Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
FLETCH
Poppy Lewis doesn’t like my shirtless body?
Wait ’til you get in bed, Toots.
I sit on the queen-sized bed and look over my exchange with Grace. Stew over the way she logged off so abruptly.
Why did she have to bring up meeting in real life?
And why don’t I want to?
Who could be happy with only having an online relationship with someone as compassionate and interesting and beautiful as she is?
I know she’s beautiful because of the Crypto King series.
The guy was a charmer and used pickup lines on the hottest women in bars.
He targeted the ones who turned him down.
Some of the people on the forum were talking about how good the pickup lines were, and Grace disagreed. “His lines aren’t that original. I’ve heard tons of them.”
And then she quickly added, “Not because I’m hot—the lines are just that basic.”
Except they weren’t that basic. I’d never had the nerve to use any of them, even when I was still playing ball. The fact that Grace had heard so many of them was a dead giveaway: she’s hot.
Yet she downplayed her experiences, so that tells me she’s not social media, “look at me” hot, but pretty. Beautiful.
And I wonder if she has a cute nose.
I put my phone in Do Not Disturb mode and set it face down on the end table, steam bubbling in my chest. I can’t be thinking about Grace all night, wondering if she’s going to give me a proper sign-off and tell me to double lock my doors or not pick up hitchhikers.
Granted, I never gave her my sign-off, either. The steam in my chest starts to pour out to the rest of my body, dispersing the pressure enough for me to act.
I shoot off a quick message to Grace.
GreenArrow11
Not sure if you’re already off for the night, but don’t pick up any hitchhikers.
There. My eyes turn to the TV, to the home renovation show Poppy left on. They’re showing the home makeover, how the place started off all dark with too many small rooms and no central gathering place. Then the show cuts to the updated home, all open concept with tons of natural light.
Overrated.
I lean back against the headboard and change the channel.
Speaking of open with far too much light, Poppy comes out a moment later in oversized green and white stripe pajama bottoms and a faded red college T-shirt. It’s …
Ugh.
It’s so cute, I could shrivel up and die.
The hair on one side of her head is in a braid, and her fingers are working fast braiding the other side. When she finishes, she pinches the hair with one hand and takes the elastic she’s holding from her teeth with the other. Then she ties it onto the edge of the braid and gives me a smile.
Which she abruptly drops as she looks closer at me.
In bed.
With no shirt.
“Um, do you not have a shirt?” Poppy asks in a high voice.
I glance down. “Apparently not.”
She looks at the ceiling like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world, her cheeks pink. “Could you maybe put one on?”
“I don’t sleep in shirts,” I say, more sharply than I intended. And then I feel guilty for the edge in my voice. “But I have a hoodie, if—”
“No, it’s fine,” she says quickly, jumping into bed. “Just … never mind.”
The sheets rustle as she gets in. She tugs the comforter all the way up around her body, as if she’s the one half-dressed.
The space between us feels charged, even though she’s not taking up enough of it.
Her hand juts out to turn off the reading lamp, but then she tucks it back under the sheets.
She’s so far over on the bed, I half expect she’ll roll off if she breathes wrong.
“You okay there?” I ask with that lingering annoyance.
“Fine,” she says. “Good night.”
I turn off the TV and put down the remote too hard on the end table.
Somehow, going to sleep is making me feel like a villain. I huff and tuck the sheet under my armpits, keeping my arms out. “Do you want me to put on a sweatshirt?”
“Do you normally sleep … bare-chested?”
“Yes,” I say honestly. I can feel her nod, but she doesn’t say anything. “I didn’t bring a pajama shirt, but if you need me to wear something, I will. I didn’t realize it would make you uncomfortable.”
She lets out a quiet laugh. “I’m not … uncomfortable.” Her exhale is loud, but her next words are muttered. “Try flustered.”
Flustered?
My heart does something stupid in my chest. Her reaction isn’t discomfort—it’s awareness. Of me. Shirtless. I like that idea more than I should.
But I still feel like I should explain. Like she should know this isn’t me trying to … seduce her.
Heat crawls up my neck, pushing my words out.
“The accident that ended my career—it was a fastball to the wrist. Shattered it. I had to have surgery with screws and pins. Then I had a post-surgical splint. Then a cast. The recovery was awful, but my mental state was worse. My mom was helping Evan still, and my granddad and dad weren’t exactly sympathetic, so I took care of myself.
But it was harder than I expected. How long it took me to throw on a shirt the first time made me feel useless, so I stopped wearing one.
