Chapter 15
JETT
“Cheers,” I say, lifting my wine glass towards Poppy, across the small table between us. The lighting in the restaurant is dim and golden, casting Poppy in an ethereal glow.
She lifts her glass and clinks it against mine, quickly lowering her gaze.
“Cheers,” she echoes.
There’s a palpable tension between us tonight. Perhaps tension is the wrong word. It’s more like the buzz of anticipation.
We’re getting engaged.
I’ve been hyper fixated on the weight of the ring box in the inner breast pocket of my suit. My hand keeps instinctively going to check for it, to make sure I haven’t dropped it somewhere.
The din of the dinner rush is increasing in volume over the last few minutes.
We arrived for the reservation Brooke made for us right on time, but with strict instructions to wait for the proposal until all the tables are full.
Once everyone in the restaurant is well into their meals, we’ll have the most attention on us.
Poppy glances around the dining room, chewing on the inside of her cheek. She’s nervous. I know, because she has the same expression on her face that she did after my event. When she thought I was going to kiss her.
The kiss I’m still determined to do just right.
I’ve never found myself wanting to make a kiss perfect for a woman. I mean, I know what I’m doing, and I get all the validation I need. I’m a great kisser. But there’s a different kind of pressure on my shoulders whenever I think about kissing Poppy.
She’s new to this, all of it. And she’s decided to go zero to 100 in under two weeks. From kissing me for the first time, to marrying me in one fell swoop.
“Have some wine,” I tell her. “It’ll take the edge off.”
“Not mine,” she says. “I got the non-alcoholic wine. Alcohol triggers my arthritis flares. I paid for the mulled wine I had at Friendsmas for days. So, I have to do this thing stone-cold sober.”
Right.
I nod. I think I knew that about Poppy, that she doesn’t tend to drink, and I silently scold myself for not remembering.
She dips her head and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. “Sorry, this is just so… I don’t know. I’m out of my element. I feel weird.”
A smirk tugging the corner of my mouth upward. “You don’t look weird.”
She flashes me a withering glare across the table. Still, I think the bad joke eased some of the tension. She doesn’t look weird, though. She looks beautiful. I haven’t been able to take my eyes off her all night.
The floor length black gown that Brooke picked out for her suits her perfectly. It shimmers and sparkles with a faint glittery thread woven through the fabric, and the deep v cut accentuates her small waist.
Where her bob is normally swept up in a messy half-up bun, tonight she’s wearing it sleek, curled only at the ends so they flick out around the corner of her jaw. Though the wispy tendrils of bangs still frame her face.
I know Brooke picked out her jewelry too, she went over everything at the house earlier.
How we should both be dressed, what we both need to say, how we need to act.
It’s all been carefully scripted and planned.
But when I catch the gold earrings hanging from Poppy’s ears now, they aren’t the same ones I saw sitting on the counter.
These ones are delicate and gold, and I can’t quite tell from here, but they look like… cats. Cats curled around balls of yarn. They’re very her, very cute, and my heart clenches when I spot them.
I survey the restaurant again and watch as a waiter leads a couple to their table. It gives me an idea to take Poppy’s mind off the fact that we have a very high stakes task once our dinner plates are cleared.
“Let’s play a game,” I say. “Do you think they’re on a date?” I tilt my head to the side, indicating which direction for Poppy to look.
She glances quickly, a smile playing on her lips. Thankfully, she doesn’t outright stare, she only looks long enough to make a snap judgement.
“No way, that guy is old enough to be her dad,” Poppy giggles, covering her mouth with her dainty hand.
“That doesn’t stop people,” I point out. “Some people are into age gaps.”
From the corner of my eye, I spot the man reach across the table, the sleeve of his suit rising to show off a gold Rolex on his wrist. The woman reaches across too, places her hand in his, and he strokes his thumb across the backs of her knuckles.
“Doesn’t seem like something a dad and daughter would do,” I add.
Poppy looks over again.
“I guess I win.”
Poppy doesn’t react to that, she’s too focused on the couple. They have no idea we’re watching them, entranced in their own heart-eyed stare down. Her gaze snaps away when I draw her attention to another couple, continuing our game.
“What about them?” I point discreetly to a young couple sitting by the window. This couple looks to be closer in age, joy radiating off both their faces as they chat across the table.
“They’re cute,” she answers. “Definitely on a date.”
“I think it’s their first one,” I say in agreement.
“How can you tell?” Poppy asks, tilting her head.
“Well, look at how he’s complimented her, and she just blushed and tucked her hair behind her ear. Now, she’s rested her elbow on the table, and he’s done the same. It’s mirroring. It’s a classic move when you’re into someone, to show them that you’re interested.”
“That seems a little slimy, don’t you think?” Poppy asks. “To act or behave a certain way just to trick someone into liking you.”
I take a sip of my wine and swallow before answering.
“Mirroring can be conscious or subconscious. Most of the time you won’t even realize that you’re doing it.”
“Okay, dating expert, what are they talking about?” Poppy looks at me, her eyes aglow with a hint of mischief. I dart my gaze over to the couple to assess them.
“I think he just finished telling her about how economical it is to keep living in his parents’ basement. He would move out, but he’s saving so much money.”
“Ah, yes. Rent prices are insane these days. It’s the smart thing to do,” Poppy chimes in. “What does he do with all this money he has, I wonder?”
“Oh, he invests it in crypto, obviously.”
I look back at Poppy, and her eyes are still on me. I let my own eyes linger on her a little longer than comfortable. There’s just something about her I enjoy looking at.
“Obviously,” she says, a playful eye roll makes her long dark lashes brush the ends of her bangs.
