Chapter 5 #2
He gave her a genuine smile. “Thanks. Do you mind if I take a look around?”
“I can show you,” she offered. “Anything you’d like.”
“That’s a generous offer, but I think I’m just going to poke around.”
“Let me know if you change your mind.” She handed him her card. “My cell is on the back. Call for anything. Anytime.”
He pocketed the card and headed around the side to take in the exterior structure, Taters hot on his heels. He reached the side yard and came to a slow stop, sucking in a breath at the beautiful sight before him.
There it was. The famous L-shaped, concrete waterfall-edged pool that was as recognizable as some of the most famous actors who had stars on the Hollywood Walk of Fame.
Framed with yellow-and-white lounge chairs straight from the fifties and a color-coordinating sitting area with a steel overhang that spanned the entire length of the pool.
A rail-less circular concrete patio framed in the property, giving one-hundred-and-eighty-degree unobstructed views of Los Angeles.
But what had his lungs collapsing and a fireball of lust infighting and spinning in his chest was the woman sitting on the edge of the diving board with her jeans pulled to her knees, her toes dangling in the water.
She was on the other side of the pool but even from that distance he knew who she was. His mystery date from the other week who he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about.
Poppy Hart.
Oh, he knew who she was. All it took was one viral video of them at the bar and he’d been able to learn all about her from the internet. Well, all the surface things. She had a renovation show of her own and was essentially YouTube’s DIY Sweetheart.
At first, he thought that their meeting was some kind of setup for her to get her fifteen minutes of fame, that he’d been played.
But she’d never reached out to him, never made a single comment to the press.
In fact, besides that one video on TMZ of them at the bar, and the onlookers’ videos, the story had died down, making him wonder if maybe there were actually genuine, honest women out there.
Only what was she doing here? On the set of his new show?
While his mind wanted to know, the rest of him wanted to take the moment to feast his eyes upon a real-life goddess because he knew the second she spotted him she was sure to knee him in the nuts. Hell, it might be worth it to be near her.
She was beautiful. Lush, womanly curves, full hips, incredible tits, long wavy brown hair tied up into a ponytail that made his palms sweat to yank on it.
And those eyes. Even though she wore sunglasses he could remember those intense, green, bedroom eyes like he was staring into them.
A soft mossy color when she was laughing and a deep emerald when she was pissy.
While he liked the mossy, he loved the pissy.
He ran all the different scenarios on the magnitude of ways to approach her. Only, before he could settle on one, Taters broke rank and, always the ladies’ man, took off in a sprint toward her, his tail wagging like a hockey stick at the Stanley Cup.
“Slow down, boy.”
Between his supersonic speed, coordination of a drunken gazelle, and turning his head to address Decker, Taters tripped over his rhino feet and crashed into Poppy like a wrecking ball, sending them both flying into the pool with a gigantic splash.
“Fuck.”
Decker had his work boots off and was running toward the pool when Poppy’s head broke the surface. She was sputtering water while struggling to hold up a hundred-and-eighty-pound deadweight of a dog who knew jack shit about how to doggie paddle.
Heart going a million miles a minute, while every possible scenario went through his head, Decker hollered, “Hang on. I got you,” then swan dived into the deep end of the pool.
By the time he reached Poppy she was standing at the steps with Taters on her hip like a scared toddler. Taters was nuzzling his big snout into her neck and she was rubbing his back while he shivered.
“You’re okay,” she cooed.
Taters let out a sigh and that’s when Decker knew that damn dog was faking it for female attention. He had to admit though, for this particular female, Decker might have feigned drowning, too.
“Sorry about that,” Decker said. “He gets overly excited at times and forgets he weighs nearly two-hundred pounds.”
“That’s just more to love,” she said in a baby voice, giving Tater some chin scratches, which the dog ate up.
“Seriously though, are you okay?”
“No worse for wear.” She laughed. “Just a little wet and—”
She turned and stopped. “You! What are you doing on my set?”
“Your set, huh? What are you, the interior decorator?” he asked, even though he knew she was a hell of a lot more than that. But he wanted to get a rise out of her.
Emerald-green slits met his gaze. “Because I’m a woman all I can do is create color palettes? Maybe if I had my own sex tape you’d take me more seriously. I’ve been flipping houses while you’ve been flipping your stick all around town.”
