Chapter 20
Twenty
Poppy
“Thanks for holding down the fort,” I tell Cassie as I close the door to my apartment upstairs and slip behind the bar. “What have we got?”
She fills a couple of glasses with beer as she lists off the open tabs. “Kitchen made their last call and Roger and Tommy seem to be locked in for the long haul.” A tip of her chin toward our regulars’ usual table and I see they’ve busted out their chess set.
Chess in a bar.
Perhaps not the most classic combination.
But it means I’ll be selling more lagers (and more soda waters) tonight.
So, I’ll take it.
“I snagged Megan’s keys,” she says softly, tilting her chin toward a different table. “I’ll give her a ride home.”
I nibble the inside of my cheek. “She still on about the breakup?”
A sigh. “Which breakup might be a more apt question.”
“Damn,” I murmur.
“Some people are addicted to drugs,” Cassie says as she loads the beers on a tray. “And some are addicted to love.”
“Well, love is the only currency that matters in this town,” I tease.
She rolls her eyes, but it’s good-natured. “God, don’t let Gertie hear you say that. Next thing we know and she’ll be selling T-shirts with that on it.”
“Better yet,” Gertie says, making both Cassie and I jump. “I’m going to petition the mayor to put it on the town’s new welcome sign.”
“Aren’t you married to the mayor?” Cassie asks, hefting the tray.
A wink. “That’s how I know it’ll get done.”
“I—” I begin but Gertie’s already walking away, bustling toward her table, her phone in hand.
Never mind. I focus on what’s important (and that’s definitely not talking Gertie out of something when she has her mind set on it).
“Thanks for making sure Megan gets home safely,” I say when Cassie returns from delivering the beers.
I snag the tray from her and give her a quick hug before nudging her toward the door. “Now get out of here and go rest up.”
Cassie’s had a rough few years and a lot of that rough has meant her picking up every extra job she can.
Even to the detriment of her body and mind and soul.
Who needs sleep, anyway, am I right?
At least that’s a sentiment that has gotten me through many a long night…and day…and week and month and, well, year.
She bumps my shoulder, kisses my cheek. “Thanks, Pop,” she says. “But maybe take some of your own advice to heart,” she adds.
And before I can assure her I’m fine, she slips into the break room and returns with her purse and coat. A moment later, she’s got Megan off her stool and is shepherding her out the front door.
Sighing at busybodies—and friends—I get busy taking orders.
It’s not long before I’m mixing up a couple of Storm Warnings—no surprise that the drink has had a sudden blip in popularity with Storm back in town and the surplus of stories about us on the Cedar Hollow Gazette’s website.
And Facebook.
And Instagram.
It’s absurd that they published a story about the three of us skating…though I have to admit that I liked the pictures so much I downloaded one and saved it to a secret folder on my phone.
Still, I can’t wait for something more interesting than Storm and me to draw focus.
I’m getting really tired of being front page news.
Shaking my head at my little town’s nonsense, I focus on mixing drinks and getting refills and making my rounds, so I don’t immediately notice that the door’s stayed open for longer than it should for Megan and Cassie to slip out.
But eventually, I realize the bar’s gonna a little hushed and look up.
My heart thuds hard against my ribs and I force my eyes away from the sight of Storm stepping into Sully’s.
And my reaction to the sight of him.
And how good it feels to have him here.
And how much I want it to be an everyday thing.
That thought—that dangerous thought—has me dropping back into myself, and doing it hard.
So hard it feels like I get whiplash.
Whirling around on my heel, I focus on work. On making those drinks, on delivering the last of the food from the kitchen before it closes down for the night, on making sure every table is happy and refills are served as needed.
Even on making sure Paige and her sneer get another round.
God, would it kill the woman to say please or thank you?
But at least her attitude helps me focus…
On everything and anything I can that’s not Storm being here.
Unfortunately, he’s not so easy to ignore.
