Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
Storm
I look at the closed door of Sully’s and try to figure out why the hell I’m nervous.
Maybe it’s the salads from Molly’s in the cooler I stashed at the beach. Or the carton of rocky road ice cream from Scoops sitting beside them.
Maybe it’s the eyes I can feel watching me as I linger outside the door, trying to work up the courage to knock.
Or maybe it’s the fact that while this is far from my first date…I have the feeling it’s going to be the most important one of my life.
I have no idea who Poppy is, not really, not any longer. I have seven years gone to blame for that.
How am I going to impress her?
What if I don’t impress her?
What if I do all this—and I don’t mean the fucking date, or not only the date—and she realizes I’m not the one she wants—
“Hey.”
I jump, realize that Poppy’s come out, and—
“You are so fucking beautiful,” I blurt.
Her lips are parted, as though she’s about to say something else, but my words have her faltering, her cheeks going pink, her eyes sliding from mine and down to the cracked pavement of Sully’s parking lot. “Th-thanks,” she murmurs. “I, um, I—” More pink. More shy. More nerves.
Like this means as much to her as it does to me.
And suddenly that knot in my belly loosens.
I’m not on the outside. I’m not the only one feeling this hard.
I’m not alone.
The stakes are high for Poppy too.
Maybe even more so for her than for me.
And maybe it’s incongruous, but hell, if that doesn’t settle me.
High pressure. Higher stakes.
That’s where I thrive.
And I know how to put the work in, how to keep going even when it makes sense to quit.
Know how to fight and battle and come out the other side on top.
Something clicks in place inside, something I haven’t felt in a long time, something that guides me as I close the distance between our bodies and smooth my knuckles over her cheek. “Walk with me?” I ask softly.
“O-okay,” she whispers.
I stroke lower, drifting my fingertips along one slender collarbone and then the other, skating them down the outside of her arm until I’m able to lace our fingers together. A light tug draws her into motion and then we’re walking through the parking lot, turning right onto Main Street, and—
Running straight into Gertie Walkins.
Her eyes light up like she’s a kid in the candy store.
I expect a comment.
But she doesn’t say a word as we walk hand-in-hand by her.
Though as we pass, I hear the telltale click of a photo being taken.
“Christ,” I mutter, shaking my head.
Poppy giggles and it’s one of the best sounds in the world. “So,” she says, sounding much more like herself, “please tell me we’re eating at Molly’s.” A beat, the smile she points in my direction so bright it’s almost like looking into the sun.
Or finally coming out of the darkness.
“Even if,” she teases, slowing by the door to Molly’s, “you’re going to bully me into eating something green.”
I tug her hand, drawing her by the bakery itself.
“Storm?” she whispers. “Where—”
“Walk with me?” I ask again.
She looks up at me, holding my eyes for a long time. Then she nods, and I keep walking, taking us the rest of the way along Main Street before turning us down Redwood Road. I know the moment she realizes where we’re heading when her fingers convulse around mine and she murmurs, “Storm.”
Emotions are heavy in her voice—sadness and fear, hurt and anger and…a dash of panic.
Because of me.
I’m going to change that.
I tighten my fingers around hers, drawing her a little closer as the trees lining the road sway slightly in the summer breeze. “Just walk with me, Pop,” I coax. “Just a little longer.”
She nibbles at her bottom lip as I wait.
Maybe people in this town would tell her I’m a risk, a bad choice—a damaged hockey player traded from a Cup-winning team to the worst organization in the league, a man who ran from his past and missed out on seven years, on knowing my daughter, on being with a woman I loved.
A man from a bad family.
A bad father.
An unwanted failure.
But standing here with the sunshine dappling shadows across her face and I’m no longer nervous.
I’m certain.
I know what I need to do, what game I need to play, whose heart I need to win.
Even if she walks away right now, I’m not giving up.
Her throat works, her lips part, and I go tense, adrenaline suddenly coursing through my veins.
My life has been filled with a few moments when I knew the next second was going to change everything—the clock ticking down before we won the Cup, the call from my agent telling me about the trade from the Sierra to the Hawks, looking into Holly’s eyes and realizing that the Cedar Hollow I left no longer existed.
And this moment is one too.
Staring at Poppy’s face and knowing that she can tell me to leave, to get the fuck out.
