Chapter Fourteen Blurred Boundaries
Chapter Fourteen
Blurred Boundaries
Dean
She leaves right after dessert.
She makes excuses about vendors and early mornings. Hugs Ivy, fist-bumps Mason, and gives me this look I can’t decipher.
“Thanks for dinner.”
“It was just risotto.”
“Well, it was the best just risotto I’ve ever had.”
Then she’s gone—back to the guest house, back to safe distances and professional boundaries.
Mason helps clear the plates while Ivy makes tea. It’s a normal post-dinner ritual, except my mind won’t stop replaying the conversation in the kitchen.
“So,” Mason says, too casually. “Poppy seems nice.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Whatever matchmaking scheme you’re cooking up. Don’t.”
“I’m just saying—”
“She’s leaving Sunday. Flying to Italy. Building her business. She doesn’t need—” I gesture at myself. “This.” Not to mention, she lives in California.
“This? You mean a stable, successful guy who cooks?”
“I mean an emotionally unavailable workaholic with trust issues.”
Mason stops loading the dishwasher. “Is that really how you see yourself?”
“It’s accurate.”
“It’s bullshit.”
“Mason—”
“No. You know what? Forget this.” He turns, genuinely angry. “You’ve been punishing yourself for six years. Six. Years.”
“I’m not—”
“Emily left. It sucked. But she left because she was selfish, not because you’re broken.”
Her name hits like cold water. “Don’t.”
“Someone has to. You act like caring about someone is this massive character flaw—”
“Caring about someone got me a failed engagement and a mortgage on a house meant for a family I don’t have.”
The words hang there—too honest, too much.
Ivy appears in the doorway, tea forgotten, steam curling around her fingers.
“Dean…”
“I’m fine.” The words come out sharper than I intend.
“You’re not,” Mason says quietly from behind her. “And that’s okay. But Poppy—”
“She’s temporary,” I cut in. “Here for the week. Then gone.”
Mason crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “So?”
“So this conversation is pointless.” My voice sounds tired even to me.
“She makes you smile,” he says, stepping closer, “Maybe that means something. You’re different around her. Softer. Less… weaponized.”
I glare at him. “Weaponized?”
“Yeah. Most people get your courtroom version. She gets the off-duty one.”
I scoff and release a sharpy exhale. “Great assessment, Dr. Phil. Are you done now?”
Mason’s quiet for a moment, his eyes steady on mine. “She pulls you out of your head. You actually show up when she’s around. You’re not thinking ten steps ahead or judging everyone’s life choices. You’re just… there.”
My stomach tightens. “I’m always ‘there.’”
“Not like that. Not with anyone else.”
He’s smirking again, but there’s something softer underneath—concern. Genuine concern from my little brother, the one I’ve spent years trying to take care of.
“I’m not saying marry her,” he adds. “I’m saying maybe, just maybe, let yourself enjoy something for once.”
I grab a dish towel and wipe the counter, even though it doesn’t need it. “I enjoy plenty of things.”
“Name one.”
I keep wiping. The silence stretches until it starts to feel like pressure. “Arguing with you.”
Mason snorts. “Besides that.”
Nothing comes to mind. My throat feels tight. Damnit.
“Exactly.” He moves a little closer. “She’s cool, man. You’re… you. Just talk to her. Like a human. With feelings.”
“I don’t—”
“Have feelings? Bullshit.” His voice is easy but sure. “I saw your face during dinner.”
“What about my face?”
“You kept looking at her when you thought nobody noticed.”
“I was being polite.”
“You were being smitten.”
I snort. “Nobody says smitten anymore.”
“I just did.” He heads for the stairs, casual as ever. “Text her.”
“Why would I text her?”
He glances back once. “Because you want to.”
He’s gone before I can come up with a retort.
The kitchen feels different once he’s gone—quieter, bigger somehow. The kind of quiet that presses at your ribs.
Ivy lingers, studying me over the rim of her mug. “He’s right, you know.”
“Not you too.” I drop the towel and lean on the counter.
“She’s good for you.”
“You’ve known her four days.”
“I’ve known you three years.” Her smile is soft but certain. “I’ve never seen you like this.”
“Like what?”
“Alive.”
She crosses the room, kisses my cheek, and leaves.
The scent of her tea lingers—jasmine and honey, fading fast. I stare at the sink full of dishes, at the knife I never finished drying, at my phone sitting beside it, screen dark.
Mason’s voice echoes back in my head. Because you want to.
I tell myself that I don’t.
And I almost believe it.
I clean—methodically, mindlessly.
Definitely don’t think about Poppy’s hand on my shoulder or how she smells like vanilla and chaos, or the way she said I wanted to want it like she understood.
My phone sits on the counter—silent, judging.
I shouldn’t text her. What would I even say? Thanks for understanding my emotional damage. Want to grab coffee and discuss our mutual inability to feel normal human emotions?
Yeah. Hard pass.
I finish the dishes, pour myself a whiskey, and sit at the piano for the first time in months.
My fingers remember the keys, even if my brain’s forgotten the point. I play without thinking—muscle memory, background noise for an empty house.
Except—
There’s a light on in the guest house.
I can see her through the window—laptop open, hair still up with that pencil. Working. Always working.
Like me—hiding behind tasks and deadlines because it’s easier than admitting we’re terrified of everything else.
I stare at the light across the lawn, at my life with its carefully maintained boundaries and color-coded loneliness.
Screw it.
I grab my phone, find her contact, and type and delete six different messages.
Finally, I land on one.
ME: The strawberries survived. Barely.
I send it before I can think too hard.
Three dots appear immediately.
POPPY: It was touch and go there for a minute.
ME: They were plotting against me.
POPPY: Paranoid much?
ME: Prepared.
POPPY: Right. Very different things.
POPPY: Should I be concerned you’re texting me at 11 p.m.?
Fair point.
ME: I couldn’t sleep.
POPPY: Same. Vendors don’t believe in time zones.
ME: Neither do senior partners.
POPPY: Fun career choices we’ve made.
ME: “Fun” is generous.
POPPY: Would you do something else? If you could?
I stare at the question, picturing a life where I played piano for more than background noise, where I cooked for someone besides myself, where Saturday mornings meant something other than billable hours.
ME: Maybe. You?
POPPY: Sometimes I think about starting over—maybe opening a gift shop or a restaurant.
ME: Really?
POPPY: Food brings people together. Weddings just show them where to sit.
ME: That’s… actually profound.
POPPY: I have my moments.
ME: Why don’t you?
Three dots appear, disappear, then appear again.
POPPY: Same reason you babysat your risotto.
POPPY: Easier to control outcomes when you follow the recipe.
Damn. Called out via text at 11:17 p.m. Brutal.
ME: I should let you sleep.
POPPY: You should.
ME: Early vendor meetings?
POPPY: 6 a.m. flower delivery.
ME: Inhumane.
POPPY: Necessary. Your lawn needs beauty.
ME: My lawn needs hazard pay.
POPPY: Drama queen.
ME: Chaos agent.
POPPY: Good night, Dean.
ME: Night, Poppy.
I set the phone down. The light in the guest house stays on.
So does mine.
We’re twenty feet and a lifetime apart, both working through the night because it’s easier than admitting we’re not built for normal.
But for the first time in six years, maybe that’s okay.
Maybe broken recognizes broken.
Maybe that’s enough.
For now.