Chapter 3 Poppy
POPPY
I don’t know how long I stared out the front doors after that pickup truck pulled away.
Maybe I’m dehydrated or just plain exhausted—God, I hope it’s not this flu—but my body is doing funny things.
I keep thinking about the man who just came into my shop.
All Holly and Daisy could talk about was how their dad would make it right, how he would take care of everything.
I wasn’t so sure.
But the girls seemed so sincere, so genuinely horrified by what their mother tried to do. What kind of person would I be if I didn’t give them the benefit of the doubt?
And then he did come through. Rode in here like the hero of the story and made everything right for his girls. But I have to say that man was nothing like the hero I expected.
Phantom is attractive. There’s no way around that. His jet-black hair and piercing blue eyes are otherworldly. And the way he smiles behind his thick beard makes my heart beat funny.
I’m not used to men having this effect on me. After losing Michael, I locked up my sex drive and threw the key so deep into the ocean, it would take a search and rescue team to find it.
But something about Phantom is different. Maybe it’s not just the muscles I could see through his jeans or the hint of tattoos I could make out on the tops of his hands.
After years of being in Mom mode, I know it takes more than some gorgeous eyes to make me remember I’m still a woman.
The more I think about him, I realize that what makes him so undeniably attractive is that Phantom is a dad.
Not just a part-time, pay-the-bills, phoning-it-in dad, but he’s involved and hands on.
He didn’t just call in with a credit card. He showed up. He noticed the kids’ hair. He literally came to his girls’ rescue.
God, how I wish my son had a father like that in his life.
Jax used to have that. Not that he remembers.
He lost his dad when he was just a toddler.
The biggest crisis Michael solved for our son was picking up dropped toys and cleaning up spilled juice.
The routine stuff of daily life that now, like my husband himself, is only very, very vague memories.
I would never, ever put my child in a situation like what Shayla did today.
Still, I can tell you that if Jax ever got into trouble, I know that Michael would have been every bit the hero my son deserves.
No wonder a guy like Phantom has pushed all the right buttons—even the ones I didn’t know I had.
I feel like a traitor even thinking that, and I shove any dark thoughts about Michael away.
But as I stand with my face pressed to the glass like a puppy that’s been left behind, I can’t deny that Holly and Daisy’s dad didn’t just save the day for his kids. He made everything right for me too.
Without even knowing that I needed a hero, he came in and saved me from what would have been a terrible financial loss. I mean, the salon wouldn’t have closed because I couldn’t collect on three haircuts and color. But it’s not like I can afford to do all that work for free.
How long has it been since I’ve had anyone in my life who took care of something like that? Whether it’s a blocked toilet, a late bill, a hungry kid, a skinned knee—I’ve been a one-woman show for eight long and tiring years.
I try to convince myself that what I’m feeling isn’t attraction, that it’s relief.
And it’s better that I focus on that—the money he saved me, the headache of having to decide whether to call the police.
He took care of a messy situation. That’s all this was.
Fluttery feelings in my belly mean absolutely nothing in the real world.
And just like always, the moment I have to myself ends far too soon. A buzz from my phone snaps me back to the present. Salon that needs cleaning. Stylists out sick. There’s so much work to do, it’s time to lock my libido back up and return to reality.
I pull my phone from my back pocket. When I see the name on the caller ID, my heart immediately plummets into my belly.
“Tera?” I don’t even say hello. Tera is babysitting my son. After all these years watching Jax on Saturdays, Tera would only call me at work if there was a problem. The question comes tumbling out of my mouth before I can stop it. “Is everything okay?”
“Poppy, I’m so glad I caught you. I know you’ve got to be swamped, but Jax spiked a fever. I think he’s caught this bug that’s going around. I gave him some cold juice, but he’s just been lying on the couch for the last hour looking miserable.”
“Oh my God, Tera. I’m so sorry and so glad you called.”
Tera and I chat for a minute about the boys’ sleepover, and I promise to get there as soon as I can. The second we hang up, I run back to the lounge.
“Cynthia,” I blurt out.
She whirls on her stacked black heels.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to calm my voice.
“What is it, Poppy?” Cynthia almost drops the boxes of supplies she was organizing. “You need me?”
I explain the situation and ask her if she can lock up the salon. “Just throw the food that’s up front in the trash, but leave everything else for me. I’ll handle it tomorrow.”
I regret the words as soon as I say them.
Normally on Sundays, I bring Jax into the salon with me.
While he gets one morning of unlimited screen time to play video games and watch YouTube videos, I clean the salon from top to bottom.
Water the plants. Rearrange and stock the stations.
It’s a day we spend together, but it doesn’t feel like work.
I love this place, and usually, Jax is more than happy to come along and even help—as long as I add a little extra to his allowance for the chores.
If he’s sick, I’m going to have to hire someone to come in and clean.
On short notice, that’s not going to be cheap.
Even worse, if he must miss the first week of school, I am going to have to hire a sitter or stay home with him.
I’m doubly grateful to Phantom now. I’m going to need every penny—including the tip—that he left me.
I grab a bottle of shampoo, conditioner, and a heat treatment spray for Tera as a thank you for watching my sick kid. I just hope Jax doesn’t spread this through her whole house.
Once I get to Tera’s, I feel even more devastated.
Jax is so weak and sweaty, he can hardly walk himself out of the house.
He’s a tall kid, like Michael was, and so skinny for his age.
He’s had to mature faster, being an only child with only one parent, but at times like this when he’s sick, it’s not hard to remember that he may be ten, but he’s still a little boy.
“Baby.” I hold him close once we’re safely back inside our house. I feel his forehead, which doesn’t feel too hot, and I hope the fever’s broken. “I’m going to get the thermometer and some meds to help the fever. I’ll make you any dinner you want. What are you craving?”
