Chapter Seventeen
Trouble in a Three-Piece Suit
Poppy
“Okay, but like—” I’m three glasses deep at some dive bar that smells like peanuts and bad decisions. “—his forearms are basically criminal.”
CeCe screams. “I KNEW IT. I knew you were hot for lawyer boy!”
“I’m not hot for—”
“You literally just said his forearms are criminal,” Ivy interrupts, sliding another shot across the sticky table. “That’s textbook horny behavior.”
We’ve commandeered a booth in the back corner. Mason and his groomsmen are destroying each other at darts, being loud and stupid and twenty-something. Dean went with them to “supervise,” which probably means he’s nursing a beer and cataloging everyone’s poor decisions.
Gloria flags down the bartender for another round. “Sweetie, just admit you want to climb him like a tree.”
“I don’t want to—”
“Yesterday you froze mid-sentence when he looked your way,” Ivy says. “Just stopped. Like someone unplugged you.”
“There was a bee.”
“Where?” CeCe demands.
“Near his… arms.”
They all cackle. Even through the dim lighting, I can see CeCe’s face turning red.
“Fine.” I knock back the shot. It burns going down. “He’s attractive. In an uptight, probably-color-codes-his-closet way.”
“And?” Ivy prods.
“And he made me pasta. At midnight. Because I forgot to eat.”
“MIDNIGHT PASTA?” CeCe shouts so loud I flinch. “That’s basically a proposal!”
“It was leftovers—”
“He fed you. At midnight. In his kitchen.” Gloria’s using her therapist voice. I hate when she does that. “How did that make you feel?”
“Annoyed.”
“Try again.”
“Confused?”
“Getting warmer.”
I thunk my head on the table. It’s sticky. Everything here is sticky. “I don’t know, okay? He’s just… ugh.”
“Ugh?” Ivy’s grinning. “That’s not an adjective.”
“He does this thing. Where he looks at me. Like really looks. Like he’s trying to solve me.”
“And?”
“And I want him to.” Crap. Did I say that out loud? “I mean—”
“Too late!” CeCe’s practically vibrating. “You admitted it!”
“I’m leaving Sunday.” I stare at the ceiling, which is stained with water and questionable life choices. “Italy. Vacation. No Dean Whitaker and his stupid competent hands.”
“Competent hands?” Gloria murmurs. “Interesting word choice.”
“Have you seen his hands? They’re like… architect hands.”
“What the heck are architect hands?” Ivy asks.
“I don’t know! Precise. Capable. Like they could build something or… or…”
“Or take you apart?” Gloria suggests with a wink.
“I hate all of you.”
“No, you don’t.” CeCe grins. “You know what I think?”
“That I need water?”
“That you’re scared.”
That lands like a gut punch. “Of what?”
“Of wanting something real with someone who sees through your bullshit.”
“I don’t have—”
“Poppy.” Her voice goes soft. “Babe. You haven’t told him about Miranda.”
The table goes quiet.
“That’s different,” I mutter.
“Is it?”
“Yes. Because that’s business. This is…”
“What?” Gloria asks.
I grab Ivy’s drink, steal it, and down half of it. “Complicated.”
“The best things always are,” Ivy says.
“That’s bride brain talking.”
“Or maybe I think you deserve someone who makes you midnight pasta and catches you when you fall.”
“I wasn’t falling—”
“Metaphorically, bitch.”
We all laugh, but it’s sharp around the edges.
“He’s just so…” I wave vaguely.
“Hot?” CeCe supplies.
“Intense. Like, he does this jaw thing when he’s thinking—”
“Oh my God, you’re so gone,” Ivy says.
“Can we stop—”
“You’re the one going on and on.”
“Because you got me drunk!”
“Because you needed to admit you want to—”
“HEY.” Dean’s voice cuts through our chaos.
We all freeze, even CeCe, with a glass halfway to her lips.
He’s standing at the end of our booth, beer in one hand, looking amused and annoyed and—
Crap. His sleeves are rolled up.
I stare at the table, anything to avoid looking at those strong, veiny forearms.
“Mason’s about to do something stupid with darts,” he says. “Thought you’d want to watch.”
“We’re busy,” Ivy says.
“Doing what?”
“Girl stuff,” Gloria offers.
“Which involves yelling about my forearms?”
I want to die. I want the sticky floor to open up and swallow me whole.
“No one was yelling about—” I start.
“The whole bar heard you.”
“That’s CeCe’s fault.”
“Hey!” CeCe protests.
Dean’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Come on. He’s drunk enough to attempt trick shots.”
“In a second,” Ivy says.
He looks at me. Does the intense thing. “You good?”
“Peachy.”
“She’s drunk,” CeCe announces.
