Chapter 32
32
Poppy
“That’s why we should only fly private, baby.”
I’m still not okay after I came. It’s not because of the amazing orgasm he gave me under the blanket but because the lady in front of us caught us right as I was coming. Oh, the mortification.
I sat in dread for the rest of the flight, sometimes even hiding under the blanket, and I was relieved she wasn’t on the last leg of our trip after we changed planes. Thank God.
“We’ll have to because I will never fly that airline again. I’m sure they already have our photos circulating on the do-not-fly list.” I still giggle.
Although it feels like we got away with something, I’ve crossed lines with him that I wouldn’t have with anyone else. He brings out a wilder side of me. I take the bait he throws out as dares not to prove him wrong or score points to laud over his head. I do it because he reminds me of how carefree I used to be. The accident changed so much, but he’s put me back in touch with a side I thought died that day despite my surviving.
The tattoo itself is a daily reminder of living on dares and whims, taking advantage of blue-sky days, and falling for blue-eyed men. My breath stills in my chest as I look at him. When he smiles and the sun catches light in his eyes, I can’t stop from staring at him as if he’s always been the one.
With my hand pressed to my chest, I slowly exhale, afraid if I look away, the feeling will disappear. And then he smiles, splintering apart that door previously unlocked and allowing his light to shine in.
“I’m thinking the roast on this flight?” he asks. “What does the chef recommend?”
“Barbecue.”
He scans the menu again with his brows pulled together. “I didn’t see that as an option.”
“No,” I reply. Resting my hand on his arm residing between us, I shake my head. “I ate barbecue in Texas.”
The lines scribbled across his forehead don’t ease. “It’s Texas. From what I remember, it’s barbecue, Tex-Mex, and Whataburger.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“So go with the beef?”
I take the menu and set it on his lap. “No . . . Well, yes, the roast will probably be a safe bet for airline food. But I’m talking about that weekend in Austin, the one lost in time that I can’t remember.”
“Oh. You ate barbecue.” A smile splits his cheeks as he cups my face. “You ate barbecue.” He kisses me and then says, “You remember.”
“Yeah.” His happiness is too contagious. “I remember eating barbecue. ”
“That’s fantastic, baby. But we might want to say it a few more times to let it really sink in.”
I land my elbow against his arm, causing him to burst out laughing.
“Don’t make fun. Any progress is good.”
“It is good you remembered the food. I remember it being damn good as well.” He wraps me in a playful headlock and brings me closer to kiss my forehead. He doesn’t rush it. He lingers, and then whispers, “I can’t wait until you remember the rest of that weekend.”
Laird keeps his promises.
I love that. It’s a rare trait in the men I’ve dated.
Admittedly, seeing him take up space in my one-bedroom apartment is strange. He left his bag, along with my suitcases, by the door and made himself at home. I love that he’s so comfortable wandering around without me guiding him, and he even got himself a glass of water. It also gives me a few minutes to shower after our long day of travel.
Though it’s nice to have him here, it’s also nothing special, not like his house, which has an amazing view. I think the only perk is that there are plenty of restaurants and stores closer to where I live than out where he is in Malibu. That helped when we stopped at Tito’s Tacos to grab takeout on the way here.
“I didn’t love the job.”
He stops in front of my small bookcase and looks back at me in the kitchen. I take a big drink of water. After scarfing down two tacos, I still feel dehydrated from the plane. “The family wasn’t nice? ”
“The family was great. I just don’t think cooking in a galley kitchen is something I want to do again. I didn’t feel I was producing my best dishes, then add in the hassle of dealing with the scullery. It felt more like just fuel than something special.”
“Why is that?”
“The artistry is gone from my creations. I’m unenthused to reinvent the chicken breast anymore. I think I lost my passion for cooking.”
He comes over to me, consuming me in his arms, not caring that my damp hair is soaking his shirt. “Or your inspiration.”
“Good point.”
“Go easy on yourself. You’ve had a lot going on. Your mother’s wedding to being gone for weeks and on the clock twenty-four seven. Take a few days and get some rest. There’s no rush to make any major decisions.”
“You’re right. All does not have to be decided tonight.”
He says, “You’re fortunate. You get to choose the journey you want to take.” Continuing to rub my back, he dips his head down, cradling his head next to mine. “I sure am glad you’re back.”
