passed the fragrant lemon trees a few feet from
the orchid gardens.
“I thought you might like it here; the conservancy and all.”
Originally, working with the Central Park Conservancy was Beatrice Amari’s way of trying to help me deal with my parents’ death. My mom loved to garden. The house I grew up in was al ways surrounded by flowers and my mom had a pretty extensive garden in the backyard.
“I do,” I admitted. “My mom liked to garden. She’d have loved this. We had peonies and roses all along our house growing up.”
“Yeah?” Her eyes flickered around the high canopy, brows lifted and her chest filled with a deep contented breath.
“She and Marcus enjoyed reading. And she and I would garden,” I explained. Growing up, I was in all the gifted programs and
while it was a blessing in the opportunities I was given, a mind that never stopped could be overwhelming. My mom was good
at finding ways to help slow it down when it moved too fast. “When things got to be too much, it was calming.”
“That sounds... she sounds...” She trailed off. “Wonderful.”
“She was.”
I paused when I realized that I talked to Penelope more about my parents than anyone that wasn’t my family—Sloan, Marcus,
Henry. I couldn’t help it. With anyone else, my mind never even considered getting that close, that personal. I was the king
of small talk. I never needed to get that deep. But with Penelope... I found myself wanting to tell her everything, in
the hopes she’d do the same.
“Did your mom ever come back here with you over the summers?” I asked, since I knew almost nothing about Victoria Astor. Penelope
went to school in London, so I assumed she spent time with her mom then. And she was in Singapore for the summers.
“No, she was happy where she was. So she didn’t come to Singapore at all after the divorce.”
“Really?”
I wasn’t in any place to judge, as Penelope rightly pointed out when we were in the lighthouse, I had a great childhood. I had amazing parents who sat through every one of my games regardless of the weather. They were at every school activity, no matter how boring.
“Mm-hmm,” Penelope affirmed with casualness, like I’d asked her a mundane question. “She’s always been happier on her own.
After I went to university, she left London. She lives on a small farm outside of Glasgow now. We used to go there when I
was younger for the winter holidays.”
“Did that ever bother you? Seeing her so little?” I prodded carefully, like walking a tightrope, she was finally letting me
see pieces of her and I didn’t want it to stop.
“It’s fine.” She shrugged, not answering the question. “I was with her in the winter months and as long as I kept everything
organized, she was easy to please.”
“What do you mean?”
“She was never good with details.” Penelope looked up at me. “So, I took care of things.”
She gauged my reaction, one that was honestly a little confused with how indifferently she felt about a mom who, from what
I could surmise, treated her like a sibling. Or an assistant.
“My mother is a little different, I guess,” she defended. “But it’s fine. She never really wanted the whole family-life thing.
So she goes about it a little differently.”
I nodded.
“And it was easy,” she insisted. “Taking care of her meant no melodramatic breakdowns. Win-win.”
“And who takes care of Penelope?” I murmured.
She straightened and looked ahead. A bob in her throat was the only indication that I’d probably pried too deep. “I don’t
need to be taken care of.”
I moved my hand down her back. “Why don’t we do something you want to do.”
She took a deep breath and looked around. Her head tilted slightly, like the idea had never crossed her mind. “What do you mean?”
Always accommodating and never an imposition on anyone; it had to get exhausting. After a lifetime of walking on eggshells,
she should be allowed to break a few.
“What do you want to do?” I repeated.
The question seemed to do more harm than good. I could practically see all the ideas running through her head.
“Well,” she said, deep in thought. She took a few steps ahead of me, then paced back. “We could go to the bay if you like—”
“Poppy.” I held her shoulders and leaned down to meet and hold her attention. “ Your preference.”
“The night markets.” The answer shot out of her mouth so fast that I was sure it was loaded for years, waiting for the day
when someone actually gave her the chance to decide.
***
“Slow down,” I said over the hiss of hot oil in the woks at the stand next to us. Prawns and marinated chicken skewers sizzled
and popped on open flames. The scent of garlic and charred chilis wafted around us.
“God, I missed this food.” She tore a few prawns off their skewer with a ravenous speed. Peanut sauce from the satay she’d
finished in what had to be record time was smeared across her mouth.
“People are going to think I don’t feed you.” I handed her a few more skewers and a napkin.