Knowing I won’t listen.
That I won’t let her go, not this time.
“Okay,” she whispers and relief flashes through me, but luckily, I manage to keep that tamped down, to play it cool as we start walking again.
The road narrows and the trees get thicker. Greenery turns to patchy grass turns to sand as Cedar Hollow Beach comes into view.
It’s summer so it’s not empty—kids splash in the water as their parents keep watch.
The Shack’s full of customers eating ice cream and slurping popsicles and downing loaded nachos.
Teens ogle each other and flirt and dunk each other on the regular.
Middle-schoolers run around in that weird grown-up-but-not way they have.
Like they’re stuck between being an adult and a kid. Seniors do Tai Chi in the shade.
Lots of eyes.
Lots of people to observe and gossip and post on the fucking Cedar Hollow Gazette.
And somehow…
I don’t care.
Maybe it’s because even though I left the cooler and blanket unattended, no one’s touched it.
Or maybe it’s because the weather is beautiful, the perfect mix of hot with a refreshing breeze that makes it pleasant to sit in the shade.
Maybe it’s that Poppy’s hand is in mine.
“Hang on,” I murmur, snagging the blanket and cooler, tucking the former under my arm, gripping the latter in my free hand.
Because I don’t let Poppy go.
Because I won’t let her go.
I lead her down a narrow winding path. It’s not a secret—Cedar Hollow Beach is too public for that to be reality—but it’s a pain in the ass to get to, full of blackberry brambles and poison oak.
But I scoped out a safe path earlier.
I release her hand, turn so my back is to her. “Hop on.”
“Um,” she begins.
I glance over my shoulder. “Hop on, baby.”
She bites her lip again, a flicker of heat sliding through her eyes, and I make note of that response, make note to call her baby time and again if it means she looks at me like that.
“I’m not exactly a teenager, Storm,” she says softly.
I move over to a fallen log, set the cooler and blanket on top of it, and crouch a little lower. “I’ll help you, Poppyseed.”
Her inhale is sharp and when I glance over, her expression is unreadable.
“What?”
“You haven’t called me that since…” Her words trail off and before I can reply, she moves over to the log, climbs on top, settles her hands on my shoulders. “I’m heavier now than I was back then.”
“Good,” I say. “I am too.” I reach for the backs of her legs. “Now, hop up, baby.”
A blip of hesitation.
Then her legs flex and she jumps onto my back, her arms and legs wrapping around me.
I take a second to enjoy the feel of her pressed against me.
Then I snag the cooler and the blanket, and start down the trail, winding through rocks and logs, stepping carefully through loose dirt and fallen leaves, and—most importantly—avoiding thorns and rash-causing plants.
“You know,” I say as I carry her, “I still dream about the red bikini sometimes.”
Her arms and legs tighten around me. “Wh-what?”
“That summer you were fond of”—I step on top of a rock—“an exceptionally tiny red bikini. I liked it.” I hop down, continue on. “A lot.”
“I’m getting that.” She huffs out a laugh that raises goosebumps on my nape. “And I remember.” The words are silken fingers drifting down my front, wrapping around my cock.
“Please tell me you still have it,” I all but beg.
She laughs again. “Oh no,” she says. “My days of teeny tiny bikinis are long over.”
“Why?” I ask as I carefully navigate us down the final decline that will take us to the smaller, more secluded beach.
“I’m a mom, Storm,” she tells me dryly.
“I’m aware,” I return just as dryly. “But why does that mean you can’t wear the bikini?”
Preferably of the tiny red variety.
“My body’s not the same,” she says. “I know a lot of the women in your circle probably immediately bounce back from popping out a kid. But it wasn’t that easy for me, and I know I’m supposed to be all hip with the times and into body positivity—after all, it gave me the gift of Holly… ” A sigh. “But…”
I come to a stop on the tiny stretch of beach, set the cooler and blanket on the ground.
But I don’t immediately release her.
And she doesn’t immediately hop down.
“But what?” I ask softly.
She’s quiet for a long time.
For long enough that the sounds of the river creep in—kids shouting, birds chirping, water splashing, wind rustling through the trees.
Then Poppy gives me a gift.
And it may be the best one I’ve ever received: her trust.
“Because there are parts of me I hate,” she whispers. “Parts of me that are broken and damaged and will never be the same again.”