7. Chapter 7
Chapter 7
Poppy
The morning light is soft and golden, spilling through the slats in the blinds and warming the sheets tangled around my bare legs. The air smells like Adam—clean and woodsy, with a hint of wine and sex. My cheek is pressed against the pillow he slept on, and I smile before I even open my eyes.
Last night wasn’t just amazing. It was magic.
For a few precious hours, I let myself fall. Not just into his arms, but into a feeling I hadn’t touched in years— hope . That maybe the boy who once fought for impossible dreams hadn’t disappeared inside the politician. And maybe I don't need to just be an independent career woman. Maybe, just maybe, I can have love, too.
I stretch, every muscle humming with lazy satisfaction, and reach across the mattress, expecting to find him still beside me.
But his side of the bed is cold.
My eyes snap open. The sheets are smoothed out like he was never there.
Panic flickers in my chest, irrational but sharp. I sit up quickly, pulling the sheet over my chest, and spot the folded piece of paper on the nightstand.
I unfold it with shaking fingers.
Poppy,
I’m so sorry—something urgent came up and I had to head back to the capital. Last night was fun. I’d like to see you again. I’ll have my secretary reach out to schedule something.
– Adam Boston
I stare at the note, the careful handwriting, the way he signed it like a press release instead of a man who just made love to me.
I’ll have my secretary reach out? Seriously?!
The warmth in my chest cools so fast it leaves a hollow ache behind. I toss the note back onto the nightstand like it burned me.
Of course this is how it ends. Not with a conversation or a plan—just a professional courtesy and a penciled-in calendar event.
What did I expect? That the Governor of Tennessee would ditch his staff and cancel his meetings to cuddle in my bed and whisper sweet nothings?
I curse softly under my breath and shove the sheets aside. My feet hit the floor with purpose, not grace.
The wineglasses are still on the kitchen counter. My dress is in a crumpled heap near the door. There’s a faint ache between my thighs—a reminder of just how much I gave last night. Of how vulnerable I let myself be.
And for what? A note and a maybe?
I clench my jaw.
Not today. It’s Sunday, and I may as well go to the office. I can squeeze in some jail visits, too.
I march to the closet and pull out my armor—my favorite black suit. Tailored, sharp, lined in silk. It’s power in fabric form. I slide it on piece by piece, transforming. My blouse is crisp. My heels are tall. My hair goes up in a sleek knot.
Game face on.
There are kids counting on me. A teenage mom who’s been charged with truancy for missing too many days of school. Another who’s terrified he’ll be tried as an adult. And several others who just need help getting through the juvenile justice system so they can graduate from high school and lead normal lives.
My bruised ego and dashed dreams are meaningless when stacked up against all of their issues.
I grab my briefcase and head for the door. I won’t let myself cry. I won’t fall apart.
I take one last look in the mirror. No trace of last night’s softness remains. I look competent. Unflappable.
Untouchable.
Who has time for love anyway? I have work to do.