Chapter Nine Before—Poppy
| Nine |
Before—Poppy
He called me that same night. Three a.m. I’d just gotten home when my phone lit up with an unknown number. New York exchange.
“Hello?”
“I hope I caught you before you went to bed.”
“Who is this?” I knew perfectly well who it was, but one must play the game.
“Are you in the habit of giving your number to many strangers?” There was a smile in his voice.
“Hello, Bennett. Are you in the habit of staying up this late?”
“The curse of the writer. Have to get my word count in.”
“Well, I am about to go to sleep, so—”
“Ah, get to the point, aye?”
“Only because I have to be up at seven to get to my day job.”
“Day job?”
“Art gallery.” I started to tell him that I was an artist, but that was a conversation for another time. And exhaustion was creeping up on me.
“Busy girl.”
“Woman.”
“Sorry, of course. I should know better. I do use words for a living. So, Poppy of two jobs, do you ever get a day off?”
“Rarely.”
“Lunch break?”
“Half an hour. Usually at noon.”
“Can I bring you lunch?”
“I guess that would be okay.”
“Text me the address. I’ll see you tomorrow. Any allergies I should know about?”
“Only to posers.”
“You’ve got nothing to worry about, then. Sweet dreams.”
“You too.”
“Oh, mine will be,” he crooned, his voice like velvet.
I hung up, butterflies in my stomach, all thoughts of sleep suddenly gone.
I wondered if he’d really show tomorrow or if the whole night had been a dream.
As I got ready for bed, I told myself not to expect too much.
I’d been disappointed too many times before.
Besides, I hadn’t come to New York to fall in love.
I’d come to get famous. Or at least known in the art world.
But as my head hit the pillow all I could think about was Bennett’s handsome face.