So much truth dropped that my mind should be reeling, but he’s right. Nothing has to be decided right this minute. Also, I’m a bit distracted. I’m not sure how he still smells amazing after hours on planes and in airports, but he’s managed it. I take in a deep breath, pulling his scent into my lungs. “I am too. I needed this. I needed you.”
When we part, I flip through my mail as he continues to snoop, not leaving any of the living room unobserved before he wanders into the bedroom with his overnight bag. His dark hair and large frame stand in contrast to the pale pink and white trimmed room. I have my girly-girl moments, and my bedroom is one of them. But I’m missing the serene colors of his bedroom in Malibu.
He studies the few photos I have taped to the mirror, then picks up several of my bottles of perfume to smell. “I like this one on you.”
I take a mental note as I sit at the end of the bed and watch him pry open a few drawers without permission. Since I have nothing to hide, it makes me laugh. “What are you looking for, detective?”
Reaching his full height, he pushes his hand to the ceiling. His arm is bent so it’s no great effort on his part. “I like seeing how you arrange your life and how you’re in every aspect of this apartment. The decorations, the photos, the scent in the air. It’s all Poppy.” His grin goes rogue, and he waggles his eyebrows. He’s so getting sex tonight.
He heads to the door to the balcony and looks out. “Other people can see into here.”
“If you’re in the apartment directly across the street from me—”
“Which that guy on the Peloton is,” he says, jabbing his finger against the glass.
I see that guy staring into my apartment sometimes. I’ve even caught him with binoculars. The “I’m recording you” sign I held up put an end to it. Creeper. That’s city living for you. “What can I say? We can’t all be as lucky to live on a cliff in Malibu.”
“What do you think about living on a cliff in Malibu?”
Leaning back, I rest on my elbows and laugh. “I practically do.”
He shuts the curtains and turns around. “How do you feel about making it official?”
Laird moves to sit next to me, the mattress dipping. The gravitational pull toward him is in full effect. I sit up but drape my leg over one of his. “Making what official?”
He rubs the top of my thigh and then angles to look at me. “I want you to move in with me.”
Not a question.
Not a demand.
It doesn’t even sound like he’s throwing it out there to test the waters. His tone is committed, the conviction in his eyes established. Even his hand has added pressure against mine. He’s thought this through.
My gaze drifts to the curtains behind him, to Tito’s Tacos not too far, to my favorite Trader Joe’s, and then detours to the local coffee shop I love that’s not been discovered by social media yet, as if I can see them. Am I ready to be out by the beach full time?
When I look into his eyes again, I reply, “Yes. I want to be with you.”
Kissing me before the words all exited, that pull still in effect has me pushing myself against him, needing to be him completely.
Two orgasms and a shower later, I’m happily lying in bed without a care or bone left in my body. “You’re going to have to piece me back together after that.”
Laird chuckles, coming out of the bathroom. “Happily.”
“Ever after,” I whisper to myself, feeling every bit of the bliss that ending gives a fairy tale.
With a towel wrapped around him, he digs through the bag he dropped at the entry to my bedroom, and slips on his boxer briefs. Disappearing, he’s quick to return with our glasses of water. He hands me mine but doesn’t climb into bed again, choosing to sit on the edge instead. “Do you want to keep your furniture?” He takes a drink and sets the glass down on the nightstand.
I gave up caring about watermarks years ago. “I’m not married to it.”
He opens the drawer because he’s still so curious. It’s endearing and entertaining that he wants to learn about me so much. “If it would make you feel more at home, then we can bring it. My place is—” Suddenly silent, his attention is caught by the contents of the drawer, and he bends to get a better look.
“Your place is what?” And then I remember what’s in there. Oh crap. I dive to slam the drawer shut.
“Damn, you’re going to snap my fingers off.”
Ooh, that would have been a tragedy. “Sorry. There’s stuff in there that innocent eyes shouldn’t see.”
He starts chuckling, but then his grin falters, and he cocks a brow at me. “Am I going to hell?”
I laugh this time. “We’ve already been there and back.” At least I amuse him, hopefully distracting him enough to forget that he ever saw my guilty pleasure. Though even battery power couldn’t get me over that orgasmic line in forever. Laird gets all the credit, owning every single one I have.
“Should I be worried?”
