Chapter 33 Flounder
Flounder
Jack
“You have sex hair,” Poppy hisses as we struggle back into our clothes. “She’s going to know what we were doing.”
“I’ve caught her having a threesome in a storage closet.” I yank my jeans on, nearly losing my balance against the walk-in.
“Believe me, she won’t care.”
“Will you care?”
I pause, glancing over at Poppy. “No. What about you?”
“No.” She blows a lock of hair away from her face. It just falls back into place.
“Good.” I tuck the hair behind her ear with a smirk. “Forget about me. You’re the one with sex hair.”
“Jack!” she exclaims as she follows me into the dining room. She takes out her hair tie, unraveling her braid and frantically
combing through the blonde curtain with her fingers.
Hazel is standing by the front door, suitcase beside her, knife roll tucked underneath her arm. Her curly hair is pulled into
a bun, with shades perched atop her head precariously. She grins as we come closer. “Nice place you’ve got here, Hartman.”
“Thanks, but it’s all her.” I gesture to Poppy, who waves, blush gracing her cheeks. I should win a fucking award for how cool and collected I sound right now, considering that fifteen minutes ago, I was spanking Poppy with a wooden spoon. In my kitchen. “She designed the whole thing.”
“That so?” Hazel turns to Poppy, eyebrows raised. “You have an eye for color.”
“Hazel is an artist,” I explain.
Poppy’s nerves seem to melt away. “Oh, really? What kind of art?”
“Painting, mostly.”
“That’s so cool. I was never good at art class.”
“She’s also one of the best I’ve ever worked with,” I add. “You should taste her risotto.”
Hazel rolls her eyes at the compliment but doesn’t refute it. She knows how talented she is. “So,” she says, looking between
me and Poppy, “I guess I interrupted something?”
“Menu planning,” Poppy says at the same time I say, “Homemade pop tarts.”
“Uh-huh.” She slides her sunglasses off her head, tucking them against the collar of her dress with a sly grin. She’s going
to give me shit about this later, that’s for sure. “Is it safe to show me the kitchen?”
A little while later, the kitchen is spotless again, we’ve all eaten two pop tarts, and Poppy has somehow wrangled an invitation
to Hazel’s art show next month. Talk finally drifts to the restaurant itself and our plans for the pop-up and opening.
“I appreciate you being willing to come down,” I tell Hazel again. “You’re saving my ass right now.”
“Who else do you have?”
I drag my hand over my jaw. “You, me, and this guy named Herman. He was a line cook when this place was the Sailfish.”
She blinks. “That’s it?”
“Poppy’s going to make dessert for the pop-up.”
“Allegedly,” Poppy says, briefly raising her gaze from her phone.
“You are.” I lean against the prep sink with a groan. “I didn’t want to do this, but I guess I can poach someone local.”
“Maybe we’d be okay for the pop-up, depending on the numbers, but definitely not opening night,” says Hazel. “Your dishes are complicated.”
“Sophisticated.”
“Complicated and sophisticated.” She grins. “Well, do you know anyone local?”
“Oh! What about Owen?” Poppy says.
I scowl. “No.”
I left Owen in the lurch, with a pissed off client, after the mess with Jessica. If I were him, I wouldn’t want to see me
either, much less do me another favor.
Poppy looks up again at my tone. “Why not? He’s in Florida already, for one thing. Even if he can’t help out himself, he could
recommend someone.”
“Who’s Owen?” Hazel asks.
“He was Jack’s roommate,” Poppy says, before I can answer. She slides over to Hazel, pulling up something on her phone. “Take
a look at his Instagram. He’s in Fort Lauderdale.”
“Is he on a yacht there?”
“I think he does private chef stuff sometimes, yeah. Right, Jack?”
“Right,” I say half-heartedly.
“Great.” Hazel plants her hands on the counter behind her, crossing her ankles. Between her, Poppy, and my executive dysfunction,
I know I’m beat. “Can’t wait to meet him.”
Friday morning, Poppy and I drive to Fort Lauderdale.
