Poppy
That grin. Talk about having you at hello. When those lips stretched into a full-on smile, dimples popped on both sides. Forest green eyes and dark hair. The man had more appeal than a hot fudge sundae on a diet day.
“Have you ever heard of OnlyFans?” His mouth dropped open when I asked, and I couldn’t squelch my laugh. Yeah, he’d definitely heard of the site where I earned my income.
“Where are you from?” If he was local, I couldn’t share much. I’d hidden the account from everyone, kept it as my deepest, darkest secret forever. But I’d let my guard down with Luna recently. And she’d been cool…
“Let’s back-up to OnlyFans. Your internet business.” An all-dimple assault ensued. Danger, Will Robinson.
“I haven’t seen you around before. Is this your first time here?” I reached out and touched his knee, as if he were an old friend, then snapped my hand back as my brain caught up. You. Don’t. Know. Him.
“Nah. I grew up coming here every summer.” He angled a thumb in Tate’s direction. “Old friends with that guy. Here for the weekend. So, what’s your story? Is Poppy your OnlyFans name?”
My OnlyFans account ran under the name Blue Poppy. I kept my Fans profile and my real life separate. And this stranger, meeting the real me, didn’t need to know my full name. My acquisition brain kicked in. He could become a profitable subscriber. His expensive watch said he might not mind a monthly fee he’d forget about.
His gaze fell to my cleavage, and I weighed my options. Luna and Tate would eventually be an item. She didn’t know that, but they went all goo-goo eyes for each other. Add to the fact there were a grand total of three single year-round residents our age on the island, and it was kind of a no-brainer. By my math, I’d be seeing Gabe again, although most likely rarely, as he probably wouldn’t visit Tate all that frequently. Luna knew about my OnlyFans business, and Gabe might be a source of new subscribers–potentially. I’d been losing those. My Instagram ads were becoming less effective at pulling in new subscribers.
Will, the bartender, leaned over the bar. “Poppy girl, you want your usual?”
“Yes, thank you. How’re you doing?” Will’s expression darkened, and he grimaced before walking away. Will and his wife were going through a divorce. Will didn’t gush about his own problems, even though he heard everyone else’s. I’d have to come back and catch him one on one.
“Should we order dinner?” Gabe asked as he held a paper menu in the air. “Maybe start with some calamari?”
“Sshhh,” I warned him. “Don’t ever suggest calamari near Luna. Doesn’t go over well.”
“Are they endangered?” His puzzled expression amused me.
“Apparently the octopus is quite brilliant. You should not eat them.” I learned forward to whisper, “Especially in front of Luna.” Although, really, all it took was about ten minutes of lecture about the playful problem-solvers and she converted me. I supposed my internal organs thanked me for one less dose of fried food, too.
“Ah. She’s one of them,” His grin returned, and with it that little dimple on his chin.
“Yeah, she is.” I smiled fondly at my nature loving friend, then ordered my standard rabbit fare. After consulting with Tate, Mr. Gorgeous ordered grilled lionfish.
With our order out of the way, those tempting greens focused on me. My cheeks burned, like physically burned, as if the room hit a hundred and five degrees. My giggles wouldn’t quit. You’d think I’d downed three cocktails.
I fidgeted with the napkin on my lap and sent a silent plea for Luna to join our conversation. All it would take was one other single lady in the bar and Gabe would be all “Poppy who?” I looked to the hallway, certain some college girls would walk through it. They’d be too young for him, probably, but it would defray attention from me.
Gabe didn’t notice my wistful hallway glances. He scrolled through the OnlyFans site on his phone, searching for me, testing different exotic-sounding porn names. Real accounts actually showed. Names like Oral Annie and Betsie Onnerback were just laugh out loud funny. Then he hit a little too close to home with Veronica Star.
Exasperated, I snatched his phone and pulled up my profile and dropped it on the bar with a clatter. It’s just a website.
“If you’d like, you can subscribe.” My heart jittered around. You’d think I was asking him out on a date the way my body reacted. It felt like my heart was gonna pop right out. Or maybe break a rib.
All those dimples exposed his amusement. He flipped through photos, pausing a few times as he scrolled when he came to a lingerie shot. I don’t do anything bad. My throat tightened, and that burning face singed. I dabbed my cheeks with my ice-cold fingers. I stared at his shoes and cursed my big mouth.
