Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Five days later, Poppy could swear she still felt his lips on hers. It was like a dream. A weird, confusing “fallen asleep in front of the TV after eating too much Thai food” dream: one minute, she’d been arguing with him like usual, and the next?
She’d been deep in the most sensual, bone-melting kiss of her life.
With Cooper Nicholson.
Poppy shook her head, trying to shift those hot, toe-curling memories.
It didn’t make sense. Was it a joke? A game?
Or maybe she should just chalk it up to temporary insanity—for the both of them.
Cooper had made it clear he was as baffled as she was over what had just happened, and since he’d left her on the doorstep that night, he’d gone out of his way to steer clear.
All week, she’d only seen him from a distance—hurrying straight to the construction site next door in the morning, or speeding past her in his truck as she browsed in town.
She should be relieved. The more space between them, the better. No chance of any more arguments—or heart-stopping kisses, either. But every time her mind wandered, it took her right back to that kiss, and how good it felt to be wrapped in his strong arms, giving in to the burning heat—
Nope.
Poppy dragged her attention back to her laptop screen. She didn’t have time to obsess over those delicious ten seconds, not when she had thirty chapters waiting to be conjured out of thin air.
Any time now.
Poppy sighed. She’d done everything she could to shift this writer’s block—from brainstorms and writing exercises to rereading her older books in the series, hoping the familiar characters would take voice in her mind like they always had before.
But the days were passing fast, and she was no closer to having even a hint of a book to send her editor.
She was going stir-crazy from staring at her computer screen, but every time she got even a few pages of writing done, she knew in her bones it was all wrong.
She hadn’t found it yet—the heart of the story, the thing she wanted to say—and until she figured that part out, it was all just empty words.
She got up from her comfy seat in the den and went to go make dinner.
It was a cloudy Sunday, overcast and spitting rain, but somehow she wasn’t surprised to see Cooper’s truck parked next door as usual, and the sound of occasional hammering coming from the bare-bones house.
He definitely worked hard, even without the rest of his crew on site to lend a hand.
She paused at the kitchen window. The ocean was stormy, the foam-tipped waves surging up against the shore.
Cooper emerged from the main structure to haul some wood in from the truck, bending his head against the wind.
He was bundled up in a jacket and scarf, and for a moment, she thought about inviting him in for a hot drink or some dinner.
Then she remembered how his mouth had felt against hers, sure and certain, and she prickled with embarrassment all over again.
Soup. She’d make soup. That would kill some time.
Poppy set about pulling ingredients from the fridge: last night’s chicken, celery, carrots—Aunt June’s chicken soup could solve any problem, and she didn’t even need a scribbled recipe as a guide. This one she knew by heart.
Poppy had just diced the vegetables and added them to the pot when her cellphone rang. “Summer,” she smiled, lodging the phone against her shoulder so she could keep stirring. “Hey.”
“How’s beach life?” Summer asked, her voice bright. “I’m so jealous, I’ve been working around the clock at the restaurant. Tell me how sunshine feels, all I have is those fluorescent strip lights burning down on me.”
She smiled. Summer was a chef at a high-end restaurant back home, and for all her complaining, she loved her work. “No sun today, but you should take a break, come visit. Cash in all that vacation time you never use.”
Summer sighed. “I wish. I booked time off for your wedding, but now . . .” She trailed off. “Whoops, sorry.”
“It’s OK,” Poppy reassured her. “I’m not going to break down every time someone mentions marriage or weddings.”
“I know, it’s just . . . have you been on Facebook?”
“No, why?”
“Nothing!” Summer said brightly.
“Summer,” Poppy prompted her.
“OK, don’t flip, but Owen posted a bunch of photos. From Fiji.”
Poppy paused stirring. “He went on our honeymoon without me?”
“Well, you weren’t exactly going to go with him,” Summer pointed out.
“I know, I just . . . didn’t expect it. But I suppose it makes sense,” Poppy said slowly, still trying to process the news. “We managed to get our money back for the venue and catering, but those flights were non-refundable. At least the trip didn’t go to waste.”
“Listen to you, so practical.” Summer laughed. “Ever thought about writing non-fiction? You could do a how-to guide on cancelling your wedding.”
“Sure, that sounds like an upbeat bestseller,” Poppy replied wryly. The wedding business already felt a lifetime ago. She’d been so caught up in her deadline panic, she’d barely thought of Owen at all, not even when Cooper kissed her.