She looks as mouthwatering as a macaron in a form-fitting blue sundress, her hair loose, heeled sandals on her feet. Paired
with a delicate set of gold jewelry, she makes me think of a siren. The only thing ruining the effect is the huge pair of
sunglasses that keep sliding down her nose, but they’re charming all the same. Whenever I glance over, my thoughts teeter
from dirty to indecent, so I’ve studiously kept my eyes on the road. Gluing my hands to the wheel, instead of stroking the
tempting few inches of Poppy’s exposed thigh, has been markedly more difficult.
We’ve been fighting over the radio station the whole time. She changes it when I least expect it, when I’ve been lulled into a false sense of security after several rock songs in a row, like a total brat. Clearly no one ever taught her about using her manners in a car.
“So,” she says, after yet another station switch, which leaves my lips twitching fondly, “are you going to tell me what happened
with you and Owen? Ooh, did you fight over the same woman?”
I glance over. “How did you even—no. For one thing, he’s gay.”
She shrugs. “But it was something personal.”
The urge to push the topic aside rises first. The way Jessica humiliated me still stings, all this time later, and most of
me would rather chew glass than share that with Poppy. And yet . . . part of me does want to confide in her. I’m tired of
holding back. Burying everything while hoping it’ll fade away. She knows about my past in foster care, and the world hasn’t
come to a grinding halt.
“Owen was always interested in the private chef gig,” I say reluctantly. “After culinary school he bounced around a bit, like
me, but eventually landed down here. Started rotating between work in restaurants and stints on yachts.”
“Sounds fancy.”
“It can be fun. Demanding, but fun.” I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. Before everything went down, I liked working
for Jessica’s family. Learning their preferences, tailoring my recipes to them. “He was making good money, and I was between
jobs, so I took up his offer to join him down here. He recommended me for a yacht job, working for a rich guy in finance who
liked going on long trips with his family.”
Poppy angles in my direction, turning the radio down. “So, what happened?”
“The client had a daughter around my age. Jessica Danes.” I can picture her perfectly: the spray tan, the blonde hair, the
expensive wardrobe. A smile that stopped me in my tracks. I couldn’t resist it, the moment she turned it on me. “She was getting
over a breakup, or so she said.”
“Oh, god.”
“We started flirting. Going out together when the boat docked somewhere. Dating, eventually. It was”—I grimace—“well, it was the first time I’d been serious with a woman. Or thought I was, at least.”
I swallow as I remember it. I believed every word she told me. Every lie she murmured about wanting to be with me. She played
me perfectly, every step of the way.
“And she was your boss’s daughter,” Poppy says slowly.
I wince. I know how it sounds. “It turns out, she was just trying to get back at her ex. She was using our relationship to
make him jealous.”
Poppy’s mouth falls open. “No.”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, Jack.” Her hand brushes my arm softly. “How did you find out?”
I clear my throat. At least I’m looking at the road. That’s easier than meeting Poppy’s eyes, right now. “He finally had enough
and came to visit her. I served dinner—her dad always wanted me to go over the specifics table side—and so I came up with
the dishes, and . . .”
“I hate her.”
“You don’t even know her.”
“I don’t need to. She’s awful. Terrible.”
“I had to stand there and explain the dish in front of them like nothing was wrong. Like she hadn’t just swept me aside like
a piece of trash.”
I’d spent the day working on a complicated seafood stew. I was worried it was too spicy and couldn’t stop thinking about what
Jessica and I would do when she let me into her cabin after dinner. Stupid shit. And then it all came crashing down the second
I saw her sitting at the table in someone else’s embrace.
“She didn’t deserve you,” Poppy says, a surprisingly fierce note in her voice.
“It was years ago. You don’t have to make me feel better.”
“I know what it’s like to realize someone never took you seriously at all,” she says softly.
“Ryan?”
She nods. “And just about everyone else.”
“I quit. Got out of there as soon as I could. Her dad was pissed. He, uh, he told Owen that he didn’t hire me to fuck his daughter. Embarrassed the hell out of Owen.”
“And now we’re here?”
“Yeah.” I massage the ever-present knot in my chest. It doesn’t feel as tight as it usually does, somehow. “Now we’re here.”