I wave him off as I flop back on the bed. “No, no. I prefer you to the battery boyfriend any day.”
Blinking slowly, he narrows his eyes back on me. “I, um . . . I wasn’t referring to that.”
“Oh?” I ask, feeling clueless as to what he is referring to while also realizing I just exposed myself for having a toy. Guilty as charged.
He opens the drawer again and pulls out a piece of paper. “I was referring to this. The ‘I love you’ note you’re storing with your boyfriend in there.” He doesn’t have to explain which note. It’s the only one that’s ever mattered. It’s the one I would save in a fire. It’s a key to my past and a letter from someone who loves me. I know every word and crease, bent corner, and size of that letter by heart.
My heart pulses in my throat. The last thing I want to do is upset the man who just asked me to move in with him. “Pfft.” I try to snatch it away, but he raises it above my head. “It’s ancient history, Laird.” I didn’t want him to see it, but I’m not willing to risk ripping it by grabbing it and ending up in a tug-of-war. He’s already seen it, so it’s out in the open now anyway.
Turning it over in his hands, he asks, “How ancient?” Out of all my belongings, I didn’t expect that would hold such piqued interest. Sure, I thought he might be jealous, but that’s not what I’m detecting in his tone.
Honesty is best. “It’s one of the few clues I have from that weekend in Austin.”
He hands it back to me with care. His eyes now on mine, but the lightness I sensed is gone. “What’s it a clue to?”
“My memories.” I reclaim the note, grateful it didn’t get damaged. This love letter is one of the few things that survived the accident. A pervasive tone has overcome the teasing, but the corners of his eyes soften, and I detect the slightest of smiles at the corners of his lips. “I probably shouldn’t be so attached, but I can’t help myself. It’s a clue to someone who loves me, loved me,” I add, “to the past I can’t remember.”
“You don’t remember who gave it to you?” He taps it with his free hand as if he can’t get enough of it either. Of all the things . . . “It must be someone who loves you very much.”
That encourages a broader smile from me. He’s such a romantic at heart. “No. I don’t remember who gave it to me, but I remember feeling the same as the message on it.”
“You were in love?”
“If it’s practical to think love can be embodied in physical things other than people and animals? This letter contains the emotion poured into the message.” I can’t lie. He’s had loss, so he understands mine. “Yes, very much.”
Looking back at the letter, it feels strange to hold a piece of my missing world in my hands. I’m so used to seeing it on the mirror, but touching it makes it more real somehow, as if I’d forgotten all over again.
But I don’t want to hurt Laird by toying with him or make him resentful by pinning him against my past. I return it to the drawer and close it. He’s more important than a piece of paper.
When I kiss his cheek, his mind has seemingly gone elsewhere. “Hey, I love you.”
“I know. I’m not competing with a piece of paper, but I know you have memories trapped in that beautiful brain of yours, and in your heart. I want to help you.”
“You’re helping me every day. You’re helping discover that life can be beautiful after something so tragic. You gave me hope, Laird. You gave me love. I still don’t even know why or how it happened so fast. It just did, and I’m here for it.” I smile, feeling so much better knowing he’s okay.
Capturing me before I lie back down, he asks, “What memories have you had so far?”
“Not a lot but more than two handfuls.” I lie down, ticking through them, needing to hear them out loud in hopes of breathing life into them again.
When he climbs back into bed, he holds me. I’m overwhelmed by how safe I feel in his arms. He gives me the freedom to ask what I’ve always wondered. “Have you ever wondered what happens to the misconnections? What if I was never supposed to be with the person who wrote the note? What if it’s like you said, and life is how it’s supposed to be?”
I angle to look up at him when he’s too quiet for my liking. Sorrow returns to him like an old friend, overtaking his eyes. “You may never remember, Poppy. And we might have to be okay with that.” My whole being hurts. The pain in my soul too much for me to handle alone. I lie against him, resting my head on his chest. From the deep exhale, I can tell he’s weighed down as well.
Wrapping my arms around him, I hold on tight. “I’m so glad we didn’t miss each other in this lifetime.”
Kisses are sprinkled on my head, and it’s the first break to relieve tension. He says, “We’ve even been given a second chance to get it right.” I love how romantic he is. “The soul knows who belongs together.”
In his arms in my pink bedroom, acceptance washes through me. This is enough. He is.