Poppy
“Tate has a visitor?”
My flying arms, pumping out left and right, slowed. I’d been scouting the sand for sharp shells as we walked, but my walking buddy captured my attention.
“Yep. So, I’m all yours tonight. Any interest in going into Wilmington? The Floaters are playing at The Whiskey.” Luna didn’t notice I’d lagged behind, and I lengthened my stride to catch up.
We passed the stacked surfboards near Access 42, and she waved to the surf instructors lounging between lessons in their blue fold out chairs.
“Who is his visitor?”
“Tate’s brother, Gregg.”
“Gabe didn’t come down?”
Her quick steps finally slowed. “Are you still talking to him?”
“No.” Our text exchanges didn’t really qualify as talking.
“I can ask Tate about him if you want me to.”
“No.” If I asked her to ask him, she’d take it as me having a crush, and that whole notion was ridiculous. “It’s just…he flies. It would make sense if he flew Tate’s brother down here. It’s a hobby for him.”
“I assume he flew commercial.”
It struck me as completely possible Gabe did fly him down. Maybe he didn’t stay because he didn’t want to, or maybe he was here and didn’t feel like meeting up. It wasn’t like he’d given any sign he had a real interest in me. I’d thought when he had his friend helping me out, maybe, but his texts were devoid of even the most subtle flirtation. Not that I should’ve been surprised. A good looking, successful guy like Gabe could have anyone he wanted, and he lived in Manhattan where he had a world of single women to choose from. Parties, fancy dinners, he lived the Sex and the City life. Hell, the man was a living version of Mr. Big.
“Jillian is taking her dad’s boat over and docking. We could go with them or head over on our own. Whatever you want to do.” Luna’s continued conversation broke into my thoughts.
“I’m cool with staying in. Watch a movie or something.”
“Since when do you not want to go out?” I felt, rather than saw, her side eye.
“I’m not up for spending the money.” Truth. My daily new signups had been on a steady decline for months. I’d been reaching out to any new Insta follower, but my conversion percentage had also declined.
“Is everything okay with your…business?” Her hesitant question didn’t go unnoticed. But it wasn’t like I could blame her. People had ideas. Companies spent hundreds of millions of dollars to change perception, and my measly little barely-paying-the-bills self wasn’t going to do squat to influence the judgers. I studied my friend. Concern colored her expression, and I reminded myself she didn’t judge me. Not really.
“It’s fine. But there’s a training class in Vegas I’m considering.” Thad, Gabe’s friend, recommended it. I wasn’t exactly jonesing to spend the holidays in Vegas, but because of the holiday timeframe, the school offered a discounted fee, and there were a few potential franchise owners in Nevada he thought I should meet with.
“What kind of training?”
“Restaurant management.”
“That’s awesome.” She jumped so high her feet left the beach a good foot.
“How do you do that?”
“What?”
“This is sand. Not a trampoline.” She ignored me.
“This is so great. Tell me all about it.”
After giving her the low down, I left a beaming Luna on the beach and returned home with plans for her to come over later. I opened my laptop and scanned my incoming messages. One request threw me for a loop.
I have this thing for Raggedy Ann. Any chance you’d be willing to wear a Raggedy Ann costume? The sexy kind. Think you could find that?
I opened a browser to search Google. Gunner always sent strange requests. But if the costume wasn’t too outlandish, his requests qualified as easy money. One time he mailed me—to my PO Box in Southport Port, because hey, I’m no dummy—a Super Girl costume. He did not guess my size correctly, which led to a nearly catastrophic photo shoot session. Nothing screamed, ‘needs to lose a few pounds’ quite like ripped seams.
My phone rang, flashing Gabriel Chesterton. An annoyingly wide smile broke out on my face. I snapped up the phone.
“Hey. Do you know who Raggedy Ann is?” I asked as I pounded down the stairs into my den.
“No. Should I?”
“Probably not. Where are you?” I glanced out on my deck, hoping.
“In my apartment. Finally, have a moment to breathe. It’s been manic.”
“Oh, really?” The flurry of excitement crashed.
“Yes, but things should calm down. Researchers discovered the most recent virus responds to a drug that’s readily available, and they’ve lowered the health risk. Markets are rebounding. What’s up with Raggedy Ann?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s something I’ve got to research. Hey, I really can’t thank you enough for Thad. He’s been a godsend. So much help.”
“No problem.”
“Has he been keeping you up to date?” I hesitated asking, but I couldn’t help but wonder.
“No. I haven’t spoken to him.”
