Poppy
I grin like a fool all the way to my hotel room.
I know it’s silly of me. I know a man like Noah would never actually be interested in a woman like me. Still, I let myself enjoy the fantasy for a bit.
I fall back on the enormous bed and then lift my phone to see what he typed in.
Good gracious! That man is sex on a stick. I don’t need to feel to know that my panties are drenched. Just his accent alone and him calling me ‘darlin’. It’s enough to make a girl’s heart race.
I don’t even know why I brought up the stakeout. I mean it’s not entirely untrue, but it certainly wasn’t on my to-do list for my trip to Texas. Perhaps it was kismet that I mentioned it and he happened to have one scheduled.
The amount of fluttering I have going on in my belly is ridiculous. Seems more like a flock of ravens rather than pretty butterflies. Deciding to be cheeky, I send him a reply.
It’s a screenshot with my contact info. Sexy Pants. My heart explodes. Seriously, I am dead now. This man.
Pressing my hands to my cheeks I consider the possibility that his flirtatious behavior is more than just that legendary Texas friendliness I’ve always heard about.
After all, maybe he’s just looking for a foreign lay. I may not be the kind of woman a man like that would actually fall for, but that doesn’t mean he’s not interested in a vacation fling. I’m only in town for a short amount of time. Still a man as attractive as he is, he could have just kissed me and I probably would have invited him up.
He did ask to come up.
No, he asked if I wanted him to walk me to my room. Very different. Yes, I am arguing with myself. It’s a writer thing.
Beautiful? No man has ever called me beautiful. Not even the men I’ve dated.
I know I’m not beautiful, of course. My mother is a great beauty, even in her sixties. Even though I’m a romance writer, I am far too practical to let myself get swept up in Noah’s charm. I am however, exactly whimsical enough to let myself fantasize about a vacation fling.
I go through my evening routine getting myself ready for bed, then down some melatonin so I can get some sleep. Jet lag is a real thing and if I’m going to do any impractical flinging of any kind, I want to be rested enough to enjoy it.
* * *
The following morning, I wake up—okay it’s not exactly morning as it’s nearly noon. I grab my phone to double check the time and see I’ve got unread messages from both Noah and Sam. I’m such a cliche, but the mere sight of his name or that silly nickname, rather, makes my heart pound.
But I’m a good friend so I click on Sam’s name first.
She follows that up with a string of hearts and heart-eyed emojis. And a story about how Jason jumped up onto the bar last night and announced to the whole crowd that he loved Sam. My heart warms at the thought. He took my advice to heart and gave her a grand gesture. Good for him.
I notice the time on the texts. She sent them in the middle of the night. I would have thought they’d have spent the whole night shagging … but apparently she’d come up for air long enough to check in with me. Proof she too is a good friend.
I can’t help but smile at my phone.
I quickly take a shower and get myself dressed. My hair is ridiculously thick and takes forever to dry so I put it in a French braid down my back. I second guess my clothing choices. In the harsh light of day and the blinding Texas sun, my dreams of a vacation fling with the hottest man I have ever seen in person seem more fantastical than realistic.
This is so casual and not at all the way I would normally want to greet a man I’m attracted to. But the odds of him actually trying to pursue something with me are slim to none.
So yoga pants and a t-shirt it is. My t-shirt proudly proclaims me a “romance book nerd.” A pair of bright pink trainers and I’m ready to go. I stand in the full-length hotel mirror and smirk at my reflection. A great seductress I am not. My mother would not be proud.
Of course, it’s not as though my secret hope for hot vacation sex would make her proud either, so I suppose it’s neither here nor there.
My phone pings letting me know he’s here. I grab my bag and a notebook—because you never know when an idea will strike—then I leave my hotel room.
I stride out into the balmy Texas sun and it’s nearly blinding it’s so bright. The sky is so blue and the breeze smells faintly of saltwater. I could get used to a place like this. So much better than the bleak London weather and grey skies.
Then I catch sight of Noah. Good gracious, he has the longest, sexiest legs. He’s leaning against a car—not his truck from the night before—and looking very much like Jake Ryan from Sixteen Candles. My heart flops over on itself.
Don’t get attached, Poppy. Men like that do not go for girls like you.
Ug, my inner voice is an annoying bitch. She’s often right, but still. I paste on a smile and walk to him.
His blue eyes take a lazy trip over my body, starting at my feet and going all the way up to my hair. He swallows visibly, and I can’t help but wonder if in the cold light of day he regrets flirting with me.
“Ready?” he asks.
“I am.”
He opens the door for me and I slide inside. It’s a standard coupe, smells new.
Once he’s seated next to me, I ask him, “Where’s your truck?”
“Can’t use my own vehicle on a stakeout,” he answers as he cranks the engine. “So I rented this.”
“Oh, that makes sense.” We drive for moment in silence as he pulls out of the hotel parking lot and onto the road that runs along the seashore. “What’s this stakeout for?”
“I can’t tell you that, darlin’,” he says with a wink. ”It’s classified.”
I nod, not bothering to hide my grin of excitement.
“I brought you some coffee. But then I didn’t know if you drank coffee so I also got a tea. Just take your pick.” He points to the drink caddy in between our seats.
“That was thoughtful. Thank you.”
I eyeball each cup, reading the handwritten scrawl describing the beverage. I pick the tea, then put the coffee back down. Stereotypical, yes, but I’ve always preferred tea. I take a sip and the warm creamy and sweet drink slides down my throat.
