Chapter 34 Pineapple
Pineapple
Jack
“No way,” I argue as I lead the way down the sidewalk to a waterfront restaurant, a ramshackle little place with a raw bar
to die for. Even if Owen tells us to get lost, we’ll have a good lunch. “Chef’s jackets aren’t pink.”
Poppy sighs. “You lack imagination.”
“That’s not what you said about my confit duck.”
“I’ll show you where you can shove your confit duck,” she mutters behind me.
I press my lips together so I won’t laugh. I wasn’t sure how Poppy would react to the story about Jessica, but her indignation
was sweet. Surprising. I feel lighter, having shared it, despite my trepidation about seeing Owen again. “Didn’t you promise
me your best behavior if I let you tag along?”
“I promised to be my charming self to help you seal the deal.” We climb a set of stairs to the entryway, squeezing into the
tight space. She presses close to me to avoid the path of an incoming server. She smells like expensive sunscreen and floral
perfume, a blend that, absurdly, makes me want to lick her skin. “I didn’t say anything about being good.”
I stroke my hand from her nape to the small of her back. Her little stutter of breath has me grinning.
“What are you doing?”
“I like this dress.” I bend my head, exploring the curve of her ear with my lips. “I’ve never seen it before.”
“You’d kick me out of the kitchen if I showed up like this.”
“True.” I tease her earlobe. I like the warm weight of her. The way she’s tilting her head to the side to allow me better
access. If we were alone, I’d inch the thin dress straps down. As it is, it’s all I can think about. “It’s a liability in
more ways than one.”
“Took you long enough, Hartman,” someone says.
Poppy and I break apart hastily. I stiffen as Owen approaches. The way his black hair flops over his eyes is familiar, but
he has more tattoos than I remember, plus a row of piercings up one ear. His chef’s jacket—white, thank you—is crisp and orderly.
“Hey, Li.” I hold out my hand.
To my surprise, Owen doesn’t just take it; he thumps me on the back in a hearty embrace. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice
Poppy’s self-satisfied smile.
“Hey yourself.” He steps back, a flippant grin on his face. “I was wondering when you’d finally remember we’re in the same
state.”
I grimace. “Yeah. It’s been too long.”
“You look good.”
The tips of my ears redden. “You too. Look, man, I’m . . .” I trail off, caught up in awkward guilt.
“I was sorry to hear about Sal.”
My chest tightens. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“You hungry?” Owen asks, seemingly taking pity on me and my inability to hold an actual conversation. “We have some beautiful
oysters in from Rhode Island.”
“We’d love that,” Poppy says quickly. She loops her arm through mine, tugging me forward as Owen walks to a high-top in a
shaded corner of the deck. “Thank you so much. Jack has something to ask you, actually.”
“If it’s to get on another yacht, that’s not happening.” He sees my stricken expression and laughs. “Just jerking your chain,
Hartman. That was ages ago.”
I clear my throat. “I know I didn’t handle it well.”
“She played you, not the other way around. I’d have quit too.” He grabs two menus, sliding them to us. “I wouldn’t have run away to California, maybe, but I get it.”
“It was the French Laundry.”
“Like I said, I get it.”
I clock the ring on his left hand. “Holy shit. Did you get married?”
“Oh, yeah.” Owen admires the ring for a moment. “Vegas elopement. You’re not the only one capable of being impulsive, Hartman.”
“You and Barry?”
“Barry was two boyfriends ago.”
I wince. “Pretend I didn’t say that.”
“My husband’s name is Mateo. We met on a yacht, ironically.” Owen claps me on the shoulder, his smile like the noon sun. “Let
me put in an order for you, and then we can talk. We have an awesome pork mojo on the menu.”
Once he comes back with cold beers, we explain the situation. Poppy takes the lead, reeling him in with her description of
the pop-up and the vibe of the restaurant. I talk about the food. Judging by the bright edge in Owen’s eyes, he’s intrigued.
The silent approval of the menu I’ve pulled together means a lot. I’d nearly forgotten how much I respected his expertise.
“I know it’s a huge favor,” I say, rubbing my nape, “and I totally get if you tell me to fuck off, but maybe if you know someone
else—”
“Who else do you have?” Owen interrupts.
“A solid line cook, Herman. He was at the Sailfish before. Hazel LaRue; we worked together in New York. Poppy’s going to handle
dessert for the pop-up.”
