Chapter 43 Poppy
POPPY
The steamer hisses as I pull it back in the milk, letting the tip rest on the surface of the liquid to create a nice smooth foam. Normally, it’s meditative, pouring my focus into crafting a drink that will warm someone on this frigid winter day.
Now, though, my focus has been all over the place, scattered, as if when Jett left my place the other morning, a part of my mind went with him, desperate to be near him for just a little while longer.
I cried until my eyes were nearly swollen shut, until they were wrung dry. Cordelia laid next to me, a silent supporter, as always.
Maybe it was na?ve of me to think that whatever budding relationship we had could withstand a storm like this. Wren’s voice echoes in the back of my mind, telling me to be careful, to not let myself go down that path.
But I did, anyway. I let myself develop feelings for Jett, allowed myself to fall in love. I played a dangerous game. Still, there’s a part of me that thinks the only person Jett is a danger to is himself.
He’s lived in the public eye for long enough, that he’s started believing the things they say about him. Has isolated himself and shut out the possibility of connection because of it.
But he’s not the womanizing player they make him out to be. At least, not anymore. Not when he was with me.
Jett made me feel like I was the only woman in the world who mattered to him. He took care of me the way someone who loves me would. He let me in, just for a moment, and I saw him—the soft, caring man under the playboy facade.
Milk sputters and splatters onto my apron and startles me out of my trance, and I realize that I’ve burnt it.
Damn it. I turn to the woman at the end of the counter, waiting—albeit somewhat impatiently—for her latte.
“Sorry,” I say, as she huffs and taps her foot on the floor.
I quickly grab the milk jug from below the counter, my wrist twinging as I pour the milk into the metal carafe to restart the process. I manage to get her latte out quickly enough that she doesn’t put up a fuss as she leaves.
A few seconds after the door shuts behind her, the bell chimes again, and my head snaps in that direction. But the moment I look up, my chest hollows out, taking my breath with it when it’s not him.
It’s the lawyer, Craig.
Dressed in his ill-fitting beige suit, his leather briefcase no doubt containing all the paperwork required to make it official and take Thistle + Thorne away from me.
It’ll become property of the government and auctioned off, likely to a developer. And I’ll be simultaneously out of a place to live, and my livelihood.
Bile rises to the back of my throat as I think of what will become of this place, my aunt’s legacy, the one I’ve painstakingly preserved and taken care of. That I was entrusted with.
He barely smiles as he approaches me, his face a stoney, unreadable, mask.
“Poppy,” he says.
I do my best to force out a cheery smile.
“Hi!” I squeak out, my voice an octave or two too high. “Can I get you something to drink?”
Maybe if I delay this, if I win him over with a delicious hand-crafted latte, I might have a fighting chance. Even as I think it, I know it’s a long shot.
“Black coffee is fine.”
As I turn to pour it, he takes a seat at the table in the window. The same spot he sat in when he told me the café could be mine… if I got married.
I did that. I went to great lengths to secure this place to my name and now… it’s going to be taken away. And I’ll have lost everything. The café, Jett… it’s all too much to bear.
Walking slowly and steadily with the mug of black coffee, I make my way over to the table and set it down amongst the papers he’s pulled out of his briefcase.
I hover nervously over the table, frozen, unsure if I want to sit and get this over with or run out of the café and find somewhere to hide.
“Sit,” he instructs, so I do.
He goes to open his briefcase, surely to take out whatever documents he needs to charge me with fraud. I’m surprised he didn’t bring the police with him. Is that how it would even work?
Craig fiddles with the clasps on his briefcase for an uncomfortably long time, and I shift in my seat, sweat beading on the back of my neck.
“I have some papers here that I forgot to get you to sign last time, and then we can start processing the transfer of the deed.”
My brain stalls.
Transfer the deed? Does this guy live under a rock?
I stammer a moment, trying but failing to close my mouth that has fallen open like a trout.
“I thought… Haven’t you…” He stares back at me as I try to form words, again, failing miserably. “You haven’t seen the news,” I finally get out, and I instantly worry that I shouldn’t have said anything at all.
