Chapter 2
POPPY
Marty pulls the door to the records trailer shut behind us.
His shoulders take up most of the gap between the filing cabinets, and when he moves past me and his body brushes against mine, the question I had lined up just vanishes.
This man is built to a scale that makes this trailer feel like a closet, and work is definitely not what I want to be doing with this man.
“Apologies,” he says, taking a step back from me. “Procurement’s on the left wall. Purchase orders up top, invoices middle, delivery receipts bottom.”
“And your change orders? Filed with the original POs?”
He looks at me. Not quite condescending, but not far from it.
He pauses before he speaks, and I force myself not to say anything sharp. I’ve seen this kind of behavior from men for years—men who look at me and underestimate me before I even open my mouth. “Where else would they be?”
I grab a binder and hold it up. “In a binder like this one?”
He opens his mouth to say something, then clearly thinks better of it and wisely doesn’t.
“It’s probably best if you don’t assume I’m a complete idiot,” I say, working to keep my voice as neutral as possible. He’s handsome, but that doesn’t mean he’s not also a macho dick.
“I wasn’t—”
“You were about to explain what a purchase order is.”
“Guilty,” he says, holding his hands up in surrender. “How about we start over?”
I nod and update my opinion of him. At least he had the grace to apologize before things went sour. “What’s your variance threshold before you flag a supplier?”
I ask it to test something. I want to know whether he’ll know the answer or whether he’ll redirect me to Dale. This is a man who frames walls for a living. He should not know this.
“Five percent.”
I suppress my smile. I’m impressed. “Industry standard is three.”
“Industry standard doesn’t account for rural delivery logistics.
” He leans one hand on the table between us, and the position puts his face a foot from mine.
I need to stop trying to get closer to this man and pay attention to what he’s saying.
“We get weather delays, road closures. Five gives us margin without flooding Dale’s desk with false flags. ”
I’m impressed. He made a call that’s smarter than the textbook answer and he’s defending it and I have completely lost the follow-up question that was on the tip of my tongue a moment ago. What is it about this man?
“Five’s reasonable,” I say, because my voice still works even when my train of thought has jumped the track.
“Thanks for the approval.”
The corner of his mouth pulls up and holds. He’s pushing back instead of folding and I need to keep asking questions or I’m going to keep noticing his mouth, which is not a productive use of my time.
“Show me the daily reports.”
He moves and grabs another binder, flipping it open and turning it toward me, and his hand lands on the table next to mine. I stare at his scraped knuckles, cursing my body for flushing at how close we’re standing.
His voice is quiet and sure as he walks me through the reporting structure.
I’m supposed to be following the column headers, but his hands keep moving when he talks, tapping the page and I’m going to have to figure this all out later on my own.
His forearm grazes mine reaching for the next tab, and my mind short-circuits.
“I can pull whatever you need,” he says, leaning against the filing cabinet with one hip against the metal, arms crossed over his muscled chest. “Night before, so you’re not waiting.”
“You don’t have to prep for me.”
He pauses and nods, and I appreciate that he’s not trying to strong-arm me into agreeing with him.
“I should tell you something.” His shirt rides up as he scrubs the back of his neck, revealing a strip of tan stomach muscles disappearing into his waistband and making my skin burn with desire. “When Dale said you were coming in, I figured you’d be inexperienced. That was wrong. I’m sorry.”
“Would you have made that assumption if Dale said his grandson was coming?”
His face changes, but he doesn’t look away. “No,” he says. “I wouldn’t have.”
My throat closes. Because this man just took an uncomfortable question and answered honestly, and I didn’t expect that.
He didn’t try the macho bullshit I was expecting.
I have to give him credit for that. And now he’s looking at me with an openness that is unexpectedly sexy, and I want to put my mouth on him.
But fooling around with Grandpa’s employees is a bad idea, and I know it.
He holds out his hand, and I take it. His palm is rough, calluses pressing into my fingers, and the pressure travels straight up my arm and keeps going. His thumb shifts a fraction against the side of my palm, and all I can think about is that it’s been way too long since I got laid.