Putting up photos on the internet for strangers was one thing. The internet served as a privacy cloak. Sure, I tended to watch nonstop until the likes rolled in. I’d been known to remove a low performing post. It was my business. Of course I tracked the likes. But sitting next to someone, holding my breath, waiting to see if he’d click the like button—absolute inside churning agony.
When I finally got up the nerve to stop staring at the floor, he remained glued to the phone, scrolling through posts. Entranced, in a good way. Like, he looked at those photos the way I imagined fifteen-year-old boys flipped through Maxim.
Of course, the photos he liked leveraged good angles and well-researched lighting. All my photos were carefully edited. Every now and then I fantasized about sending off some of those photos to old high school classmates. Let them choke on those fat jokes. But I left that small town behind me eight years ago. No point dredging up the past.
Tate got up from his stool and crowded between us. Gabe held the phone up for Tate to better see. If a hole had opened up in the floor, I would have belly flopped into it. I searched for Luna, wondering if she’d be annoyed the guy she liked had an eyeful of, well, me.
“What’re you doing?” Tate asked. He sounded mighty pissed.
“Discussing business with Poppy. That’s all.” Gabe continued scrolling through the feed. The heat on my face threatened third-degree burns.
Tate dropped cash on the bar and headed for the exit.
Gabe called out, “Man, our food isn’t even here yet.”
Tate halted. “I’ll leave you the cart.”
The pissed off tone caught Will’s attention. He watched us from the far end of the bar, probably waiting to see if he’d have to play bouncer and break up a fight. I could barely swallow.
“We’ll be done in fifteen, or twenty,” Gabe countered, totally calm, like there was nothing unusual going on. Like photos of me weren’t on the phone in his hand. And he didn’t just show them to his friend.
“I need to get out of here,” Tate grunted. “Walk will do me good.” He disappeared down the hallway.
The lightning had abated, but the rain still poured.
“What did he see that got him upset?” Luna asked. “Poppy?”
Oh, lordy. “He saw my OnlyFans account. But why would he get angry? Is he religious?” I looked to Gabe for an answer. I mean, yes, Gabe freely showing his friend me in lingerie was mortifying as all hell, but anger wasn’t what I’d expect. Leering, mockery, laughter…sure, that fit. Not anger.
Gabe scratched his head, flummoxed. “Nah. I mean, he wasn’t. But who knows now? He’s a different guy, like night and day. The old Tate, he’d know everyone’s name, be laughing with everyone. He was everyone’s friend. Laidback. Loose. Now, he’s, like, I guess… he’s aged.”
Luna leaned over to see. The screensaver had gone into effect, and I held my breath. Like watching a terrible reality TV show, I couldn’t blink. I held my breath, frozen, waiting to see if Gabe would enter his code and let her peruse the blasted site.
Luna didn’t give him the chance, though. She held out her credit card to me. “Here, use this to pay for me. I’ll get it back from you later. I’m going to go give him a lift home.”
Gabe blocked her card. “Nah. Don’t worry about it. I got it. Tell him I’ll be home later.”
She rushed down the hall in the direction Tate had gone. I took a large gulp of my Blue Moon. Mortification settled over me like frost on a chilly morning, coating every single blade of grass. It’s not that what I did embarrassed me—not exactly.
When the pandemic hit, I would’ve had to go crawling back to one of my parents if I hadn’t discovered OnlyFans. And for a girl who used to be mocked, it was pretty fucking fantastic to learn that there were men who liked curvy girls. At first, I got a bit of a high from checking my follower count and seeing those likes. The tips blew my mind.
Yes, they liked me with photo editing, good lighting, and at the right angle. But still…I would’ve never thought. And I told myself over and over, I’m not doing anything wrong. I needed the income. The liquor bottles lined against the mirror along the back of the bar goaded me. One day, I wanted that. I didn’t want to just bartend. I wanted to own my own bar. My own restaurant. And one day, I would, thanks to OnlyFans. Fuck the haters.
“Hey, you okay?” Gabe brushed my cheek with his finger, and only then did it register nasty tears had escaped.