It was a dark time for me. But something about seeing my body everyday and noticing how my muscles moved when I did dumb stuff like make an omelette—it reminded me that my body served more than one purpose.
It wasn’t just baseball or nothing. It helped me want to work out again.
Want to shower,” I add, remembering how hard that was the first few times, how it felt like such an accomplishment, physically and mentally. “It sounds so stupid.”
“It doesn’t sound stupid,” she whispers. “I thought you were just trying to mess with me.”
“Nah, that was just a perk,” I say.
Her laugh slips from her throat. “I’m glad you realized your body wasn’t only made for baseball.”
“No, it wasn’t,” I say, but my laugh is too breathy and sounds loaded with innuendo.
Which it is NOT.
“I didn’t mean it like that—”
“Got it,” she says quickly.
I’m burning up. I throw the comforter off me, not because I’m in bed with an adorable elf of a woman, but because …
Ugh.
Who even knows at this point?
“Sorry—it’s hot in here,” I lie.
The bed frame gives a soft creak as Poppy kicks off the sheet, too. “Tell me about it.”
Huh.
“Good night, Ollie Fletcher.”
“Just call me Ollie or Fletch. This two-name thing isn’t working.”
“Which do you prefer?”
“I don’t care.”
“But they’re both just … off.”
“Off?”
“Neither quite suits you. Is your full name Oliver?”
“Yes.”
“Can I call you Oliver?”
“No.”
“Perfect.”
I rub my eyes. A quiet moment passes. Then I hear myself say, “Can I tell you something?”
“Of course.”
I stare at the ceiling, my pulse too fast for the moment. What even is the moment? “That guy on the plane. The one sitting next to you.”
She breathes slowly. “Yeah?”
“He took off his wedding ring. Right before he started talking to you. I watched him slip it into his pocket.”
She goes still. I can almost feel her processing in the dark. “Seriously?”
“That’s why I stepped in. Not because I thought you were naive or couldn’t handle yourself or because I was messing with you. Because I saw what he did, and then he started running through that checklist, like some predator.”
Her voice is small. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I blink, staring at the way the light streaks on the ceiling from the park across the street. “You were already mad at me. And I knew you were safe. That’s what mattered.”
Silence stretches between us. “You let me think you were just a paranoid jerk,” she says.
“Better that than you get taken advantage of.”
More silence. Then in a voice softer than a whisper: “Thanks, Oliver.”
“It’s Fletch.”
“Nope. Too late. Oliver it is.”
I let a smile tug my mouth up, glad she can’t see. “Good night, Elf on the Shelf.”
I feel my breathing calm, my pulse slowing. The room is peaceful, and the small town is so quiet, there’s not even the noise of cars to worry about. I’m almost asleep when a light hits my eyes.
I open them to see Poppy on her phone.
“Poppy,” I moan. “Can you put that away? The light’s keeping me up.”
“Yeah, sorry, I just need to send something.”
The light from her phone glows against her face, giving me a view of a whisper of a smile on her lips. Even determinedly happy as she is, the girl is beautiful. She types something and then sets down her phone.
“Sorry about that,” she says. “Good night.”
“Yeah, yeah.” I huff out air. “Night.”
The pre-dawn sun slips through the curtains, waking me, but I don’t open my eyes.
The room is quiet with the kind of hush that makes you breathe deeper without even thinking.
Warmth settles across my face—unusual, since I keep my room cold—but it’s pleasant.
Cozy. I stay still, hoping I can drift off again.
Then it hits me.
The hotel.
My eyes fly open and I instantly flinch, because Poppy’s face is right next to mine, only millimeters apart, and the girl is out.
I take a minute to study her without that distracting smile she insists on wearing.
And now that her mouth isn’t moving, I can appreciate it.
Her top lip is fuller than her bottom, with a big, cute v in the middle.
There’s probably some name for it, but I don’t know what it is.
Her dark brown lashes are long, but they lose pigment at the tips, which is strangely pretty.
Her skin is like glass, so smooth, it looks almost fragile.
Like I could break her.
You’re in a car with her for two more days, tops. You’re not going to break her.
Besides, why are you getting all mushy about her face? Her breath stinks. Focus on that.
Her breath does kind of stink.
Not as bad as mine, though.
It’s not quite 7, but if my body senses the sun, I can’t sleep, so I’ve learned to roll with it. I slowly slip out of bed, not wanting to wake Poppy, and I take my phone and duffel bag into the bathroom.
While I brush my teeth, I check my messages, and a smile spreads across my face, making me drip toothpaste onto my chest.