Chapter 12 #4
Poppy in the kitchen, his douchebag dog, a mess to clean up …
it was simple but profound. And it had nothing to do with expectations or emotional transactions, tit-for-tat.
It felt … God, great. He was pretty sure that, if he tried, he could find a better word, but great worked. Fucking great worked even better.
So, if he was feeling so damn happy, why did he also feel like a bullet train speeding toward a bricked-up tunnel?
Poppy pulled back, grinned at him and he took in her flushed face and laughter-and lust-filled eyes. “You’re distracting the baker, Sheffield. If my pie is a disaster, I’m going to blame it all on you.”
That would take a serious amount of self-delusion, but … whatever. “I need more,” Poppy told him, her hands in the bowl and her eyes on him, trying, and failing at multitasking.
“Kisses or coffee?”
“Kisses, then coffee.”
He bent down to kiss her again, despite knowing something drastic was going to happen shortly—the bowl would fall off the table, or she’d knock something over—but he didn’t care. He was kissing Poppy on a cool fall morning in a disaster zone, and he wouldn’t trade it for anything.
From a place far away, Thom heard a distinctive sound, a cross between a burp and a plop. He opened his eyes and saw that Poppy’s were still closed. He was still holding both coffee cups. He pulled back to see the filling in the pie … bubbling. Frowning, he watched as a bubble rose, then another.
“What’s the matter?” Poppy asked, looking a little dazed. He liked that he could make her look like that, but … what the hell was going on with that pie?
“Pops, I think there’s something wrong with your pie.”
Poppy shook her head. “My pie is absolutely perfect—oh, shit, what’s happening?”
Poppy had barely finished her sentence when the filling surged up and over the pie dish, spilling onto the table. And then the entire dish started to slide, looking like a mini pumpkin volcano. What would make it do that?
“Quick, grab it,” Thom yelled, not wanting the glass, pie dish to break when it hit the floor.
Poppy lunged for the dish but was a second too slow, and the dish tumbled off the table and smashed onto the floor, nearly splattering anemic-looking pumpkin pie over her chest, arms, and, worst of all, into his coffee.
Well, that was one way to get out of taste-testing and then having to lie about how good it was. Hearing the scratching of Felony’s paws, Thom turned to look at his dog and saw that Felony had turned his back on them and was facing the corner, totally done with them.
Poppy, her hands in the air, met his eyes. Horror skittered across her face. He didn’t blame her, he wasn’t looking forward to the cleanup either. “My pie! My glorious pie!” she cried, clasping her sticky hands together. “It’s ruined.”
He thought about telling her this was a good outcome, but that was dangerous. “Sorry, Pops,” he said, lying through his teeth.
“That pie could’ve won the bake-off!”
On the tail-end of that grand illusion, Thom heard heavy furniture being moved on the second floor, quickly followed by what sounded like footsteps on his wooden floors.
He looked around, saw that Felony was standing in the doorway, head cocked and looking at the stairs.
It was obvious that his attention was caught by something, so why wasn’t he going up the stairs to investigate?
Poppy pulled back, just a little, and tipped her head back to look at him. “The ghosts agree with me,” she said, completely serious.
If there were ghosts, which was impossible, maybe they, too, were flabbergasted by Poppy’s self-delusion. Or maybe Grandma M. was pissed about the state of her kitchen. Actually, that sounded somewhat plausible.
Amused by his thoughts, and about to dismiss her statement—he didn’t believe in ghosts—he remembered the shower incident.
And the pie bubbling. As if to make their point, another wave of irritated footsteps drifted down through the ceiling.
Thom met Poppy’s eyes and shrugged. “I have nothing,” he admitted.
Maybe his house did contain ghosts? Or maybe it was something else? But right now, he had Poppy in his arms, her eyes locked on his.
He kissed her nose, then her mouth. “Shall we clean up and then hit the shower?”
She lifted her nose. “Shouldn’t that be ‘should we clean up and hit the shower, Duchess?’” she pertly asked.
He lifted one eyebrow. “Do you want me to help?” he asked, trying and failing to sound stern.
“You will anyway,” she stated, not a shred of doubt in her voice. She was right, there was no way he’d let her deal with this alone. Call him a sucker, but there it was.
Poppy bent down and picked up the other pie tin. “I’ll buy more ingredients and try again.”
He didn’t think his house would survive. Thom placed his hands on his hips and decided to be brave. “So, Pops, um … did you at any point taste that filling?” he asked.
“No, I didn’t need to, because it was exactly like Grandma used to make it.”
Not even a little bit. Poppy clapped her hands, and more flour and sugar landed on the floor. And in her hair. “Fel, darling, you get a treat. Have the dregs of this pie, it’s yum.”
Felony turned to look at her, looked at the half-empty pie dish, and stalked out of the room. “What’s his problem?” Poppy asked, perplexed.
Thom turned away to hide his smile. His dog was an ass, but he was a clever ass.