“Oh, yeah. Beer went down the wrong way.” I fled to the restroom with my hand over my chest, miming choking. Beer went down wrong. That didn’t even make sense. What a mess. A squishy, big, fat hearted mess.
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In the restroom, I locked the door and gave myself the once-over.
An emotional twat faced me in the mirror. Black mascara smears set off blue eyes. So much for waterproof. Blonde curls hung limp and deflated, and the line of my mega bra stood out through the thin fabric of my sundress. The thick straps squeezed down on my shoulder fat, and the sundress straps didn’t adequately cover it. Why did I pick this dress?
A strong desire to be at home, with furry socks and a thick blanket, surrounded by candles and a delicious glass of wine overwhelmed me. The guy sitting out there at the bar, yeah, he was a cutie, but I knew his type. He lit up like Vegas at the mention of OnlyFans. He probably wanted to brag to his friends. I knew better.
I swiped away my cheap drugstore mascara, fluffed my hair, corrected my posture, and with a determination to salvage my Saturday night, returned to the bar.
“Hi. Ahm, I think I’m gonna head home now.” I slid my credit card across the bar to Will, catching his attention as I did so. I played it casual, pointedly not sparing the vacationer a glance.
“Oh, no, I’ve got it.” He shoved a black Amex into Will’s hands and dropped my card back into my bag so quickly I couldn’t fight him without making it awkward.
“Thank you. I appreciate it.” I fumbled inside my bag, searching for the credit card so I could place it back in my wallet, slightly annoyed he’d haphazardly dropped it inside. “Do you know how to get back to Tate’s?”
Our food had arrived, and I noticed he hadn’t yet taken a bite of it. Waiting for me. A pluck of guilt tweaked my heartstrings.
“Do you mind if I come back to your place and hang for a bit? Tate’s doesn’t have electricity, and I don’t think he’s going to be great company tonight.”
He gave me this little, sexy grin, and the chin dimple formed. Those delectable greens warmed me, chasing off the AC chill.
“Please?” he asked.
I stared up at the ceiling, searching for polite words.
He broke out into an enormous, panty busting grin. “Come on. We’re getting to know each other.”
I pointed at him and told him in a serious tone, “Nothing is happening.”
He held his hands up, defensive, but still with a wide, sexy, boyish grin splashed across his face. “No expectations. I’m stranded on an island. You’re helping me out. When you visit Manhattan, I’ll return the favor.”
Not likely, but never bad to make connections.
“You still need to eat.” I pointed at his plate. My appetite had disappeared.
“Why don’t we get our meals to go? Is the AC too cold in here for you? I did ask him to lower it.”
His consideration didn’t go unnoticed, but still, I didn’t verbally acknowledge it. “Once I get home, I’m putting on fuzzy socks and pajama pants and getting under a giant blanket. And nothing is going to happen with us. At all. Are you sure you want to come home with me?”
“Did you miss the part about him not having electricity? He warned me the place has a mildew smell. Plus, he’s in the process of ripping up floors. Movie night at your house sounds worlds better.”
“You don’t know anything about my house. It might smell like mildew, too.”
“You smell good, so I don’t think so.”
Against my better judgement, I gave in to the sexy stranger. He asked Will for to-go boxes and ordered two bottles of red to go.
“I have wine. A girl doesn’t get these curves without some indulgences.”
“What kind of guest would I be if I didn’t bring wine?”
Will offered a knowing smirk as Gabe signed the receipt. I squelched the urge to tell Will nothing was going to happen and to stop smirking. The judgmental prick.
Gabe pushed the stool back as Will’s eyes bulged. Mr. Sexy tipped well. Shocker. Walls up, Poppy girl. You got this.
The rain fell in a steady pace, and we hustled out for the shelter of my cart.
“Do you live far away?”
“Not at all. If it wasn’t raining, I would’ve walked.” The reverse buzz on the golf cart rang out, then we jerked forward. The lights on one yacht docked in the marina were on, and warm yellow light emerged from three of the homes surrounding the marina. Electricity had returned.
In under two minutes, I pulled into my little golf cart garage and led Gabe into my home from the marina side. He stood out on the porch, stomping his flip-flops, as if cleaning them, while gazing across the harbor.
“Nice view.”
