Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Storm
I see the answer on her face even before I finish the question.
And it fucking burns.
“It’s okay,” I say quickly. “It’s probably too early, especially since we’re just getting to know—”
She presses her finger to my lips, cutting off the flow of my words.
“Holly’s asleep,” she murmurs. “She was out when I came down.”
My lungs go tight. Then relax, something like relief sliding through me.
“Oh,” I whisper.
“We’re going to the park after camp tomorrow if you want—”
“Yes.”
Her eyes flare, cheeks going a little pink. “Okay,” she whispers. “She’s out at three.”
“I’ll meet you at the Pioneer Museum.”
“Okay,” she whispers again.
The mention of the Pioneer Museum reminds me—
“Shep is one of my teammates. He said he’d play in the charity game.”
“You asked your teammates?”
I frown. “I said I would.”
“I know,” she says. “I just…” I wait for her to explain, but she doesn’t. Instead, she just shakes her head. “Thanks for asking. I’m sure the committee will be thrilled.”
“Ace, Clarke, and Grif will play too. And I’m sure we’ll be able to grab some others to round out a full game.”
“I—” She bites her lip. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” I tell her. “It’s important to you and to Holly and the town.” I lift a shoulder, drop it. “It’s as simple as that.”
“But you hate Cedar Hollow.”
There’s that.
But…it’s also not that.
“I hate what it represented, hate who I was when I lived here. And—” What I really hate is that my voice gets tight when I try to talk about this shit.
I exhale, try my best to not sound like the biggest pussy of all time.
“But most of all,” I force out, “I hate what my dad did while I was living under his roof.”
Her hand wraps around mine. “What did he do, honey?”
Fists and words and wounds that never heal.
I touch her cheek. “Another time, Pop,” I say softly. “Hopefully not when half of Cedar Hollow is likely gathered at the end of the hall, trying to glean some tidbit to share with the Gazette.”
Soft green eyes on mine. Her fingers growing just a bit tighter.
So, I give her a little more.
Just a little. Just enough so she understands one small piece of it.
“It’s why I’m not going to walk away again,” I say, still softly. “And it’s why I won’t let Holly continue to have a life without a father who’s not in it.”
Poppy studies my face.
Then she squeezes my hand. “Another time,” she murmurs, and it’s a question.
I nod.
She nods back.
And then we slip out of the office and walk right back into the gossip epicenter of Cedar Hollow.
I’m going to kill Shep.
“I’m told there’s photographic evidence,” he slurs, slugging back the dredges of his Storm Warning (fucker’s been downing them from the moment Poppy and I came out from the office). “But I’ve never seen them.”
“And you never will,” I mutter, sipping on my own. Then realize with my slightly fuzzy brain—I’ve been hitting the Storm Warnings too—what I’ve just admitted and lie, “Because there aren’t any fucking pictures.”
Of me with my former teammates.
Of me with the longer hair I used to sport in fucking braids.
Because my teammate, Knox, was becoming a stepdad and his daughter asked him to braid her hair.
A skill he didn’t have.
So, he found a way to learn how to give her that.
And now I’m wondering if I should call him, if I should ask him for advice—
Yeah, no.
That’s not going to happen.
Poppy’s amused chuckle catches my attention, slams the door on my thoughts, my memories. But when I look up, she doesn’t comment, just shakes her head and keeps making a round of drinks.
The bar is full, even fuller than when I first came in.
Likely because the Cedar Hollow gossip train has left the station and everyone wants to see what Poppy and I will do.
I can feel the eyes on me, have seen more than one person surreptitiously take a picture I’ll probably find online tomorrow.
And…
I can’t find it in me to care.
Same as I can’t be pissed that Shep is sharing rumors—or well, he thinks they’re rumors because there’s no fucking way I’ll ever cop to being a hair model for Knox’s practice sessions.
Yes, there are pictures.
Yes, I made the guys swear under pain of death to never—fucking never—show anyone those photos and they agreed.
Because they’re my family.
Correction: were my family.
I’m not on the Sierra’s roster any longer.
I don’t see them on the regular anymore. Or maybe…it’s that it’s too fucking painful to see them at all. Especially Joey and Damon and—
A brush of fingers over mine has my head snapping up.
Poppy’s back from serving the drinks, and her expression is concerned, as though she’s somehow sensed what I was just feeling. But she doesn’t comment, just smiles softly before she takes another order, pours even more drinks.