“That so?” Owen says around a sip of beer.
“I’ve been giving her lessons.”
He grins at Poppy. “You’re a double threat, Winfield. I’ve been paying attention to your work on Fable’s socials.”
Poppy smiles back, clearly pleased by the compliment. “Will you consider it? We know the timing is tight. Blame Jack for that
one.”
“You’ll pay?” he asks. “I’m supposed to be on a yacht heading for St. Croix soon, and my client tips heavy.”
“Absolutely,” I say.
Owen nods, considering that for a moment. “Then I’m in. Only for you, friend.”
“Thanks.” I duck my head, letting out a hard breath of relief. “That means a lot.”
A server approaches with a tray. A dozen oysters on the half shell nestled in a bed of ice, glistening in the sunlight. He
sets it down with a flourish. To Owen, he says, “Chef, they’re asking about tonight’s special.”
“Duty calls.” Owen raps his knuckles on the table as he slides off his chair. “Text me about the details, yeah?”
“You have the same number?”
“What do you think?” He gives me a look; he’s not above reprimanding me a bit. I should have gotten back in touch with him
ages ago. Trusted that our friendship could overcome a bad client. Still, I’m relieved that I didn’t permanently fuck things
up between us. If I’d gotten my head out of my ass sooner, maybe we’d never have gotten distant in the first place. “Enjoy
the oysters on me.”
“I like him,” Poppy says. Her foot nudges my shin. “By the way, I have a confession to make.”
“What?”
“I’ve never had an oyster.” She eyes the plate with a shudder. “They look disgusting.”
My mouth practically falls open. “You’re kidding.”
She shakes her head. “No, Chef.”
“With a family like yours? That’s a shame.” I pick up an oyster, dabbing it liberally with cocktail sauce and squeezing on
lemon. Poppy’s nose wrinkles as she watches me swallow it. “Try it.”
“I’d rather eat the silverware.”
“They clean the oysters, you know.”
“I refuse to believe that thing was ever alive.”
“They’re delicious. Especially with beer.” I have another, enjoying the burst of brine across my tongue. I’d be able to tell
they’re from the Northeast even if Owen didn’t say anything; the way oysters vary by region is one of my favorite things about
raw bars. “You’re trying one.”
“No way.”
“It’s like doing a shot. You can’t tell me you’ve never done a shot before.”
“Shots aren’t slimy.”
“How many things have I butchered in front of you by now?”
“That’s different.”
I prepare one for her and hold it out. “Come on, be brave.”
Very tentatively, she takes the oyster from me. She pokes it with her fingertip. I lace my fingers together, grinning at her
trepidation.
“I had my first oyster with Chester and his dad. We went fishing, checked the traps. His dad shucked them right there on the
boat.”
I can imagine that filmy, slow-heat summer day perfectly. The gently bobbing boat, Chester’s dad’s boisterous laughter. The
way he slapped our backs once our first oysters went down, smooth as anything. I’d thought nothing could beat them—until the
first time I tried uni.
“Sounds charming.”
“It’s now or never, sweetheart.”
Just as I expect, she can’t turn down the challenge. She wiggles around on her stool as she tilts her head back, finally swallowing
it. “Ugh!”
I chuckle at her expression. “So?”
She sighs, long-suffering. “Give me another.”
“Attagirl.”
After another oyster, and a stinging gulp of beer, I watch as she dabs her mouth with a napkin. The breeze plays with the
loose ends of her hair. Her eyes could be rare pearls, they’re so stunning. We work our way through the entire plate, leaving
clean, white shells behind.
“Is this what it’s like when you . . . you know . . . do oral?”
I choke on my next sip of beer. “What?”
“It’s salty,” she says, in a tone that suggests I’m the weird one in this situation. “And wet, you know, nothing about it
is dry—”
“It’s nothing like this.” I think of the warm, slick heaven between her legs and suppress a groan. The mere suggestion has
my dick twitching with interest. “Eating you out is—”
“It doesn’t have to be me specifically,” she says. “I just meant women in general.”
“Forgive me for thinking about the last pussy I tasted.”
Beer practically splutters out of her nose. “Jack! We’re in a restaurant!”
“You brought it up!”