“Yeah, it is. Thanks.” I loved the place more than anything. But I wouldn’t be here long. Mrs. Rittenhouse gave me a deal in exchange for a one-year lease. She liked having someone in her place and not dealing with multiple renters. But even with the deal, I couldn’t afford the rent. One day I’d have to leave. That knowledge may have made me love the two-story home even more. I took care of all her window boxes and the flower beds along the white picket fence. Even though I rented, I showered this place with the love of an owner.
I opened the door and surveyed the place. Blankets and throws littered the sofa and armchairs. A few dirty dishes lined the counter near the sink. An old pizza box ready for recycling sat out on the counter. Shoes lined the floor near the stairs. Overall, not too bad. As long as he didn’t come upstairs. And he would not be coming upstairs. No need for that. Upstairs, my clotheshorse ways made the whole place look like a Cat 5 hurricane whipped through. Good. Extra incentive to keep him downstairs.
“Make yourself at home. Remote’s on the coffee table. I have Netflix and Hulu. You can pick a movie.” I spun on the second stair. “Pick a funny one. None of that blood and gore.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He made his way back to my kitchen, and I headed up the stairs. I hung out my still damp dress and found my fuzzy socks in a tub of clean laundry. Then I located my softest pajama pants and a cozy sweater. I hovered in front of the full-length mirror to double-check my fave comfort outfit didn’t make me look like a heifer. With a big inhale to suck in my belly and a posture correction to shove out my girls it worked. Not at all photographable, but passable.
Downstairs, Gabe had lit a small candle on my coffee table. Two glasses filled with red wine were also set out. He sat in the middle of the sofa and had this cocky-as-hell grin. The bastard thought he was gonna get lucky, even with me in full-on cozy apparel.
I snapped my fingers and pointed to the far side of the sofa. “You. Over there.”
“What?”
There was something about him, his grin and dimples and thick, dark hair. Even though I knew his type and knew he’d be gone tomorrow, I couldn’t muster any of those helpful angry, annoyed emotions. That damn grin of his just fizzled them out and had me cracking up.
He obediently moved to the corner, and I plopped down on the opposite corner and grabbed a fleece blanket and covered my entire lap, right up to my boobs. The warmth of the blankets and low orange flames of my electric fireplace soothed and wrapped me in the comfy I needed.
“All right. So, funny.” He commandeered my remote and flicked away. “What are some of your favorites?”
“Ah, I think I’ve memorized all the Pitch Perfects.”
“I liked the first one. I’ll give you a point.”
“Ah, it’s like that, is it? Judging. What about you? Let me guess. You’re a Will Ferrell kind of guy.”
“Doesn’t get better than Blades of Glory.”
“Give me that remote. I change my mind. You can’t pick.”
He held his arm sky high, and I considered climbing him like a monkey gym to claim my remote, but I held back, fully aware of what I’d be risking if I planted my breasts in his face. “No Will Ferrell.”
“All right. So, what else you got other than a pack of singing girls?”
“Bridesmaids?” I offered.
“Aren’t they like the same actresses? What about Office Space? It’s a classic.”
“It’s one of my faves. Or 40-Year-Old Virgin. Or Booksmart.”
“I have to say, I loved 40-Year-Old Virgin. Steve Carell, a master.”
“Yes, I concur. But I’m not up for that one tonight. Maybe Juno?”
“Another solid choice. Office Space?”
“Fine. Click it. You want popcorn?”
“I’ll eat my dinner.”
“Oh. Yeah.” Popcorn appealed more than my lettuce, but…
“So, you live here full time?” He kicked off his shoes and dug into his fish. I watched him, then remembered to answer when he stopped mid-chew and raised an eyebrow.
“Ah, yeah, I do. I used to live on the mainland and do the contractor ferry thing.” That eyebrow raised again. “People who work on the island take a cheaper ferry. For some of us, depending on where we work, it’s free. But it’s a hassle. Doesn’t run as often as the regular ferry.” His focus centered on the takeout container in his lap. “When I got a chance, I moved over full-time. Much easier.”
“Don’t you get bored?”
“It’s not that hard to get over on the mainland. I’m not really a party girl. More of a shy girl at heart, I think.”
I expected the eyebrow, but instead he tilted his head and bit down on the corner of his lip. Amusement and curiosity, if I were to guess, played across his features. And my heart, oh, lord, those eyes.