Cooper had kissed her.
Poppy remembered it all over again—in glorious Technicolor. She’d already been making out with another man, not three weeks after breaking her fiancé’s heart.
Poppy groaned. “I’m a terrible person!”
“You’re not!” Summer protested. “You did the right thing. And Owen will see that too, one day.”
“I hope so.” Poppy felt a pang.
“Well, a week in a luxury resort getting waited on hand and foot probably helped soothe the blow,” Summer said. “Hell, I’d call off a wedding if it got me out of the kitchen before seven. On a weekend.”
“You love it,” Poppy teased. “You’ll be the youngest executive chef in town if you keep this up.”
“I don’t know.” Summer sounded tired. “These hours, all the petty kitchen in-fighting . . . Anyway, listen to me, this is supposed to be your pep talk!”
Poppy laughed. “I told you, I’m fine.”
“You’re better than fine,” Summer insisted.
“You’re amazing, and you’ve done the right thing.
Now both you and Owen get to find the person you’re supposed to be with, instead of spending years trapped in an empty marriage resenting every time he chews too loudly and leaves those little beard shavings around the sink. ”
“Well, when you put it like that . . .”
“Anyway, I better get back to work,” Summer said. “I’m trying to plan the menus for next week, and I’m running short on inspiration.”
“How about chicken soup?” Poppy suggested. Her pot was simmering nicely now, filling the kitchen with the delicious smell of herbs and broth. “Didn’t I read somewhere that comfort food is the new big trend?”
Summer laughed. “I wish. If I dared serve that at Chez Andre, they’d probably throw down their silver spoons and storm out. But maybe a deconstructed coq au vin . . .” she mused. “With rosemary and gorgonzola soufflés . . .”
“There you go.” Poppy smiled. “Good luck!”
“You too, babe.”
She hung up and moved the pot off the flame.
Outside, the spatter of rain had turned to a steady drizzle, and the clouds were darkening fast. Poppy paused at the window.
Cooper’s truck was still parked there, but with all the tarps flapping about where his roof was supposed to be, he couldn’t be getting much shelter from the rain.
It would be the neighborly thing to invite him in. After all, she had plenty of soup.
But he’d kissed her.
And insisted it was a mistake that meant nothing, she reminded herself. If he could pretend like it never happened, then she could, too.
As she deliberated, there was a rumble of thunder in the distance. The skies opened, and the drizzle became a deluge, pouring down and battering the bare construction frame next door. She saw a flash of movement, and then Cooper came hurrying through the storm towards his truck.
Poppy opened the back door. “Cooper!” she yelled, waving across the yard. “Come inside.”
She beckoned, and he paused for a moment. Then the thunder rumbled again, and he changed direction, and veered across the yard towards her. He sprinted up the back steps and inside just as the sky flared with lightning.
She closed the door fast. Cooper was dripping wet, his hair plastered to his head and water running in rivulets over his cheeks.
“You’re soaked!” Poppy exclaimed, trying to ignore the fact he looked like a Gothic romance hero, striding in out of the rain.
Cooper was soaked to the skin, and even the towel she handed him couldn’t make a difference.
“You know what? Let me put those clothes in the dryer, before you catch a cold.”
Cooper smirked. “Trying to get me naked? At least buy me dinner first.”
Poppy gulped. “I’ll find you a bathrobe, or something to wear.” She scurried out before he could see her cheeks burning red. She suddenly realized that for all her neighborly good intentions, she’d just invited the wolf through her door.
The handsome, sexy wolf.
And told him to take all his clothes off, too.
Poppy ignored the slow flip in her stomach, and busied herself tracking down dry clothes for him to wear.
Even her slouchiest sweatpants would be way too small for him, but buried in the closet in one of the guest rooms, she hit the jackpot: an old Indiana State T-shirt and some men’s sweatpants, sized large.
“Success,” she said, entering the kitchen with her bounty.
She was braced for some kind of tension or awkwardness, but instead, Cooper was by the stove, with a spoon already dipping into the pan of soup.
He paused, looking so much like a guilty schoolboy, she couldn’t help but laugh.
“Go change,” she said, “I’ll fix us a couple of bowls. ”
“Angel.” Cooper flashed her a smile on his way out, so bright Poppy was thrown off balance.
Wow.