I plopped down on my sofa with a thud. “Oh. Well, yeah, you said you’ve been busy.” Thad had been spending a ton of time with me as a favor to his friend, but I guessed it was rather conceited to think they’d chat about me when they spoke.
“He sent me your most recent business plan and updated loan application, now that I think about it. I haven’t checked it out yet.”
“Well, don’t. You don’t need to. He’s been great. You’ve been swamped, and there’s no need. Do you think you’ll get down here anytime soon?” Clicking sounds filtered through the line. “Luna mentioned you love skydiving.”
“Your middle name is Star?” Oh, shit. My loan application. I rubbed my forehead, thankful we weren’t on video and he couldn’t see me, because my cheeks were probably a shade of fuchsia.
“Yes, it is.”
“Did your parents want you to grow up to be a porn star?”
“Penelope Star has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” I half-laughed along with him.
“Where are you from?”
“All over.”
“Did you move a lot? Is your dad military?”
“More like my parents remarried. Visitation got bounced around over the years, but no, I pretty much lived in the same Louisiana town.”
“Ah. And let’s see… Wilkesboro High, Louisiana. That’s where you went to high school?”
“Yes. You can stop looking at the application now.” The next blanks on the form held no information because I didn’t attend college. I’d asked Thad Swain about lying on that field. But he told me that my instinct had been spot on, that chances were the bank would catch me in a lie. He’d come back with this technical school out in Nevada. I could do a ton of the coursework online at my own pace. With some additional online coursework, it would provide an Associate of Arts Degree in Restaurant Management, the equivalent of a two-year college degree. The extended silence on the phone meant Gabe hadn’t stopped reading all about my loser status.
“What about you? Are you from New York?”
“Technically, no. Connecticut. Parents happily married and still live in the house I grew up in.”
“Huh. Divorce is my family motto.”
“A ton of my friends have divorced parents. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I know that.”
“Don’t get defensive.”
“Sorry. I just have more work to do today, and my mind strayed,” Somehow, him reading all my details on that application felt like showing him all my wobbly parts, something I didn’t do without proper planning, lighting, lotions, and glitter.
“Are weekends busy for you?”
“Yeah, they are.” I didn’t lie. My schedule might be flexible, but maintaining a profitable account required a ton of effort.
“Would it help you if I paid you enough to become your only client?”
“What?” I couldn’t have heard him correctly. That didn’t even make sense.
“It would free you up to pursue your restaurant.”
“Do you have any idea how much I make from my subscribers?”
“Based on your numbers of subscribers and the $2.50 monthly fee, I’d estimate around ninety thousand, but you’d have to minus out your advertising expenses and overhead like all the lingerie you buy. Name your number.”
I sucked in air and held the phone out. I wished he’d FaceTimed me so my open mouth would speak for itself. I glared at the phone in my hand then spoke into it. “I’m not for sale.”
“Well, you kind of are.” That fucker.
Rage burned my insides. The boiling, burning fury that only happened when someone touched on an ugly truth you’d rather not dissect. “I’ve got to go.”
“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“Nope, not buying it.”
“Look, I’m screwing this up. Poppy, I’m coming back to visit Tate. Let me make it up to you by taking you out to dinner.”
A sailboat entered the marina, and I watched as they struggled to round a corner into their slip.
“Poppy, please. I admire that you’ve created your own business. I admire your entrepreneurial spirit. You are brave and independent. I do not think you are actually for sale.”
My eyes burned. But my internal emotional boil simmered. In my lifetime, no one had ever used the word “admire” and me in the same sentence. So, I liked that bit.
“I’m not sure when I’ll make it down. But promise me. You can pick the place. Take me to the kind of restaurant you want to open up.”
“We can go as friends.” My past flared up as I said those words, and shame choked out the oxygen in the room. I pushed out onto my back porch and sucked in the salty air.
“Nope. I told you. I’m not letting you trap me in that box. We’ve already shared a kiss. One I haven’t forgotten. Don’t tell me you have…”
I remembered. But I also had experience with boys like Gabe. Even if Gabe didn’t want to label me as his friend, or his best gal pal, he didn’t want to date me. I might not be the brightest, but I was a smart enough girl to know that much. I wasn’t the kind of girl he’d date. Oh, sure, he might offer up to be my only…what was his word? Client, but no. I had a Gabe in my past. One not as wealthy, not as good looking, and not near as polite, and he nearly destroyed me.
“I’ve got to run. Let me know when you’re in town. Maybe we can meet up.” Or maybe not.