We were only at the Newton Centre night markets for an hour and she’d already downed a bowl of stir-fry, a few desserts, and
now she’d moved on to some items off the grill. High-society Penelope was nowhere to be found as she polished off another
satay.
“I never got to come here,” she confessed, then took a long sip from another Penicillin Cocktail. It was a type of scotch mixed with honey and ginger. “I always wanted to go. My nannies would have some food picked up for me.”
I’d been to Singapore twice before, both for work. I’d never been able to actually enjoy the city like this. And Penelope
seemed completely at ease. Seeing her relaxed made my chest tighten with the recognition that she was probably walking through
life pretending. I knew exactly how hard that was.
“Why not?” I asked.
“It was considered unseemly. My father and stepmother wanted to keep the illusion of nobility up as long as they could.”
She handed me the empty cup and took the full one in my hand.
“And princesses don’t eat street food?” I teased.
She shook her head, taking another sip. “Technically, I’ll eventually be a viscountess. But, yes.”
“Not even when it’s Michelin-star street food?”
She grinned and shook her head again. She looked up at the sky, something she did a lot.
“I’m having fun,” she piped out with a contented sigh.
“Well, it’s no spreadsheet.” I threw out the trash we’d collected over the last hour and put an arm over her shoulder. “But
me, too.”
“You tease me about my spreadsheets, but for those of us not gifted with a perfect memory,” she said, yanking on my shirt
and looking up at me impishly, “it’s helpful to organize your thoughts. Peaceful even.”
“Just because I remember it all doesn’t mean it makes any sort of sense.”
“Hmm. Cryptic.” She didn’t look away but brought the straw to her mouth and took a large, loud sip, pulling up every drop
from the bottom. “What does that mean?”
We began walking down the narrow street, through the kaleidoscope of colorful food stalls. I looked down at her. “Sometimes
it’s useful.”
“And other times?” she asked.
“It’s chaos.”
“Sounds like you need a spreadsheet.” She poked her index finger into my chest. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And you know, an organized
list can be fun.”
Despite the cacophony of languages, food, colors, lights, everything muted, and I could hear her with perfect clarity.
“Oh?” I stopped walking but my heart raced, wondering if we were thinking about the same list. She hadn’t brought up the fuck-it
list—or whatever she’d like to call it—since that night. Not even when I took her to the lighthouse to cross off an item.
“What kind of list?”
She looked up at me from beneath my arm and rolled her bottom lip under her teeth. “Well, maybe one with... activities .”
“Activities?” My voice lowered.
A part of my brain switched off. The reasonable part. All that was left was everything I wanted to say, do, feel.
“The kind you might need a partner for?” I ventured when she didn’t answer, feeling dizzy even though I hadn’t had a single
drink.
A hard swallow shifted down her throat. She leaned back on her heels, precariously. “You remember it?”
Blood rushed in my ears, a spark ran down my spine.
“Every last letter,” I whispered, leaning in closer until my lips just barely grazed her earring. She swayed ever so slightly
on her heels. My hand moved down to the small of her back to keep her close. Then, I listed off the few deeds that had my
brain completely foggy for days after reading them. “Tied up. In public. Blindfolded.”
Her breath gently hitched along my neck.
Fuck.
“Oh.” Her lips parted just slightly as I pulled back to look at her; her irises were spilled ink that glittered in the moonlight.
The air thinned, making me lightheaded in the most exhilarating way.
I pulled her closer, my lips a hair’s distance from hers.
She sighed softly. “Do you w—”
A quick hiccup and a slip shattered the tension as she stumbled back—losing balance on her high heels.
My hand pressed against her back to catch her while her hands closed to fists around my shirt. I pulled her forward and the
scent of scotch and honey brushed against my cheek, reminding me that I wasn’t intoxicated but she probably was.
A blush ran across her cheeks.
“Sorry.” She looked up at me with wide eyes that fell slightly at the corners. Her mouth did the same, like she was disappointed
with how the moment ended. She took an extra few seconds, frozen, before her fists loosened against the fabric of my shirt.
“I’m a bit unsteady.”
The tension from that moment floated away on the night’s warm breeze.
“Don’t be sorry.” I pulled back enough to try to clear my head. But I kept my arm wrapped around her waist to give her some
balance. “Gives me an excuse to steady you.”
A smile curved up her still crimson cheeks, but she didn’t say anything. We wandered through the crowded market for a few
more minutes before I figured it was probably time to head back.