A waiter catches our attention as he approaches our table and sets down our plates. The game was a nice distraction from the true purpose of the evening, but dinner arriving puts us one step closer to what we’re here to do.
Get engaged and make it look believable.
My knee bounces under the table, and I rub my hands on my thighs to try and still them.
Poppy dives into her meal, so I do the same. I try to focus on the flavour of the chicken parmesan in front of me, and not the fact that Poppy is swallowing her food as if it’s threatening to come back up again.
I assumed that out of this whole charade, the getting engaged portion of it would be the easiest. All she has to do is nod, and smile. But try as she might, Poppy isn’t an actress. She’s shown me time and again that with her, what you see is what you get. It’s one of my favourite qualities in her.
Though just for one night, I need her to put on the face of a lovestruck fiancée. Maybe get a little misty-eyed. Act like this is the happiest day of her life.
We eat in relative silence, only commenting on how good the food is here and there, occasionally glancing up at each other and meeting each other’s stare.
Eventually Poppy places her napkin on her plate. I do the same, and the waiter comes to collect our dishes. It’s go time.
Ready? I mouth at her, and Poppy gives me a tight nod.
I stand up, and when I do, I notice that every table in the restaurant is full. We have an audience. More than one of these tables should also have reporters, undercover media who’ve been conveniently tipped off by an “anonymous” source that I’m planning to propose.
Let’s give them one hell of a show.
Being in front of a crowd, in front of the media, is where I thrive now. Not because I like it, but because I know how they want me to act, and I do that well. I’ve had practice.
Although playing the role of a doting fiancé is new to me.
I come around to Poppy’s side of the table and make a show of grabbing the back of her chair and turning her so she’s facing me. The low screech of the chair feet sliding across the parquet floor garners a few looks.
Once I’m down on one knee, whispers ripple through the crowd, and a hush follows.
I clear my throat.
What was it that Brooke wanted me to say?
She sent me a document with a script I was supposed to stick to, and I barely skimmed it.
At first glance, I could tell that the words felt fake, superficial.
You’ve been a wonderful girlfriend, and bullshit like that.
They were cheesy as hell, and not what I would use to describe my relationship with Poppy.
Sure, this whole thing is fake. It’s supposed to be a bit of a charade. But the fact is, Poppy and I have known each other a long time. And she may be singlehandedly saving my career.
Poppy is giving up a lot of firsts for this whole scheme. It may not be a selfless act, but I can’t have Poppy’s first relationship mean nothing. Not even a fake one. If there’s one thing this scandal has taught me, it’s that my integrity matters to some degree. So, this is me changing my ways.
I want the words to mean something.
“Poppy, we’ve known each other a long time.
It’s always been an absolute privilege to know you, but it’s a god damned honour to also get to love you.
You are the most incredible, beautiful, unique, and interesting person I’ve ever met.
You live your live so authentically… ” I pause for a moment, and release a breath through my nose.
It’s almost a shame that the one thing Poppy truly deserves, is the one thing that isn’t genuine right now. One day it will be. Once we both get what we want.
“And I want to spend every day of my life with you. Will you marry me?”
The three karat, oval diamond glimmers in the dim light of the restaurant as I open the velvet box.
For a moment, Poppy looks stunned, even though this was all but rehearsed. After a second or two, she starts nodding her head, a smile taking over her gorgeous face.
“Yes, Jett. Yes, I’ll marry you,” she answers, and people murmur around us.
Did she say yes? Oh my god, they’re engaged!
I stand now, and Poppy rises from her chair, stretching up on tip toes to throw her arms around my neck.
She plants a hesitant kiss on my cheek next to my mouth before she buries her face in my neck. I dip my head and hold her close to me. This might all be staged, but the joy that sparks at the contact between us is very real.
“I love you,” I say aloud, and then into the shell of her ear I whisper, “you did so good, Pops.”
When I look down, goosebumps have scattered across her arms, her upper back between her shoulder blades where my fingers are resting.
We separate from our hug as people start approaching us to congratulate us. Others are milling about, some of them taking pictures on their phones. I recognize one of them as a reporter that frequently interviews skiers at competitions. Perfect.
A middle-aged couple approach us to offer their congratulations, and they both shake mine and Poppy’s hands. They tell us how they’re out for dinner on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. It’s sweet, and it’s all going to plan.
Until another onlooker pipes up in the crowd. It’s one of the waiters I saw wandering around the tables around us. He’s shorter in stature, with a stocky build, and sharp eyes.
“Anyone want to take bets on how long this lasts?” He asks with a sneer to no one in particular. I turn toward him slowly, staring him down.
“Want to say that again?” My blood pressure rises, anger sizzling beneath my skin. I can normally take the heat, negative commentary typically rolls off my back. But this isn’t just about me. My gaze snaps to Poppy. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes wide in shock.
A defensive wall slides up my back. The image of her standing in her apartment with her ‘silly goose on the loose’ sweatshirt flashes through my mind, along with an overwhelming need to protect her.
“Nah. I’m good,” he answers. He has a smug look that I want to punch right off his face. “Wouldn’t want to ruin the fun. Looks like your cute little clout chaser’s enjoying the attention.”
That’s when I snap, and my fist flies. It connects with the arrogant asshole’s face, and as I imagined, he doesn’t look so smug anymore.
He brings his hand up to rub his bruised cheekbone, and flashes me a dirty look. As if he didn’t deserve what I just did.
I take a step towards him, and he flinches.
“Don’t say another. Fucking. Word,” I snarl. “About my future wife.”
Whirling around, I search for Poppy to make sure she’s okay.
But all I catch is a glimpse of her taking off toward the back of the restaurant.