“No.” He shook his head.
“What do you mean?”
“You, Ms. Poppy, are not shy.” He waved that index finger in my direction in a small circle. “You’ve got energy. You’re outgoing. You, little Ms. Poppy, are no wallflower.”
“I never called myself a wallflower. I said…I’m more comfortable in small groups or one-on-one situations. I’ve taken Myers-Briggs—”
“There’s no way that said you were an introvert.”
“No, but I think it was just a few trick questions. I was very close to introvert.”
“And am I to believe you have how many followers and you’re shy?”
“But that’s so different. You’ve got to understand. It’s like, there are studies on this. Even shy, demure people can be total bad asses in an email where they aren’t face to face. And teenagers, they get meaner online. There’s an anonymity in the online world that’s different in the person-to-person world.”
“You mean the real world?”
“Yes.” I flittered my fingers about because it suddenly seemed urgent that he understand. That he got me. “The online world, I’ll never run into those people in the grocery store. Especially on this small nothing island. It’s literally like another world, a different stratosphere, if you will. Completely disconnected from my day-to-day life. No one knows I’m that other person.”
“Because you don’t tell them?”
“No. I don’t. I mean, I kind of came out to Luna by accident. She came in one morning when I was working upstairs, and the truth was better than what I could see she was concocting in her head.”
“She came up, and what were you doing? What were you wearing?” His voice went all sexy deep, and teasy and flirty. I stood, ready to change the conversation.
I picked up my barely touched salad and pointed to his dinner. “You done?”
“I got it.” He gathered the used forks and napkins and his dinner, then lifted mine from my hands and turned toward the kitchen. I followed him, a little lost and unsure why he was cleaning up. I pulled out the garbage for him, and his shoulder brushed mine as he bent to drop the containers into the trash. A flurry of nerves and heat shuddered through me, and I jerked back against the refrigerator.
He opened the dishwasher and slipped the forks in. We’d missed the first part of the movie, but it didn’t matter for a movie we’d both seen a hundred times.
I resumed my place in the corner, and the sofa pillows sank down as they absorbed his weight, not really in his corner, more in the middle.
“So, Poppy, are you ashamed of what you do? Is that why you don’t tell anyone?”
“No. I’m not ashamed. A woman should never be embarrassed of her body. I can be whatever I want to be. I can do whatever I want to do. I don’t have to live by someone else’s moral code. I live by my moral code. I do what I believe is right.” His eyes widened, and I breathed in deeply, to calm down the rant. “No. I am not ashamed. But it’s my business, and I don’t want everybody to know it. I don’t want to deal with people like your friend Tate and his judgmental bullshit.”
“I hear you.”
But do you? The words were on the tip of my tongue, but I squelched my inner bitch and settled into the pillow.
“Hey, it seems to me you’ve got quite a business going. That’s nothing to knock. Hard to build.”
The bad boss on the screen asked in his annoying way, “If you could do that for me, that’d be great.”
I laughed, because I always laughed at that scene. And I breathed in again, snuggling down on my pillow, happy. Happy because I didn’t have a boss like that. I didn’t have to sit in a cubicle and live a miserable existence. I found my own path. And yeah, it was a journey. My journey. My way.
“Do you think you can slide up? Make room for me beside you? That way we can both lie down?” My eyes must have bulged or something, based on his immediate backtracking. “To watch the movie.”
“You can lay your head down on that end.”
“That’ll put my feet near your head.”
“Put ’em behind my back.” I scoffed at him, as if I was born yesterday. I knew better than to let his hands roam. With a bit of shifting back and forth, we both got comfortable. His body, lying behind mine, generated a comfortable warmth, and I settled in, waiting for the fire scene.
Red wine, fuzzy socks, thick blanket, and the rain pattered on the windows outside. Bliss. Ultimately, the warm candle glow combined with a familiar movie did me in. I blinked open my eyes as sun rays lit the room.
I rolled back and froze. Mr. Hottie slept behind me. His front aligned against my back, only his feet were near my head. His button-down shirt hung on the back of a kitchen chair.
