by Lila Monroe
“Maybe she’s back with that ex of hers,” he suggests casually. I snap my head around.
“What do you mean? Did you see them together? Why didn’t you say something?”
Kyle laughs. “Whoa, easy there. I’m just saying, something must be mellowing him out. Didn’t you see his review of the hotel? Dude was so busy twisting himself up in literary metaphors, he barely said a bad word.”
I exhale. “Oh. That.”
It turns out, for all our stressing about Tyler’s hatchet job, his review came and went without barely making a ripple. I was surprised to see him trying to give us a positive write-up—underneath all the flowery bullshit—and I can’t help wondering if Poppy had a hand in that.
Not that I care.
“Oh boys!” the call comes from upstairs. “Do you want a snack?”
I look at Kyle and shake my head. “You’ve got it made.”
“By ‘snack,’ she means it’s my turn to cook dinner,” Kyle corrects me with a grin. “Come on. You look like you need my famous fried chicken.”
I’m not about to argue with that.
We head upstairs, to where Sarah has the kids building some kind of herb garden on the back porch. “This is why we moved to the suburbs,” Kyle tells me with a smile. “It means we can keep all the dirt out of the house.”
I smile, stepping outside. “How’s it going, munchkins?”
“I lost a tooth, see?” Jamie pipes up, pointing to his gap.
“Look at that! How much did the tooth fairy give you?” I ask.
“Five dollars!”
I clutch my chest. “Five bucks! That’s a fortune. In my day, I was lucky to get a quarter!”
“That’s nothing!” he laughs. I shake my head and turn to Sarah.
“You’re spoiling them,” I tease.
She just gives me a cool look and heads inside. I stop, surprised by her chilly attitude. What’s going on there?
I follow. “How are things at the studio?” I ask as she starts clearing the table. I move to help, but Sarah acts like I’m not even there. “Sarah? Hello?” I ask, seriously confused now.
Finally she whirls around. “I can’t even look at you!”
I step back, surprised. “Wait, what?”
“You chose Jasmine?” she exclaims, her voice rising. “Seriously?”
My heart sinks. “Oh. That.”
“Yes, that!” Sarah cries. “Seriously?!”
“OK, I’m taking this seriously.” I hold up both hands in surrender. “But listen, you don’t know the whole story. It’s not so simple—”
“Please.” Sarah cuts me off. “Did you like Poppy?”
I sigh. “Yes.”
Like doesn’t do it justice.
“And did Jasmine come around, wanting to give it a try?”
“Yes, but—”
“And did you, or did you not, go break up with Poppy, even though you’re crazy about her and knew full well she’s the best thing that could possibly happen to you?” Sarah demands.
My gut twists. “It wasn’t like that.”
“If that’s what you keep telling yourself, then you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”
“Gee, thanks.” I’m getting defensive now. “I thought you were supposed to be on my side!”
“I am!” Sarah exclaims, looking exasperated. “Do I have to spell it out for you? You’ve been walking through life with the biggest inferiority complex, hiding behind all your meaningless flings so nobody ever gets close to you, and the first time you find a woman who actually sees beneath your bullshit, and actually likes you for it, you turn around and run!
“I didn’t run,” I protest weakly. “She’s the one who called things off.”
“Ha!” Sarah snorts. “Nice try. But you made that happen. You fucked things up with Poppy because for the first time in your life, you would have had to be yourself with a woman. Open up. Put your heart on the line, like the rest of us lovesick idiots. But you were so chicken-shit that she’d reject the real you, you saved her the trouble!”
“That makes no sense,” I mutter stubbornly.
“And yet, here we are.” Sarah exhales, softening. “You think being in love is easy? You think it’s all hearts and flowers and butterflies? Love is damn hard work. It’s messy, and uncomfortable, and scary as hell. But unless you’re willing to put yourself out there—the real you, not this playboy, hair-ruffled bullshit—you won’t ever know what it’s like to have someone love you, unconditionally. And you want that, don’t you?”
