8. Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Adam
I’m supposed to be focused on the Tennessee Clean Energy Initiative, but all I can think about is the way Poppy’s hair fell over her shoulder when she leaned in to kiss me. How she tasted sweet as wine. How her laugh made me feel like I could still be the man I used to be.
I nod absently as my deputy commissioner drones on about carbon offset tax credits. I jot a note on my legal pad.
Poppy. Call again.
As soon as the meeting ends, I pull my secretary, Beth, into my office.
“Did you get in touch with her?” I ask, not bothering to clarify who. She knows.
Beth sighs, professional but sympathetic. “I’ve called. Texted. Emailed. I even sent a courier with a hand-written note.”
My brows shoot up. “You what?”
“It was on monogrammed stationery,” she says, straight-faced. “I assumed you wanted to make an impression.”
I groan. “And?”
“Nothing. She hasn’t responded. I think she’s ghosting you, sir.”
My shoulders slump. “Don’t call me ‘sir’ when I’m being ghosted. It makes it worse.”
Beth raises an eyebrow. “Maybe you should try something that’s not a calendar invite or a press-safe message. Something personal .”
“I have ! I left voicemails. I texted. I even used emojis!”
“Did you?” she asks, blinking. “Which ones?”
“Heart eyes. And... pizza.”
“Wow,” she breathes. “I’ve never seen you use so much as a smiley face.”
But none of it worked.
So now I’m pacing my office like a man with nothing left to lose.
Because I’ve done all the careful, strategic things. I followed the road map. Played the game. Got the votes. Kept the image.
And I still lost her. Again.
Unless...
“Beth,” I say slowly, a plan hatching in my mind. “I think it’s time for a grand gesture.” I tell her my plan.
Her eyes widen in surprise. “It could be political suicide.”
I nod solemnly. “She’s worth it.
It’s nearly sunset when I arrive outside the Youth Focused Tennessee office. The sky is painted in streaks of orange and purple, the humid air thick with the smell of hot asphalt.
I called in a few favors today. Made some calls. Pulled some strings. Arranged something Poppy can’t ignore.
A protest march.
The block is packed—dozens of people, maybe more—holding handmade signs that bob and wave in the sticky evening breeze.
"Policy is Protection."
"Kids Deserve More Than Promises."
"Stop the School-to-Prison Pipeline!"
"We Believe in Poppy Prine."
I swallow hard and step up onto the low concrete ledge in front of the building, clipboard in one hand, a small portable megaphone in the other.
I spot her almost immediately.
Poppy steps out of the front door, arms folded tightly across her chest. Her dark eyes are wary, suspicious. A lock of hair has escaped her messy bun, curling against her cheek. She looks fierce. And so fucking beautiful.
My throat dries up, but I force myself to raise the megaphone and speak.
“I know this is dramatic,” I say. “But I needed you to hear me.”
The crowd hushes almost instantly, waiting to hear what I have to say.
“I’ve got two years left in my term,” I continue, my voice finding its strength. “And I’ll serve them well. I owe that to the good people of Tennessee.”
A few murmurs ripple through the crowd.
“But after that... I’m done. No more campaigns. No more chasing the next office. No presidential run. No dream bigger than the one that’s standing right in front of me.”
I find her eyes again. She’s not blinking. Barely breathing.
“I don’t want headlines. I don’t want polls. I want purpose. Real change. Something that matters.”
I motion to the building behind her—the place that fights for kids when no one else will.
“I want to be part of something real. Something that saves lives before they’re broken. Something like this.”
I hold up the clipboard in my hand.
“If you’ll have me... I’d like to build a Policy and Change division here. Help create legislation that keeps kids out of the system instead of just reacting when it’s too late. I want to fight the fights that matter. By your side.”
Her mouth parts slightly, her brows pulling together like she’s not sure she heard me right.
I step down off the ledge, getting closer, close enough that I could reach out and tuck that stubborn curl behind her ear. I lower the megaphone. No one else needs to hear this.
“And most of all, I want you, Poppy. I love you. I always have. Even when I was too young and stupid to tell you. Even in the years we drifted apart. Always .”
A smile tugs at her mouth—unwilling, unsure—but it’s there.
“I love your fire,” I continue. “Your stubbornness. Your pencil buns. Your determination and drive. I love everything about you.”
I hand her the clipboard, and her eyes widen as she takes in the document attached.
It’s not a speech.
It’s a business proposal. With detailed frameworks, budget outlines, and draft legislation.
Her eyes scan the first page, skimming the formal language, the budget line items... but her hands are trembling.
She looks up at me, eyes fierce and shining.
“You want to work for me?” she says, voice low and a little breathless.
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. I step closer, lowering my voice so no one else can overhear. “And also make love to you every day for the rest of our lives.”
A laugh bubbles out of her then. Pure and bright and impossibly beautiful.
“And who exactly signs off on this brilliant new plan?” she teases, voice rough with emotion.
I grin. “You’re the boss.”
For one long, suspended second, I worry that she’ll reject me. Then she grabs me by the lapels of my suit jacket and yanks me into a kiss.
It’s fierce, it’s hungry, it’s everything I’ve ever wanted.
The crowd explodes in cheers and applause, but I barely hear it.
All I feel is her. All I care about is her.
For the first time in my life, I’m not thinking about optics.
Not thinking about approval ratings or headlines.
Not thinking about the future beyond the next heartbeat.
Just her.
Just us.
Finally.
She pulls back, breathing hard, her hands still fisted in my jacket.
“I have one more question,” I say, reaching into my pocket. Her eyes widen slightly as I press a small velvet box into her hand. “No pressure, but I figured if I was going to beg for a second chance, I might as well go all in.”
She looks down at the box like it’s radioactive, then back up at me, her lips parting.
A smile dances on my lips. “In case it’s not clear, this isn’t part of the business proposal. This is a marriage proposal.”
Slowly, with shaking fingers, she opens the box. Nestled inside is an engagement ring. Nothing flashy. Just a perfect solitaire diamond set in a platinum band. Elegant and timeless.
Just like her.
She blinks rapidly, like she’s trying to absorb all of this at once—the protest, the proposal, the man standing in front of her who would tear down his whole career if it meant getting a second chance with her.
Finally, she laughs—a choked, teary sound—and the clipboard clatters to the sidewalk as she throws her arms around my neck.
“Yes, you idiot,” she whispers against my ear. “Of course, yes.”
I slip the ring onto her finger, and the crowd roars louder. And right there, in front of everyone, I kiss her deeply, welcoming the future with open arms… and open lips.