“Same time tomorrow?” My voice comes out husky as I release his hand.
“Sounds good.”
I don’t know how I’m going to manage working with this man and not jump his bones, but I’m going to have to figure it out real damn fast.
“Rate the apology,” Maggie says. “One to ten.”
“It’s not about rating the apology.” I pull my knees up on her couch and grab my glass of wine.
“You described a man who stopped mid-sentence, examined his own gender bias, and asked for a do-over. Minimum seven.” She waves her nail polish brush at me. “Was there eye contact?”
“Why does that matter?”
“A man who apologizes to your forehead doesn’t mean it. A man who apologizes and looks you in the eye is a gentleman. Was there eye contact?”
My neck goes hot. “Yes.”
“Eight. Possibly nine,” Maggie looks up from painting her toenails.
Her cat, Macavity, watches me from the arm of the couch, yellow eyes unblinking.
Macavity is a rescue that Maggie adopted recently, and this is the first time we’ve met.
He hasn’t decided if he likes me or not, and I’m not interested in meeting his claws if he decides he doesn’t. “Did his voice get quieter?”
“Maggie.”
“I don’t make the rules.”
“Every other man on that site looked at me like I was lost. Like I’d taken a wrong turn on the way to a nail appointment.” I curl my fingers into the couch cushion. “Marty looked at me like that for about five minutes. Then he adjusted. He didn’t try that alpha bullshit most men try.”
“What does he look like?”
“That’s not—”
“I will pour this nail polish on your foot, Poppy Briggs.”
“Tall. Broad. Built like a construction worker, which he is. Blond hair, amazing jawline.” I take a sip of wine, but I don’t taste it.
All I’ve been able to think about is how my body has been humming since I met Marty, and it hasn’t gone away since I left the site.
“He has this focus. When he looks at you, nothing else exists.”
“Oh, Poppy.”
I stare into my glass because if I look at Maggie she’ll see how badly I’m lusting after him. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since we met, and the fact that I am pressing my thighs together right now on her couch like a woman who can’t control herself. “It’s an observation.”
She caps the polish and swings to face me.
“You’ve dated men with MBAs and five-year plans who never once made you lose your train of thought.
Now some guy in work boots makes you forget what you’re saying, and you want to tell me it’s just an observation?
Why not just have a summer fling and get it out of your system? You’re both adults.”
I shift on the couch. I’m starting to get annoyed.
“I don’t do casual,” I say. “You know that. And the plan is too important to—”
“The plan. The five-year plan that has gotten you how many orgasms in the last year that you didn’t give yourself.”
“Oh my god.”
“Am I wrong?”
The terrifying part is that she’s not wrong.
I spent two years dating men who looked perfect on paper and kissed like they didn’t care who they were kissing, and I gave up and focused on school.
Then this afternoon a man in work boots brushed past my body and all I could think was that I wanted to strip the clothes off his body in that cramped trailer and ride him until I’d caught up on all the non-solo orgasms I’ve missed in the last two years.
“Am I wrong, Poppy?”
“I’m going to need more wine.”
“That’s not a no.” She pokes my knee. “You don’t have to marry him. You just have to admit that something happened today.”
“Nothing happened.” Ever since we said goodbye, I’ve been feeling the ghost where his thumb touched my palm, and missing it.
“Your neck is splotchy.”
I slap my hand to my throat and she grins so wide it takes over her whole face.
“Come to karaoke with me Thursday,” I say. “The Foundry. I need to talk about literally anything else.”
“I’ll think about it.” She picks up her wine. “But I’m going on record: you’re going to sleep with that man before the summer’s over. And when you do, I want details.”
“I’m going home now, Maggie,” I laugh, grabbing my bag and preparing to walk to my Grandpa’s place.
What I want is so specific it scares me. I want his weight on me. His muscular arms holding me. His hips meeting mine. His hands on my waist, the back of my thigh, pulling my knee higher. What sound would he make? My legs around him, my hands caressing the muscles that his shirt didn’t hide.
What is happening to me?