The curves of his bicep indicated he was no stranger to the gym. His bare chest looked damn fine. The blanket draped over his waist, leaving a lean middle exposed. The phrase “washboard abs” came to mind. I’d never seen anything like him, not in person. He shifted. I froze. Satisfied he had settled back into a deep sleep, I escaped. With the stealth of a large ninja, I dropped onto the floor and crawled on hands and knees until I reached the stairs.
The candle had been blown out. The TV turned off. When I fell asleep, he must have made himself at home and then returned to his place on the sofa. Christ on a cracker, Mr. Hottie slept over.
Upstairs, I brushed my teeth, washed my face, then cracked open my laptop and groaned at the long list of messages I needed to work my way through. Most were paid messages. We called that income, I reminded myself. I’d need to respond this morning. Then get a shower, fix this rat’s nest on my head, and create new content.
Brain off to the races, I headed downstairs for coffee.
“You by chance have a toothbrush I can borrow?” He stood on the landing in only his boxers. Damn.
“Poppy?”
“Toothbrush.” I snapped my fingers. “Well, I won’t want it back. But, here, let me get you one from the guest room. Stay down here.” I ran up the stairs, pulling my hair into a top bun as I climbed.
He called up after me, “What have you got up there that you don’t want me to see?”
“Stay!” I repeated, grabbed one of the free toothbrushes from my last dentist visit, and smacked into him on my way out. I thrust the toothbrush against his hard muscle. “Here you go. Guest room and bathroom are that way.” I pointed down the hall. He glanced at the open den area between the two bedrooms. The back wall and most of the room comprised my studio. I could slip out the background as needed when I used my green screen.
My pride hadn’t wanted him to see my inner slob on full display, but I shrugged it off. It wasn’t like I could wave my editing wand and have him un-see the mounds of clothes. I jogged down the stairs, leaving him to explore. It is what it is.
Minutes ticked by as my coffee pot slowly filled with the life-saving dark liquid. I envisioned him nosing through my stuff. But even if he did, it didn’t matter. Mr. Hottie lived in New York and would be long gone soon.
When His Hotness joined me in the kitchen, instead of questioning his dedication to dental hygiene, I simply offered him a mug of steaming joe. He took the coffee from me and leaned against the counter. Those gorgeous eyes rustled up my nerves. I flipped through junk mail on my phone.
We sipped our coffee, silent. My skin tingled as his gaze wandered over me. Maybe I should’ve put on make-up. I patted all around my head, feeling for loose strands of hair. I sucked my stomach in. I tried to focus on the rich, hot liquid in the mug. Heat rose along my chest and neck and up across my face—a twenty-something version of a hot flash.
He stepped closer, and I sipped my coffee, both hands gripping the ceramic mug for protection. His bare toes pressed against the tips of my fluffy socks.
“Thank you for last night.”
I lowered my mug, confused. Did I get drunk and black out?
His lips fell to mine, and my entire body tingled. Soft, warm intense. His kiss whirled through my senses, and my chest tightened and my heart, it kickstarted into an erratic tempo. The whole kitchen faded to black. I was on the verge of shouting out ‘take me now’ when he ended the kiss, dropped his forehead to mine, then rubbed the tip of my nose with his.
“When can I see you again?”
I inhaled, gasping for air like a guppy out of water.
“Poppy?”
“What are you doing, Gabe? Come on, let me get you back to Tate’s. I’ve got a full day of work.”
“It’s Sunday.”
“Yeah, well, that’s a busy day for me, my friend.”
Those eyes remained calm, intent, and heart-racing sexy. He shook his head once, then twice. “Poppy?”
“Huh?” I asked as I tugged off my fuzzy socks so I could slip on some shoes and usher him out the door.
“There’s no way I’m letting you friend zone me.”
I rolled my eyes. He full-on smirked. With eyes like his and not one dimple but multiples, yeah, no, there was no way I was gonna bite. I learned my lessons.
I rushed him right out the door, and when we arrived at Tate’s, almost pushed him off the cart.
The cocky son of a bitch just gave me his slow, sexy grin, pressed his thumb to his lips, then to mine. His hot, steamy gaze made me feel as if he could see right through my sweater, to the white jumbo bra I slept in last night, and right to my completely out of line nipples that might possibly have turned into pointed headlights. As I pressed the accelerator, he somehow turned it up a notch, and the sexy grin transitioned to panty-melting. My fat, sappy heart whimpered.