Especially when he comes up to the bar, resting one strong forearm on the worn wood, his muscles flexing beneath the thin hoodie he must have put on to combat the slight chill in the evening.
“Hey, Pop,” he says.
Like he’s been here every night for the last seven years.
That fear wells up, so rapidly, so intensely that I open my mouth, no doubt to say something terrible.
Luckily, there’s a man at his side who speaks before I can let all that terror loose.
“This is Poppy?” He whistles as he looks me up and down. “Hot damn, man. I see what you mean.”
My throat—which had gone tight with that fear—relaxes.
A harmless flirt (albeit with shrewd brown eyes) I can handle.
Storm Harrison and all the trouble and complications on the other hand…
Focus.
“Who’re you?” I ask.
He smiles, and hell if it isn’t a sexy smile that pairs well with his gorgeous face. His dark hair is a little long and shaggy, and there’s some wave in it, as though it’s calling for a woman’s fingers to run through the strands and put them to rights.
And considering the knowing look in his eyes—the one that tells me he knows precisely how gorgeous he is—the silky way he says, “I’m Shep,” is certainly deliberate.
But whether to flirt with me or piss off Storm (whose expression goes thunderous), I don’t know.
“Mmm-hmm,” I say, slapping a menu in front of him and plunking a Sully-branded coaster on the bar top beside it. “The kitchen is closed, but we have plenty of drinks and a few prepackaged snacks you can order.”
“Thanks, darlin’,” he says, barely glancing at the menu. Instead, his deep brown eyes lock onto mine, as though trying to ferret out all my secrets.
But I’m not so easily read.
So, when he asks, “What do you recommend?”
I say, without missing a beat, “Something expensive and top-shelf.”
He freezes, amusement dancing through his eyes, and he glances over at Storm. “I like your Poppy.”
“I’m not his,” I protest.
That has his gaze slowly swiveling back to mine, and I realize I’ve made a grave error. “No?”
Another silky question.
“What about mine?”
I frown.
“Would you be mine?” he drawls.
Ah.
Back to the shameless flirting.
I roll my eyes. “Why do you have a goose feather in your hair?”
Storm snorts as Shep shoves his hand through those messy locks, dislodging not just one but a half dozen feathers. “Gerald.”
Shep nods, his eyes going wide. “I had my first run-in with the Cedar Hollow Mafia.” A faux-shudder as he leans over the bar, making it seem like he’s going to launch himself into my arms. “Hold me, Poppy. I’m still scared.”
“Fuck off, Shep,” Storm mutters, yanking him back and shoving the menu at him. “Figure out what you want. I need to talk to Poppy.”
Shep holds up his arm, showing off a mark that can barely be considered a scratch. “But I’m wounded.”
I open my mouth—
Yet before I get the chance to ask Shep for the details of Gerald’s latest crimes, Storm is suddenly beside me, snagging my wrist and tugging me out from behind the bar, drawing me toward the hall.
“Wait,” I mutter, feeling all the eyes on us.
Shep’s. Tommy’s and Roger’s. Gertie Walkins and her crony of book clubbers (or rather, as I like to call them, the Cocktail Cacklers because there’s not a lot of book discussion that happens when they hole up in their corner of Sully’s every Thursday night). “Everyone’s watching.”
He stops. Looks around. Then huffs out an aggrieved breath. “And how is that new?”
“I—” But I don’t finish my protest.
Because it isn’t new.
“You’re right.”
He tilts his head toward the hall, brows lifting in question.
I nod but turn back to the bar, narrowing my eyes, silently ordering my patrons to behave.
Then, knowing this is probably hitting the Cedar Hollow Gazette as I speak—or rather think—I lead Storm to my Uncle Sully’s office.
Well, really my office, though it feels weird thinking of it as anything other than Sully’s.
Once inside, the door securely closed, Storm pauses and looks around, as though taking in the room for the first time.
And I suppose he is.
“Sully’s space,” he says quietly.