Idiot.
But I need to know. I need to know if he’s going to walk out of that café, open his phone and see the article—articles, by now—and come marching back in here, ripping the deed in half in front of my face.
“I have,” he explains, his tone calm and measured. He folds his hands together on the table, and for the first time, meets my gaze. “It was certainly something we took into consideration. The town council held an emergency meeting last night, being that this involves a historic building.”
The anticipation is killing me.
“And?” I make a gesture for him to keep going.
“And they decided that for all intents and purposes, you did get married. Regardless of your relationship with Mr. Landry, the marriage documents were legitimate and therefore fulfilled the requirement to transfer the deed. Besides, his public statement would be enough to fall back on if ever it was challenged. You can keep the café, Poppy.”
Relief floods through me, every muscle, every cell taking a deep and heavy sigh.
Craig hands me his pen, and I mark my name in my loopy lettering on the blank line. Officially making me the owner of Aunt Dahlia’s café. It’s mine.
Tears burn behind my eyes, and I can’t tell if I want to cry tears of joy, scream and shout, or run around outside telling everyone I pass that I get to keep Thistle + Thorne. All I know is that I want to tell someone, I want to celebrate.
But the only person I want to celebrate with is Jett.
My heart drops, thinking about where he is right now, if he’s letting himself fall into the same pit of despair he did when he injured himself last season.
If he’s losing himself to the hopelessness like he did last time.
I know I shouldn’t be worrying about Jett anymore.
He told me to stay far away, though I can’t help it.
Craig has started packing up his things, gingerly tucking the forms I signed into his folder.
“Oh, there was one more thing.” He pulls an envelope from his briefcase.
The familiar handwriting spelling out my name makes my chest pinch.
“Your aunt left you this letter, I meant to give it to you, but I misplaced it.”
I take the letter from him, and fold it in half, stuffing it in my apron pocket with a grateful nod.
Regardless of the contents, reading it is bound to make me emotional, and I’m not sure that’s something I can handle.
Not with the already wounded state my heart is in.
I’ll take the win today, my name on the deed soothing me for now.
Craig stands, extending a hand for me to shake but his gaze flicks over to the TV in the corner behind me.
“Ah. That’s nice, it looks like you both got what you wanted in the end, after all,” he says, before he turns and starts toward the door.
I look over at the TV now, and Jett’s name flashes on the banner across the news channel, but I’ve missed the rest of the headline. I run behind the counter and grab the remote to turn up the volume, just as the reporter is reading the story.
“In a surprising turn of events, pro-skier Jett Landry is officially back in the running for this year’s Big Air World Cup, despite losing his major sponsorship in a highly publicized fallout.
With no corporate backing, many expected the 30-year-old phenom to sit out of the final entirely.
But in a move no one saw coming, Landry has secured a last minute lifeline, a private sponsorship from former World Cup champion Dan Kessler.
With this unexpected backing, Landry will return to the starting gate, against all odds, and with the entire ski world watching. ”
He did it. Jett made it to Zermatt, and I don’t need to wonder if he’ll win. I know he will, I feel it all the way down to my bones. A warm feeling spreads behind my ribs, because we did both get what we wanted. In spite of the setbacks, speculation, and heartbreak, we did it.
Yet, as happy as I am that everything worked out for us both, there’s still a cavernous hole in my chest. Because this isn’t the happy ending I really wanted.
But it’s done now, and this was how it was always supposed to end. With me running Thistle + Thorne, and him, jet-setting around the world dominating at his sport. That was the beauty of this arrangement. We were never supposed to work in real life.
And now there’s no point in prolonging the inevitable.
“Before you go,” I say to Craig, and he stops just short of the door and turns around. “I need help with one more thing.”
He tilts his head, waiting for me to elaborate.
It’s strange. I never could have predicted that the hardest part about our marriage would be ending it. After all, I was the one who was initially resistant to having a relationship with Jett at all. But now, I swallow a sob in order to get the words out.
“I need you to draw up divorce papers.”