That barb was like a bowling ball to the gut.
He hated that her first impression of him was that he was that kind of guy.
Why should it matter what he did or didn’t do before they met?
So what if he had a past—even if he was being blamed for a past that wasn’t his?
Everyone had a past. It just really sucked that she was judging him for things that were already done rather than seeing him for the guy standing in front of her.
Well, he’d just have to change that.
“Seriously though, showing up at my work,” he said. “That’s a bold statement. I’m flattered.”
Taters loped out of the pool and she followed, having now idea how her drenched clothes clung to her body.
“Dream on.”
“So we’re sharing dreams now. Does it include the color of your bra?” He leaned in and smiled. “It’s red, by the way.”
“How did you—?”
She followed his gaze to her top, which was now tissue thin. Her hands covered her breasts, like that Janet Jackson picture from back in the nineties. “Can we pretend we’re grownups for one minute?”
“What’s the fun in that?”
“I’m supposed to meet my boss in ten minutes,” she said, and an unsettling feeling started in his gut. Seriously, what were the odds of a blind date and now this? “And I look like I just participated in a wet T-shirt contest.”
“Angel, you look like you won.”
She stumbled over her next words, letting him know he’d flustered her. He liked her flustered. “This is not the look I was going for. So if you’ll kindly fuck off.”
“Can’t. I’m meeting my boss in ten minutes,” he said, confident that Jessika would come through.
That brought her up short. “You mean Jack?”
“Yup.”
“That can’t be. It’s just too much of a coincidence.”
“My thoughts exactly. So you want to tell me what’s going on?”
“Me? How would I know?” Her eyes got round with denial. “You’re not going to pin this on me. Facelifts to Flips has been my show since I was nineteen. I don’t need some D-list athlete to help me grow my audience.”
“First off, I’m a three-time Stanley Cup winner and Hall of Famer. Far from D-list. As for my career, it’s been covered on every network and cable channel for nearly a decade.”
“You’re forgetting TMZ.”
“I’ll keep that in mind the next time I’m watching YouTube.”
He’d meant it as a joke, but he could tell the comment hit a sore spot, which had not been his intention.
He was about to apologize when she said, “I had no idea who you were when I met you. I just thought you were some guy my aunt set me up with. I was told to find the guy in the blue ball cap and you were the only blue ball cap in the bar.”
There was an honesty there that he believed.
Or maybe it was that he wanted to believe.
He’d been screwed over so many times by the people around him it was hard to give his trust blindly, but there was something about Poppy that made him want to go back to a time when people didn’t want a piece of him.
Even Asher, one of his most trusted friends, their relationship was based on financial transactions.
“I believe you.”
She blinked up at him. “You do?”
“Against everything I’ve come to believe, yeah, I do. But that still doesn’t absolve the part where your aunt set us up and now here we are.”
She pressed her thumbs to her forehead and massaged it in little circles.
Decker knew a lot about women. How to tell when they were faking it.
Take sex, for instance, he was the king of the real O.
He knew when they were lying, and when they were genuinely at a loss. Poppy was as confused as he was.
“Auntie,” she hollered as she marched into the house, those hips swaying with intent. Decker found himself blindly following, his eyes tracking every hypnotic sway of her ass. And what an ass it was. Lush and heart-shaped and more than a handful. An ass made for cupping.
“Auntie,” she repeated. When she was met with only deafening silence, she said, “I know you’re in here. I can smell your scheming.”
He smirked as she stormed through the sunroom and into the kitchen where Jack and an older woman sat on an authentic late ’50s lounge, box couch with an extra low back that gave minimalistic vibes.
Dressed in a white linen pantsuit, gold jewelry, and matching kitten heel—and draped across the furniture like she was part of the décor—was Opal Hart, Hollywood’s famous matchmaker to the stars and the host of Celebrity’s Cupid.
When she saw her niece, her eyes lit with a youthful excitement that made her look not a day over fifty. The love for her niece was palpable. So was the underlying excitement.
Hands on hips, water dripping on the floor, she looked from Opal to Jack. “Someone want to clarify what’s going on?”
Opal clapped her hands in delight. “You’ve met. How wonderful.”
“We met a few weeks ago. But you already knew that,” Poppy volleyed. “Now would you like to explain why Decker is here at your house?”