Jax rubs his eyes and peers up at me, looking far younger than his ten years right now. It breaks my heart. “Soup?” he says miserably. “I know it takes a long time to make, but…”
“Soup,” I assure him. “Go climb in bed and put on a movie. I’ll be up to check your temp as soon as I change.”
Our house is small but cozy. Jax has an attic bedroom with a bathroom upstairs, while I have the primary bedroom with an en suite bath down on the first floor. Michael used to have the attic as an office. When Jax was a baby, he slept in a bassinet in our room and later a toddler bed.
We were in the process of looking for our next home, someplace bigger we could grow into. But we were struggling to afford more house when life—or, I should say, death—derailed all our plans.
So now Jax uses his father’s office for a bedroom, and I have a room on a totally separate floor where I can cry myself to sleep at night without my son overhearing. Thankfully, I cry a lot less than I used to. Not never, but less.
My feet are throbbing from standing all day. Just because my body is used to working long days doesn’t mean I don’t feel broken down by the end of a long week. But I change into my yummiest sweats and a slouchy, loose T-shirt and move into Mom mode.
I bring Jax a thermometer and take his temp.
“It’s 103,” I tell him. “No wonder you feel like shit.”
I use the word I don’t allow him to say just to get a reaction out of him.
“Mom,” he chuckles. “Don’t you mean crap?”
“You tell me,” I tease, sitting on the edge of his bed and ruffling his hair. “Do you feel like crap or like shit?”
“The second one,” he groans, closing his eyes. “Do you think you could hand me my headphones? I want to listen to a movie, but I don’t think I can keep my eyes open. The light really hurts my head.”
“Don’t be surprised if listening hurts your head too. It should get better once the medicine kicks in.” I get up, grab the headphones from his desk, and slide them over his ears. “I’ll be back with soup,” I promise. “Rest if you can, baby.”
I turn off his lights and close his bedroom door, then pad down the stairs.
I dig in the freezer for some chicken and start a pot of water to boil. I’m going to use store-bought chicken broth, but the chicken and veggies will be hand-cut by Mama. Just like my baby likes it.
I stand over the sink rinsing the carrots and stare into the pretty twilight. The sky above our small backyard is pristine and clear—a gorgeous blue. I find my mind drifting back to the blue eyes of the man in my salon.
Phantom.
What an odd name. It must mean something, but I didn’t have the energy to think about it at the time.
He was massive—far taller and more muscular than his long-sleeved shirt revealed.
Now that I’m home and alone, without the noise and chaos of the salon, thinking about his thick thighs in those dark jeans…
I’d actually have to be dead not to notice how attractive he was.
I mean, there’s no denying where his daughters got their stunning blue eyes.
I spin away from the sink and grab a cutting board. I’ve got to work out some of this energy. Is it horniness? My God, it’s been so long since I’ve been with another person. I don’t think I’d even remember how.
After losing Michael, I went completely empty. As a newly single mom of a toddler who could hardly make it an hour without crying, I mummified my heart, wrapped it up tight just to survive the pain. Of course, I locked down my body too.
But something about Phantom has me intrigued.
I shake my head, a small smile on my face.
He’s obviously not a regular salon client himself.
He doesn’t look like the type to pamper himself.
I imagine he either cuts his own hair or has a girlfriend do it, because of course a man who looks like that has a girlfriend. He must.
A wave of guilt and sadness washes over me. It’s not as if I think Michael would expect me to stay single forever.
As I chop the veggies for Jax’s soup, I try not to think about how amazing it would be to have a partner.
Someone who could rub my back, help with the chores, or even just talk to me while we make our sick son soup.
No matter how long Michael has been gone, the longing for a partner to share this with—the good and the bad—never goes away.
There’s no instruction manual for how to live your life after that life falls apart. Divorce is hard—God knows so many of my friends have lived through the trauma of a relationship ending—but I’m the only woman I know who was a widow with a two-year-old in her twenties.
I’m confused why I keep picturing Phantom’s thick black hair, the beard that covered a wide, strong jaw, and his dazzling blue eyes.
I’m lonely, sure, but before I can scold myself for thinking like a hormonal teenager, my phone rings.
My heart catches for a minute, and I wonder if it’s him calling me.
Oh my God. I must stop this.
I answer the phone just for something else to think about, and thankfully, it’s my sister. I put the call on speaker while I finish making soup. We catch up about her symptoms, and I make myself a cup of tea. I tell her about her new client and how she almost stiffed us for three services.
She sounds as drained as I feel. “Good God, Pop,” she groans. “I can’t even with people sometimes. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to deal with it, or maybe it’s better that I wasn’t.”
My sister is nothing if not honest. It could have been an ugly situation if Clara had been there. I love my baby sister, but I thank my lucky stars it was me who ended up dealing with Shayla today.
“It was fine,” I assure her. “The girls’ dad came and took care of it. Problem solved.” I don’t tell her about how attractive Phantom was, though. For some reason, I want to keep that detail to myself. “Do you have what you need? I’m making Jax soup if you want a delivery?”
“With noodles?” She makes a yum sound into the phone. “If I didn’t know how shitty your day was, I’d beg you to bring me some. I’m good. Just tired and sore from coughing. But if you make extra and have the energy tomorrow, I won’t say no to a care package.”
“Deal. Love you, sis. Drink lots of fluids.”
We say goodnight, and I mentally calculate all the things I need to do. Thinking about the growing list makes me so exhausted, I sit down for a second and rest my head in my hands, and I sip my tea to steady myself.
I’ll get through this just like I have every other thing over the last eight years.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.