“I noticed.” He’s still looking at me. “Water?”
“I’m fine.”
“Sure you are.” He heads to the bar, presumably to order a water I didn’t ask for.
“Holy shit,” CeCe whispers. “The tension.”
“There’s no—”
“He heard you talking about his arms and came over anyway,” Gloria says. “That’s… interesting.”
“It’s mortifying.”
“It’s foreplay,” Ivy corrects.
“I’m starting to see what all the fuss is about,” Gloria says, her gaze glued to Dean’s tall frame at the bar.
I’m saved from responding by Dean, who hands me a water and Mason, who appears with a handful of darts and the confidence of someone six beers deep.
“LADIES!” He attempts a bow and nearly falls. “Watch this.”
What follows is ten minutes of Mason trying to hit the board blindfolded while Dean stands nearby, radiating disapproval and occasionally stepping in to prevent property damage.
“Your future husband’s an idiot,” I tell Ivy.
“Yeah, but he’s my idiot.” She’s got the dopey love face. “Look how happy he is.”
She’s right. Mason’s grinning like a kid, completely comfortable in his skin. No pretense. No walls.
Must be nice.
Dean catches me watching and raises an eyebrow.
I look away.
“Okay,” Gloria says, checking her phone. “I should head out. Early morning.”
“Quitter,” I say.
“Survivor.” She kisses my head. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“That leaves a lot of options.”
“Exactly.” She winks.
After she leaves, Ivy gets pulled into the dart game, and CeCe goes off to make a phone call. Suddenly, I’m alone in the booth with my questionable decisions and—
“Here.”
Dean slides another glass of water across the table and sits down across from me.
“I didn’t ask for this.”
“You never do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” He takes a sip of his beer and studies me. “Having fun?”
“Are you?”
“Watching Mason try to maim tourists? Always a good time.”
“You’re a good brother.”
Something flickers across his face. “Sometimes.”
“No, like…” The words are slippery. Drunk words. “You show up. Even when you don’t want to. That matters.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Still true.”
We sit there, surrounded by bar noise. His knee bumps mine under the table.
He doesn’t move it.
“Dean?”
“Mm?”
“I’m sorry about the forearm thing.”
He laughs, low and rumbly, and dang it, that’s hot. “The forearm thing. Right.”
“Shut up.”
“Just trying to understand what makes them criminal.”
I look at him. Really look. He’s relaxed tonight, beer bottle loose in his hand, sleeves rolled up because he hates me specifically.
“It’s the way you…” I gesture vaguely. “When you roll them up. It’s very…”
“Very?”
“Competent.”
“Competent?” He’s definitely laughing at me now.
“Like you could… I don’t know. Build something. Or fix something. Or—”
“Or?”
Take me apart. Put me back together. Ruin me for other forearms.
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
Mason crashes into our table. “Deeeean! Stop flirting and come play!”
“We’re not—” Dean starts.
“Poppy thinks your arms are competent!” Mason stage-whispers. “She told everyone!”
I’m going to murder him. At his own wedding.
“Go,” I tell Dean. “Before he hurts himself.”
He stands and pauses. “For what it’s worth?”
“What?”
“I think your everything is competent.”
Then he’s gone, herding Mason back to the darts.
I sit there, processing.
Did he just…?
“POPPY!” Ivy appears, grabbing my hands. “Come pee with me!”
“I don’t need to—”
“Girl code. Come on.” She drags me to the bathroom, which is exactly as gross as expected. I suppress a shudder.
“So,” she says, fixing her lipstick. “Dean likes you.”
“He tolerates me.”
“He brought you water.”
“That was basic human decency.”
“He said your everything is competent.”
“That’s not even a real compliment.”
“From Dean? That’s basically a sonnet.”
I lean against the sink. “It doesn’t matter. I’m leaving Sunday.”
“So?”
“So what’s the point?”
She turns to me. “The point is you like him. He clearly likes you. And you have two more nights.”
“To what? Have a fling with my client’s brother?”
“To stop overthinking and let yourself want something.”
Her words cut through me. Even drunk… could I do that? No. Not when I’m hanging on by a thread. This job is the most important thing I have in my life right now.
“I want lots of things. A functioning business. Financial stability. Carbs.”
“Dean. You want Dean.”
“I—”
“And that terrifies you.”
I stare at her in the gross bar mirror. “When did you get wise?”
“Love does that.” She grins. “Come on. Let’s go watch our boys be idiots.”
“He’s not my boy.”
“Yet.”
We head back out. The guys have moved on to some drinking game I don’t understand. Dean’s not playing, just watching with fond exasperation.
He looks up when we approach, and our eyes meet.
Two more nights.
I’m in so much trouble.