My mouth quirks. “His office. But really”—I shrug—“I think it was an excuse to put off paperwork—if he had a place to shove it”—I point at the file cabinets, the big pine desk with its many drawers—“then he didn’t have to deal with it.”
“That was your first job,” he murmurs slowly, as though the memory is floating back to him.
“Yeah,” I say. “I learned all the things during my time organizing the chaos Sully created. Though”—another shrug—“I’ve come to understand a lot about my uncle over the last few years.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yup.” I nod. “Mainly, that it’s a lot more fun being out on the floor than doing paperwork.”
He laughs, and I feel that sound inside me.
Deep inside me.
Somewhere soft and dangerous and hopeful and—
Easy, Pop.
“What’d you need?” I ask, shoving the memories aside and focusing brusquely on the present.
Focusing on all the problems that Storm Harrison created by showing back up in my life.
The biggest of which is happening right now.
Because he’s stepped closer, his eyes going half-mast.
And I feel that deep inside too. Just in a different place. Instead of my heart, I feel it in the spot that reminds me it’s been far too long since I’ve had an orgasm that wasn’t courtesy of my battery-operated friend.
“Hmm?” he asks.
“You, um”—heart speeding, I slide back a step, bump into the edge of the desk—“wanted something, what was it?”
There’s a storm of emotions in his eyes.
But it’s not anger, not even close…and it scares me in a completely different way.
“Poppy,” he murmurs.
“I can’t stay in here long. I’m the only one on the floor and someone will need something.” I edge away from him. “Plus, I’m sure you don’t want any extra online attention.”
His brows pull together.
Then his face smooths.
“The posts.”
I fuss with the hem of my Sully’s-branded T-shirt. “You saw those?”
“Kind of impossible not to considering Rain keeps printing them off and nailing them to my door.”
“Nailing them?” I ask aghast.
He shrugs. “The door’s shit and will need to be replaced.” His mouth kicks up. “And Rain really likes his nail gun.”
Boys and their toys.
I shake myself, attempt to regain control of this conversation. “But doesn’t that…”
But I lose focus again.
Because Storm has come close, is near enough to smell, near enough to gently stroke his knuckles along the column of my throat. “Doesn’t that what?” he asks.
“Doesn’t”—I swallow—“it piss you off?”
His hand stills. Then he exhales and the smile he gives me is…Storm.
The Storm I knew then. The Storm I’m learning now. The Storm that’s still a mystery.
“Yeah,” he says, “but I’m coming to terms with the fact that Cedar Hollow is gonna Cedar Hollow.
” Laughter bubbles up in my chest, but it doesn’t get a chance to escape because he keeps talking.
“Especially when there are people I want to be with here more than I dislike the fact that there’s a photo of us in the Cedar Hollow fucking Gazette.
” A beat, his palm settling on my cheek, fingertips lightly pressing into my skin and tilting my head up.
“Though you look fucking beautiful in that picture, baby. So beautiful it took my breath away when I saw it.”
My lungs seize.
I wonder if it was the same picture I downloaded.
Something I almost ask him.
But luckily, I’m saved by a knock at the door, Tommy’s voice ringing through the wood. “Everything okay in there?”
Storm sighs, shakes his head, but his mouth is curved slightly at the edges. “Case in point.”
“I’m fine,” I call to Tommy, thankful my voice sounds almost normal. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
Storm drops his hand, and I feel that loss in my soul. “I guess you’d better get back out there.”
It’s dumb, but I hesitate, not wanting to leave.
Not just yet.
“You didn’t ask your question.”
“Right,” he murmurs. “I—” A flurry of emotions cascades across his eyes, and I hold my breath.
But I couldn’t have predicted what he says next, not even if I had a crystal ball.
His gray eyes—my daughter’s eyes—hit mine.
“I wanted to see if I could go up and say goodnight to Holly.”
And, heaven help me, but I can actually feel a little chunk of my heart breaking off, fluttering across the couple of inches separating us…
To land right in Storm’s palm.
Heaven help me, indeed.