He chuckles. “I take it that’s good?”
“Yes, why?”
“You moaned.”
Oh God, did I? “I did no such thing,” I deny. “A proper English lady would never moan while drinking tea. Even if she was jet lagged and the tea was a gift from the gods.”
“Well, I don’t know that I know much about how proper English ladies act. But you definitely moaned.”
His laughter fills the car and seems to light me up from the inside. It’s a sensation I’ve never felt before, but one I’ve described many times in the books I write. It’s then I know that I could be in real trouble with this man. It goes beyond his handsome face. He’s kind and thoughtful and a good guy.
I know for a fact that he’s the one that brought soup and juice to Sam’s house when she had the flu last year. And it was obvious that he was trying to make Jason jealous last night at the bar so the man would take some action. He’s a good friend.
Quite possibly a good enough guy to keep me busy so that his two friends can spend the day shagging without having to show me around.
“I got a text from Sam,” I say. “She and Jason are officially together.”
“Yeah? Bout fucking time. I swear that idiot has been a fool about her since they met. He could barely talk to her.”
“Is he just shy?”
“No, not really. He has some issues from his past that he didn’t want Sam to know about. But it turns out she already knew. She is in charge of all the personnel files at Windsor Securities. I don’t know why that numbnuts never figured that out. He wasted a lot of time when they could have been,” he pauses and glances over at me. “What do you call it?”
“Call what?”
“You know. Sex.”
“Ah. Shagging.”
“Right. They could have been shagging all this time instead of pining for each other. People should just come out with how they feel instead of keeping that shit inside. What’s the worst thing that can happen? Rejection? I’ve had enough of that for a lifetime, but it hasn’t killed me yet.”
He pulls into a neighborhood street and parks the car beneath some trees so we’re shaded.
It’s hard for me to imagine anyone rejecting this man. I know he’s likely speaking of his past. Being a foster kid can’t be easy. You’d think from Law & Order that they all become criminals.
“I think you’re pretty remarkable, sexy cowboy,” I tell him. Because if he can be brave, so can I.
“I think you’re pretty amazing as well, sexy pants.”
I bark out a laugh and just roll my eyes. “So, tell me about this stake out.”
“I told you.” He slants a sly smile my way. “I can’t. Top secret.” Then he nods towards a non-descript house. “Just keep an eye on that one right over there.”
He seems to be indicating a smallish ranch style house. Not that I know much about American architecture, but Sam writes contemporary romantic suspense, so I know my way around an American suburb enough to fake it.
“The one with the blue shutters and the vine over the door?”
He gives me another one of those slow smiles. “Honeysuckle.”
“Excuse me?”
He points out the window. “That vine over the door is called a honeysuckle plant.” When he lowers his hand, he doesn’t return it to the console between us, but places it on my seat, right beside my shoulder. His thumb moves slowly, just barely brushing my shoulder. “In the summer, those blossoms will smell as sweet as honey. And if you pluck them at just the right time, they sure do taste delicious.”
Holy smokes this man is going to give me a heart attack!
“I, um—” my voice comes out sounding all husky and weird, so I clear my throat. “I know what honeysuckle is. I just couldn’t tell that’s what it was from over here.”
He looks at me, his gaze seeming to trace my features.
I expect him to say something more, but when he doesn’t I just ramble on. “We have honeysuckle in England. My mom has it in her garden. The informal garden. Not the formal garden. That’s all roses and peonies and things.”
“And poppies?” he asks.
“Ironically, those are in the informal garden.”
His lips curve into a half smile. “Sounds to me like those informal gardens are a lot more fun.”
“I think so.”
He gives me another one of those long, slow looks and says, “What I can’t figure is why anyone would even want a formal garden if you’ve got a perfectly good garden full of honeysuckle and poppies.”
Gah! That look, it seres me to my core. Even though I know he doesn’t really mean it, it’s still enough to make me melt inside.
But I shake it off and—because I need the reminder myself—I say, “That’s because you’ve never met my mum.”
His gaze narrows just slightly. “This the same woman who thinks you’re a disappointment?”
“The very same,” I admit. That thumb of his is still making circles near my shoulder, brushing the fabric of my shirt faintly, driving me to distraction.
“I can’t imagine someone disappointed in you.”
“Well,” I laugh awkwardly, because I’m not used to talking about this. “Between the messy divorce, the slice of his fortune she thought she deserved but didn’t get, and my trust fund, we’re not exactly one big happy family. And then Kate Middleton went and snagged herself a prince and now, every rich family in England thinks they should be able to marry off their daughters to royalty. Between my mom’s legendary beauty—she was a model in the seventies—and my dad’s fortune, she thought for sure she’d at least get a duchess or something out of it.” I shrug, trying not to sound bitter. “Instead, she got me.”
I smile gamely, trying to show just how much it doesn’t hurt that my dad sees me as an embarrassment and my mom as a meal ticket.
Despite my attempts to play it off, I see the flash of pity in his gaze. Which makes my laugh sound even more brittle. “Oh, I hate it when I do that!”
“What?” he asks.
Humiliation heats my cheeks. “Play the poor little rich girl card. As if—”
“Don’t do that,” he cuts me off, his voice suddenly serious.
“Do what?”
“Act like your pain isn’t just as real as someone else’s just because it’s not worrying about money.”
I open my mouth to argue, but stop at the sincerity lining his gorgeous features. He’s not completely wrong. I nod in agreement, but don’t say anything else.