At least all the gossip-seekers mean that she’s selling a fuck-ton of alcohol.
She hefts the tray and slips out from behind the bar to deliver them.
“She sure makes a wicked cocktail,” Shep says, smiling like a dumbass as he lifts his drink, takes a long slurp, sighs happily. “And, God, she’s hot as fuck.”
“Talk about my Poppy again like that and I’ll rip your dick off,” I say conversationally.
Someone titters behind me—and I just know I’ve made it into another fucking post—but I’m more focused on Shep.
The man gets a lot of pussy, flirts like a machine, and has never met a woman he doesn’t like.
And most of the time they like him back.
“I’m not talking about your”—the emphasis he puts on the your makes me want to punch him—“Poppy.” He swings his drink to the side, sloshing some over the rim. “I’m talking about Space Buns.”
“Space—” I scrub a hand over my face, try to process what the fuck he’s saying, but my head is getting fuzzier by the second. “What’s a Space Bun?”
“Those”—he gestures to his head—“buns girls wear. The two of them on their head.”
“Like Princess Leia?”
“No, dude. That’s, like, over her ears. Space Buns are on the top of the head.” He jerks his chin to a table in the corner. “See?”
I noticed the table of women—mostly because Poppy has gone over to them more than once already.
I just…hadn’t noticed the buns.
Or not the buns sitting at the table.
Poppy’s, on the other hand—
And Christ, I’m cutting myself off.
That was the worst Dad Joke of all time and I’m not even—
My heart rolls over in my chest.
I am.
I am a Dad.
Except…it’s just in name right now.
“I’m going to fix that,” I whisper.
“What?” Shep asks.
I shake my head, focus. On buns…of the space variety. And finally process what nonsense Shep is spouting.
Or not nonsense. Just—
“Clover,” I say.
“Huh?”
“That’s Clover. With the purple hair and the buns—”
“Space Buns,” he corrects.
I sigh. “Whatever. Clover’s got the Space Buns. Blossom’s next to her—she’s the one with the dark hair. The woman with the blonde streaks is Clementine, or Clem as she prefers. And Daisy has the braids.”
“I heard nothing beyond Clover,” he tells me, downing the rest of his drink and standing. “And I’m going to go talk to her.”
“Shep,” I begin. “Clover is—”
But before I can warn him that Clover is shy—like really fucking shy, so much so that she really won’t appreciate his special brand of flirting—he’s off, striding across the bar with his typical swagger. “Ladies,” I hear him declare before he grabs a chair and drags it right next to Clover’s.
“Should I worry?” I hear.
“No,” I tell Poppy, whose gaze is on the table full of her friends. “Shep is more annoying than dangerous. And if she’s not interested, he won’t push.”
Not seriously, anyway.
He’ll tease and flirt shamelessly and work his ass off for a smile.
But he won’t cross the line.
“Blossom and Daisy will kick his ass if he so much as tries.” She grins. “Though, no one has ever—and I mean ever—made Clover do something she doesn’t want.” A shrug. “Plus, she’s got a black belt. She can totally take him.”
“That she could,” I agree, remembering her fierceness on the playground.
Don’t mistake shy for weak or you’ll pay the price.
Shep’s talking, and the women are laughing and smiling.
All except Clover.
I smother a smile. Serves the fucker right.
“Want another?” Poppy asks.
“Nah. Those go down too smoothly, and Rain’s going to be up at the ass crack of dawn working on the house. The last thing I need is to be hungover as he hammers away.”
Her eyes on mine, a thousand questions in the green depths.
But before she can ask any of them, someone’s calling her name.
She gets busy, and Shep doesn’t leave the table with her friends.
And…maybe it’s not the evening I thought I wanted—I didn’t get to read to Holly, don’t get much time alone with Poppy.
But part of me thinks it’s the evening I need.
The buzz of Cedar Hollow’s many conversations surround me, but no one comes over to chat—not even Gertie Walkins. Instead, they give me the freedom to settle in. The space to watch Poppy unabashedly as she handles her shit, to think about the paint colors Rain left out this morning.
They’re ugly as fuck.
I should probably do something about that.
I won’t, of course.
And anyway, I’m too busy enjoying the sway of Poppy’s ass as she works.
Too busy enjoying sitting at the bar with the town giving me time and space and…
Hell, maybe it’s that I’m too busy enjoying the little bit of home I never knew I missed.