“And I regretted it right away!” Her face is very red. “You know my mouth. It runs away with a thought before my brain has
a chance to veto it.”
“And the thought was, Is my vagina like an oyster?”
“One has to look at it and wonder, that’s all!” She’s half hysterical, half on the verge of laughter.
I’m saved from thinking up an answer by the server swinging around with more food. The pork tacos Owen mentioned, seared tuna,
perfectly cooked potstickers drizzled with chili oil. Poppy eagerly picks up one of the soft-shell tacos, closing her eyes
in what I hope is bliss as she chews. I dig into the tuna, noting without surprise that Owen absolutely crushed the seasoning.
“Hey,” I say, after a few quiet moments, “with Owen onboard, maybe we can even—”
“Jack,” Poppy interrupts in a high voice, coughing wetly. “Jack, I think . . .”
She coughs again, only it sounds more like a wheeze. She pushes her plate away, reaching for her purse. It falls to the ground.
She sways a little, grimacing, her face blotchy and pink with sudden, unmistakable hives.
My body is moving before I even think anything coherent. I ease her off the high-top stool, cradling her against my body.
Her pulse is racing, and she’s far too warm.
I taste the taco and abruptly curse.
Pineapple.
She’s having an allergic reaction.
Pork mojo is usually marinated in orange juice, so I didn’t think anything of it, but Owen must have substituted pineapple
in his recipe. It’s immediately obvious, woven in with the layers of cumin and lime.
My heart seizes with terror. Her flushed cheek presses against my chest as I turn her purse upside down, its contents tumbling to the floor.
No EpiPen. Did she leave it in the car? I don’t remember seeing it.
It’s a struggle to think in a straight line.
I whirl around, finally spotting the server by the bar.
“Do you have an EpiPen?” I bark at him.
“Sir?”
“An EpiPen! She’s having an allergic reaction.”
“I don’t know—”
“Call 911.” The server stares, absolutely frozen. I’d shake him, but I’m too terrified to let go of Poppy. “Now!”
Owen skids out of the kitchen, hastily drying his hands with a dishcloth. “What’s going on?”
“You used pineapple juice in the pork marinade?” I fight to keep my voice even. “She’s allergic.”
The next moments are filled with chaos. Owen calls 911, rattling off the address, as the server races to find the first aid
kit. I sink to the ground, holding Poppy in an iron grip, too afraid to move, to do anything but count each inhale and exhale.
She’s breathing heavily, as if each rise of her chest is taking a massive amount of effort. It feels like an eternity before
the paramedics arrive, but suddenly a man and a woman in navy uniforms are kneeling beside me. They pry me away from Poppy.
It’s torture to let go. I curl my hands into fists, resisting the urge to snatch her back into my arms.
“Sir,” the man says, his voice calm but firm, “can you tell us what’s going on?”
“She’s allergic to pineapple,” I pant. Sweat drips down my temple. “Accidentally ingested it. Didn’t have her EpiPen.”
“Back up please,” the woman says as she uncaps a plastic cylinder. She plunges it into Poppy’s thigh in a smooth motion.
The panic eases, but only for a moment. They load Poppy onto a stretcher, carrying her down the steps to the waiting ambulance.
“Jack,” I hear her say, her voice small, plaintive, as she disappears from view. I blink hard, vision blurring. Fuck.
“I’m right behind you!” I call. I can’t tell if she hears me.
“I’m sorry,” Owen says by my shoulder. “Jack, I didn’t realize—”
“It was my fault.”
I should’ve asked. I should’ve fucking asked.
I toss Poppy’s things back into her purse, then race for my car. I reach the hospital as fast as I can, no doubt breaking several traffic laws in the process. At the doors to the emergency room, I rush inside, heart beating a million miles a minute. A nurse spots me and hurries over.
“They just brought in a woman with anaphylactic shock,” I burst out. “Poppy Winfield. Where is she? I have to be with her.”
“It’s going to be okay.” The nurse’s voice is steady. “Why don’t you come and sit?”
“I can’t—I need—”
“Sit,” she says again, not unkindly. “They’re getting her sorted out now. You can help me by telling us a little about her.
What’s your relationship to her?”
“She’s my . . .”
She’s Poppy. My Poppy.
Somehow, I don’t think that will fly with the nurse. I swallow the acrid taste in my mouth, collapsing onto the nearest seat.