Chapter 22 A Sharp Knife
A Sharp Knife
Jack
I glare at the ruined attempt at puff-pastry dough littering the table in Fable’s kitchen. Baking is not my strong suit—which
I will fully admit to any day of the week—but I understand the technique, so my attempt shouldn’t be so piss-poor. Food is
art, but baking is science, or so the saying goes.
This isn’t salvageable. I toss everything into the trash, shaking my head. This is a waste of time, anyway. The restaurant
won’t have pop tarts on the menu. Part of me just liked the idea of taking Poppy’s food memory and recreating it, that’s all.
If I manage to get it right, she’ll give me one of those surprised little smiles that—god help me—I like collecting.
I grimace at the thought. Our trip to Horseshoe was more fun than it had any right to be. It was hard to drop her off at the
end of the day, and not just because she’s staying in a crap apartment building. Part of me wanted to invite her to the houseboat
for dinner. I put the brakes on that thought before it gained steam, but it came into my head all the same.
I wash my hands, then dig in my pocket for my phone.
I sneak a look at the video of me fishing that Poppy posted after we got back from the island.
The most attractive thing about it is hearing her laughter as she films, but most of the comments are about me.
Fantastic. It’s what we need for this to work, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
I pull up her father’s contact, thumb hesitating over the call button. I haven’t spoken to him in a few days. After the island . . .
things feel different. Besides, she’s fine. She’s safe. We’ve worked out a content filming schedule so we’ll be less tempted
to murder each other during work hours.
I’ll get in touch with him later.
Poppy’s name flashes across my screen. I glance at it uneasily. She’s never called me before. Whenever we’ve communicated
outside of the kitchen, it’s by text; she uses an excessive amount of emojis. It’s like deciphering an ancient language when
her name pops up. Her latest badgering has been about staff, because, as she’s rightly pointed out many times now, we can’t
run a kitchen by ourselves. I wonder how pissed Douglas would be if I poached Hazel from Pastiche.
I answer the call before it rings again. “What’s up, Winfield?”
She doesn’t answer, but I hear her soft, staccato breathing.
“Hello? Winfield?”
She shrieks. I freeze, heart thudding in my chest like a gong. “Poppy?”
“He’s here.” She gulps shakily. She’s whispering, as if afraid of being overheard. “He’s in the apartment.”
“He?” I tear off the apron. I jerk my hand through my hair, spinning in a useless circle before finding my knife roll. “Who’s
there?”
“I knew he’d come eventually.”
“Who?”
“Oh my god, he’s moving.” She whimpers. “Jack, he’s terrifying. He’s horrible. He’s—oh god, he’s going to come back with his friends.”
My heart’s about to sprint out of my fucking chest. Leave it to Poppy to have a stalker she didn’t tell me about. He’s probably
one of those fucking assholes sliding into her DMs and paying attention to every geotag. Poppy’s still babbling over the line,
words blending together, as I sprint across the lot to my Jeep.
“I’m on my way.” I put the car into gear. “Fight if you need to.”
“Please hurry.” Her line disconnects.
I tear out of the parking lot.
I reach Poppy’s apartment complex in record time. It’s painted a cheery bright blue and overrun with tropical foliage, but
clearly outdated; one good hurricane could rip off the roof. Unease roils my gut as I throw the car into park. I grab a knife
out of my roll at random. One of the long, heavy ones. Better safe than sorry.
I don’t know which apartment is hers. She didn’t let me walk her to the door when I dropped her off. I’m willing to take a
bet on the bottom right unit, however. The blinds are open far enough to show the edge of a crumpled pink blanket on a bed.
I hammer on the flimsy door. “Poppy. Poppy!”
No response. I kick in the door. It ricochets against the opposite wall, giving me a view of a cramped, outdated kitchenette.
Poppy’s red bathing suit hangs over the oven handle. I spot Gator’s food and water bowls in the corner, but don’t see him.
Or Poppy.
I grip the knife tighter as I walk in. No signs of a struggle. The place sure as hell isn’t neat, but I wouldn’t expect that
from her anyway. Maybe her stalker hasn’t come back yet. Maybe she persuaded him to leave.
Or maybe he left with her.
The thought turns my heart to ice.
I peer around a corner. In the equally small living room, there’s a musty old couch, buried under clothes and heels. The television
plays at a low murmur.
“Poppy.” I raise my voice, body tensed in case I need to defend us. “It’s me. Where are you?”
“In here,” she calls from somewhere farther in the apartment.
Relief punches through me at her answer. “Are they still here? Are you hurt?”
“He’s still there.” Her voice breaks. “In the bedroom.”
I hold the knife out as I inch down the hallway.
Hopefully there isn’t a dead body on the floor.
I can imagine Poppy flailing around in a panic, knocking the guy out with a pan.
If I have to drive down to the Everglades tonight and dump a body, I’ll do it, but I sure as hell won’t be happy about it.
The bedroom door is slightly ajar. I ease it open slowly.
No one’s there. I double check the room anyway, peering into the closet and underneath the bed. A large cockroach skitters
across the floor. I step on it before it can escape.
There’s only one door left. Must be the bathroom. I yank it open, mind filled with images of Poppy held hostage, fear in her
big blue eyes and a meaty hand clasped over her mouth.
She’s in the corner of the bathroom. Alone.
And she promptly starts screaming.
“What? What?” I whirl around, ready to fuck up whoever’s behind me.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“What?”
“You have a knife!”
“Damnit, where’s the guy, Poppy?”
“You’re actually holding a huge ass knife right now. Oh my god.” She clutches her chest, as if I’m the madman in this situation.
