Chapter Nineteen Before—Poppy
| Nineteen |
Before—Poppy
Things moved fast after that kiss. He invited me over to his house for dinner.
“You cook?” I asked, surprised.
“I know my way around the kitchen. Can you take off work Saturday night?”
I laughed. “Um, no. That’s our busiest night. But I can come Sunday if that works?”
“Sunday it is.”
I showed up with a bottle of wine. I was a little nervous when I got to his house.
It was so isolated. A driveway that seemed half a mile long, surrounded by woods, no other houses in sight.
And after reading his novel, I was feeling even more apprehensive.
I had to wonder if the man who wrote such violent and bloody scenes could be harboring a secret desire to enact that same violence in real life.
But then I thought about the number of authors writing horror and the likelihood that they were killers and dismissed my worries as absurd.
But when I raised the knocker on the red door—again I was reminded of blood.
Bennett was all smiles and welcomed me in.
He leaned in to kiss me, and I was relieved to feel the same spark of attraction that I’d felt at the park.
I followed him to the kitchen where the aroma of butter and cinnamon filled the air.
Before I could ask him what smelled so good, an adorable black-and-white dog loped over to me and sat at my feet, looking up at me with big brown eyes.
“Who’s this?”
“Finn.”
I leaned down to pet him and his tail thumped on the floor. “He’s so well behaved. Is he a Dalmatian?”
Bennett shook his head. “Great Dane. I’ve trained him. I don’t need him knocking folks over!”
“He’s beautiful. I thought Great Danes were brown.”
Bennett raised an eyebrow. “Common misconception. There are actually around fourteen different-color coats. Finn has the Harlequin pattern.”
Finn looked up when he heard his name and nudged Bennett with his nose. Bennett rubbed his head. “Okay, you. Go to your good place.”
The dog got up and walked over to a large cushioned bed and lay down.
I gave him a mischievous look. “I hope you don’t expect everyone in your orbit to obey you so easily.”
He laughed, a deep and hearty laugh, and I was struck again by his good looks. Why was he still on the market? There had to be plenty of women vying for his attention. Famous, rich, and handsome. Not a combination I came across often.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asked, holding an open bottle—not the one I’d brought. It looked expensive, not that I knew that much about wine. Maybe it was the word Reserve that made me think so.
“I’d love one.”
“Here you go,” he said, handing me a wine glass filled halfway.
I noticed a photo on the end table. Bennett and a pretty brunette. He had an arm around her, and she was looking up at him with a besotted smile. I picked it up, examining it closer.
“And who might this be?”
“Isabel. Good friend. Known her forever.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Looks like more than friends.”
He shook his head. “Just friends! You’ll meet her. Our families go way back. She and my sister, Janie, were best friends.”
“Were?”
His face grew serious. “Janie died. It was years ago.”
“I’m so sorry. I know how hard that is. I lost my sister too.” I put the picture back and turned to him, trying to lighten the mood. “What smells so delicious?”
“That must be my mother’s special rice recipe. It’s browned in butter, then doused with cinnamon. So much that the recipe says to keep shaking the cinnamon for two minutes.”
“Sounds decadent.”
“There’s a roast chicken as well.”
We sat down on the sofa, and I shifted so I could face him. Since he’d brought up his mother, I decided to probe. “Are you close to your mom?”
He grew quiet, looking into his wine glass and then taking a sip. “We used to be.”
I waited for him to go on, but he didn’t. I decided to press. My new dating resolution was no games, no holds barred. If he got pissed, the worst that would happen is that I’d save some calories.
“What happened?”
“We’re doing this already?”
I shrugged. “I don’t believe in wasting time.”
He exhaled. “I’m the black sheep. When my father’s cereal company became so successful, it was expected that all his sons would work there.
A Cromwell tradition. I did for a while, but my heart was never in it.
I left the company and wrote my first book.
My father died shortly afterward. My mother says I broke his heart. She’s never forgiven me.”
I was stunned. I had heard of the Cromwell family. Everyone had. I didn’t realize that Bennett was from a mega-rich family. “But your name—”
“Pen name.”
“Oh, I see.”
He took another sip of his wine. “I forfeited my trust fund, stock, everything. I wasn’t going to be one of those entitled silver-spoon brats taking years to write the great American novel. Everything I have, I earned.”
“That’s admirable. I know a little about what it’s like to walk away from everything and everyone to pursue your passion.” He’d gotten lucky to find such success with his writing. I’d yet to sell a piece of my art.
“Are you close to your parents?”
I nodded. “I was. Especially my dad, but they died in a house fire when I was in college. It was horrible.”
“Oh, Poppy, I’m so sorry.”
“Thanks. I really don’t like talking about it.” I blew out a breath. “Well, this conversation has taken a depressing turn. Let’s change the subject.”
“Okay. Tell me about your art.”
“I work in mixed media. I love to collect pieces with history. Old letters, photographs, mementos from the past that have found their way into thrift or antique shops.” I watched his face to see if he was genuinely interested or merely being polite. He seemed to be listening intently.
“That sounds so interesting. Do you work thematically with each project? Does what you find inspire the project, or do you have a theme in mind and then look for objects that support it?”
“That’s a thoughtful question. It depends. Both. I follow the inspiration wherever it leads me. Is that how you work? Do you start with a story or a character?”
“It’s usually a story I want to tell, but it can vary. But I wasn’t finished hearing about your process. I’d love to see some of your work,” he said.
I wasn’t ready for that yet. Although to be fair, I’d read his work. “Next time dinner at my place, and I’ll think about showing you some.”
“Deal.”
“But it’ll be carryout. I don’t cook.”
“That’s okay. Cooking is overrated.”
He leaned in to kiss me and soon we were peeling our clothes off and having sex right there. When we were finished, I ran a hand over his smooth chest, marveling at the rippled muscles on his abdomen. “You must be a fitness nut. I haven’t met anyone over thirty with a body like yours.”
“I like to stay in shape. I didn’t realize being in my late thirties made me old.” He laughed.
“ ’Course not. I’ll be thirty myself soon. It was meant to be a compliment. I think you’re the perfect age. A fully developed prefrontal cortex, and past the recklessness of your twenties.” I tilted my head, staring at him. “But something tells me you’ve always had your head on straight.”
“I don’t know about that. Some might consider giving up your family fortune to become a writer reckless.”
I shrugged. “Seems to have worked out okay for you.”
I heard the ding of the timer.
“That’s dinner. I hope you’re hungry.”
I stood, still naked, and walked toward the kitchen. “Starved.”