Twenty minutes later, she leaned on me as we walked into our suite. Her heels clacked in a wobbly cadence against the floor.
Penelope swayed as she took a few steps into the bedroom.
“Should I be offended that the only time you feel the need to drink is around me?” I followed close behind her.
“You should be honored.” She shook her head. “I haven’t had that much fun in a long time. I forgot how much I enjoy the occasional
cocktail.”
I smiled. Penelope was letting loose, and she didn’t do that very often.
Looking at the bed, I ran a hand against my neck, fighting every urge I had to go to sleep next to her. She walked into the bathroom, and I went to grab a few things from my bag and sleep on the couch in the living room outside.
“Where are you going?” She rocked a bit as she crossed the room and took off her earrings in front of the antique floor-length
mirror beside the nightstand. Her eyes caught mine in the reflection.
“I’ll be on the couch if you need anything.”
“Xander,” she called quietly, turned, and slid a hand across my chest as I passed behind her. “Stay.”
“Penelope...”
She took a step closer. “You can help me out of this dress.”
“I don’t have a great track record with your dresses,” I reminded her.
Her hands slowly closed to a relaxed fist around my shirt. “You can rip this one.”
My heart roared in my chest.
“Poppy...” I let out a deep, slow groan. My forehead leaned against hers, our eyes caught in an unbroken stare.
“Thank you for tonight,” she whispered.
“I should be thanking you for showing me around.” My hands sat firmly on her waist, knowing better than to move anywhere else.
“You’re really not that clever. I know it was for me.”
She pulled me and I followed without hesitation. Step for step until she’d backed herself against the side of the bed.
She leaned forward, her chin tilting up toward my face. I couldn’t bring myself to back away. Her lips brushed against mine.
Her breath sent heat down my spine. I held very still, afraid that if I moved I might not be able to stop myself. “I think
you should stay,” she whispered.
“I can’t,” I stammered, trying to get control of my heart rate. I couldn’t for so many reasons, the primary one being that she was drunk. Sober Penelope wanted very different things than Drunk Penelope. The chemistry was undeniable, but past that I wasn’t sure what Penelope wanted.
“Why?” Her hips rolled against mine.
Fuck. My cock strained against my pants. I wanted her. I wanted to hear what she sounded like when I crossed off every item on that
list.
I took a shuddering breath.
“You have plans that...” I began, telling myself more than I was telling her.
She had plans that didn’t involve me. I didn’t know how many times I needed to be told the same thing before it stopped feeling
as sharp as it did. She was looking for something she hadn’t found yet and I’d been in her field of vision for years. She
didn’t want to be with me and as good as it felt to feel her in ways I’d only dreamt about, it wasn’t real.
“I don’t have plans,” she murmured. Her eyes closed slowly. “Just a spreadsheet and your mother’s engagement ring.”
She gave me a teasing smile, repeating the words I said to her on the terrace, engaging in a little game between the two of
us. My heart dipped.
I tried to figure out which would be worse: giving in to the chemistry and accepting the free fall that would follow, or taking
solace in knowing I couldn’t possibly miss what I never had.
“You’re drunk, Poppy,” I reminded her.
Her hand slid down my chest, to my groin. She stroked my erection through my pants. “You’re hard, darling.”
My breath faltered. Everything felt cloudy. The only clarity I had was that whatever this was... it wasn’t happening tonight.
“So, what if I’m drunk?” She smiled, running her hands up my neck and raking her fingers through my hair. Electricity shot
down my back. “I still want you to stay with me.”
I wasn’t going anywhere.
I’d known that since that night in her kitchen.
I was going to be stuck here, in this purgatory. Caught between what I wanted, what I needed, and what I could never have.
I was here. She had me and that wouldn’t change.
“Let’s go to bed, Poppy.” I slowly maneuvered her to the mattress, knowing she was exhausted, and she’d probably fall asleep
quickly. She gave me a slow grin and hummed quietly. “For sleep .”
I pressed a gentle kiss against her lips, using all the effort in the world to keep it at that. She sighed again and complied
without another word. I lay next to her.
“What a gentleman,” she said through a soft yawn.
I pushed a few hairs out of her face, my thumb grazed slowly against her cheek. I didn’t say anything, only smiled and watched
as she drifted to sleep.