“What the fuck, Jack?”
“You told me someone broke into your apartment. What was I going to do, bring a spatula?”
“Knowing you, you could commit murder with a spatula,” she mutters.
I shut my eyes briefly. “What the hell is going on? Did he leave? Did you call the police?”
She crosses her arms over her chest. She’s wearing a slinky, baby blue nightgown that leaves little to the imagination when
it comes to her tits. Wet hair curls down her back. “There.”
I look over my shoulder. “Where?”
“He’s right there!” Her arms wrap around me, squeezing tight. She peers over my shoulder. I catch a whiff of her rosemary
and mint shampoo and stiffen. “See?”
“What . . .” My eyes follow where she’s pointing. “The cockroach?”
“It’s an infestation!”
I nearly drop the knife. “You’re kidding.”
“Why would I—oh, you killed him already?”
“Poppy.” I drag my hand down my face. My heart, still racing, calms down slightly. It’s a struggle not to pay too much attention to the way she’s pressed against me, warm and a little damp. “You called me because you saw a cockroach?”
“He was terrifying! And huge!” She loosens her grip on me. I watch, rubbing my chest, as she pokes around the bedroom. “There
are others, I swear.”
I don’t know whether to strangle her or hug her. Maybe both. “How do you know he’s a boy?”
My mouth goes dry at the sight of her bent over a chair, bottom in the air. Fuck, she’s wearing a little white thong. That
image is going to be burned into my brain for eternity.
She straightens with a shudder, oblivious to the way I’m staring. I need to focus. “I can just tell.”
“You said, ‘He’s here.’ I thought you had a stalker. Someone who wanted to hurt you.”
She lets out a shaky breath. I notice, for the first time, that she really had been crying. She didn’t call me to pull a prank
or act like a brat. It might’ve just been a cockroach or two, but the fear in her voice was real.
I heave a sigh. “Come here.”
She gives me a wide-eyed look, yet shuffles closer. I reel her into a hug, my palm cradling the back of her head. My pulse
jumps at the way her face presses against my neck. She sniffles wetly.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice hitching. “I totally flipped out.”
“It’s fine.” I clear my throat, studiously ignoring the stir in my groin at the sensation of her soft breasts pressing against
my chest. “Let’s get out of here.”
“What?”
“You can’t stay here.” I peel away reluctantly, tugging on a lock of her hair. “It’s overrun with at least one cockroach.”
She laughs wetly. “That you so kindly squashed on my bedroom floor.”
“Bastard had it coming.” I pull her enormous suitcase out of the closet and hoist it onto the bed. “Come on, Princess. Time
to abandon the castle.”
“The dungeon cell, you mean.”
“I won’t wait all night. Where’s the cat? Your meds?”
A catch a glimpse of a smile as she shoves clothes into the suitcase.
The houseboat is smaller than this apartment. We’ll be orbiting each other even tighter than at Fable, and with Gator in the
mix, too. This is one of my more awful ideas, and yet I can’t bring myself to snatch back the invitation. Douglas told me
to keep her safe, didn’t he? Cockroaches aside, if a storm rolls into town, that apartment building won’t stand a chance.
This is the responsible thing to do. Smart, really.
We’re quiet on the ride to the marina. Poppy doesn’t protest when I carry her bags down the dock. She puts her hand in mine
so I can help her onto the houseboat. Gator blinks at us from inside his carrier, his eyes shining. The water is flat and
still and slowly darkening as the sherbert colored sunset fades away.
Inside, Poppy turns in a slow circle, taking in the space. My body grows taut, ready to rebuff her judgement. I know it’s
not exactly a palace, but I’ve become oddly protective of it.
“I’ve been dying to know what the inside looks like,” she says. She bends to free Gator, who stretches hugely, then ambles
for the couch. “Ever since the first day, when you stomped off to get me that shirt.”
“It’s not much.”
She traces her fingertips along a wooden-framed window. “It’s like the restaurant. Beautiful, underneath the mess.” She sneaks
a look at me. “I thought you were the neat one.”
“Only in the kitchen.” I lead the way through the boat, showing her the small, puzzle-like features that come together to
make it a home. The drop-down table, the storage in the sofa, the tiny alcove for the bed. No space is ever wasted on a boat.
It’s like nothing she’s used to, I’m sure, but she doesn’t protest. Not even when I show her the closet-like bathroom and
even smaller shower.
“Where should I sleep?” she asks eventually. “The couch?”
“Have the bed.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod stiffly. Sharing the bed would be a disaster, especially if she wore that nightgown.
I’d be awake all night, fighting to keep my hands to myself.
My imagination teases me for half a second with the image of my fingers playing with the delicate straps.
Pulling them down her sunburned shoulders to free her tits.
Her breath would hitch when I kissed them.
She’d tremble underneath me as I dragged a hand between her legs, cupping where she’s most sensitive.
That can’t happen. Not in my fantasies, and certainly not in real life. I give myself a mental slap, grabbing one of the pillows
and an extra blanket from the chest at the foot of the bed. The couch is too small for me to spread my legs out, so I’ll have
to go onto the deck. Hopefully it doesn’t rain tonight. It won’t be the first night I’ve spent under the stars.
She worries her bottom lip. “Thank you.”
My cock twitches at her soft voice. I clear my throat. “Of course.”
I set up a makeshift bed on the bow, trying studiously to ignore what’s going on below-deck. Yet I know, in the back of my
mind, two things:
One, it won’t be the first night I dream of Poppy Winfield.
And two, I definitely won’t be telling her father about this.