I can’t answer.
“Don’t you?” Sarah insists.
I exhale. “Yes,” I murmur, and it feels like some kind of confession. Because I do want it, more than anything. To have someone to laugh with and hold, to make the day better just by being with her, knowing I don’t have to fake it, or schmooze, or charm my way through life just to be worth anything.
I want the kind of easy partnership Sarah and Kyle have, knowing someone has your back, no matter what.
And I want it with Poppy.
“So?” Sarah demands.
“So, what?” I ask, feeling that shitty pain behind my ribcage return. “I fucked things up. She won’t even take my money, she hates me so much.”
Sarah rolls her eyes. “Man, for someone who’s screwed half of Manhattan, you know nothing about women. If she truly hated you, she would have cashed that check in a heartbeat. The fact she’s turning down fifty thousand dollars shows how much she actually cares!”
I look at her in confusion. “That makes zero sense.”
“Think about it on your way over to beg for her forgiveness,” she says, giving me a push towards the door. “In fact, take the long route back. You need all the brainstorming time you can get if you’re going to grovel well and good.”
“But, the fried chicken . . .” I protest weakly.
Sarah gives me another one of those looks, and I stop. “Priorities. Right. Thanks.”
She smiles. “Anytime.”
* * *
I drive back to the city, my hope growing. Could Sarah be right? I mean, who turns down that kind of money, unless . . .
Maybe Poppy does still have feelings for me. Even despite the massive ass I’ve made of myself.
Because, fuck, I did push her away. I can see that now. Falling for her was exhilarating and spectacular—and triggered some kind of fight-or-flight response. And like an idiot, I chose flight. Because she was getting too close. Close to the real me. So of course, I freaked out and used the first excuse possible to drive a wedge between us and send her running.
Way to go, Dylan. A-plus relationship skills.
The only question is, did I screw up too much to have a hope of begging for forgiveness? I know that Poppy doesn’t suffer fools lightly—and she shouldn’t. But now that I’m the fool wanting to make things right, I just have to pray she lets me try to make it up to her.
Or even cares enough to hear me out.
I head over to her apartment, but it’s Natalie who opens the door. She pauses, giving me a look that could freeze the Sahara. “What do you want?” she asks coolly.
“I need to see Poppy.”
“You left it kind of late for that, didn’t you?” Natalie folds her arms.
“I did,” I admit, hanging my head. “But I’m here now, and I really need to talk to her. Is she home?”
Natalie shakes her head.
“Can you please tell me where to find her?” I ask. I would try and charm the answer out of her, but I don’t think Natalie’s the type to buy my act. And anyway, I’m done playing pretend. I don’t want to hide behind that whole bullshit playboy act anymore. “Please?” I ask. “Look, I know I fucked up, and you’re probably first in line to inflict some kind of gruesome punishment on me, but I’m telling you: I need to see her. I’m begging you.”
Natalie stares at me, thinking it over. Then she sighs. “She’s at the wedding. Betsy and Hank. By the lake, in Central Park.”
“Tha
nk you!” I could kiss her right now, except I’m guessing that wouldn’t help my case, so I just give her a dorky high five. “Seriously. Thank you.” I turn to go, but Natalie grabs my arm and yanks me back.
“Wait!” She gives me a warning look. “Poppy is one of the best people I know. She deserves everything. So watch yourself. Because you’re right. If you break her heart again, I will be first in line. And it won’t be pretty.”
I nod. “I swear.”
She releases me. “Go on then. But whatever you say, you better make it good!”
I race downstairs and hail a car, my nerves growing as we make our way through traffic at a snail’s pace. “Can’t we go any faster?” I ask, impatient, but the guy just snorts.
“If you know a faster route, be my guest.”
I sit back, fidgeting nervously. Fuck. I was anxious around Jasmine, but that was like a bad high-school flashback. This is different. It isn’t my past on the line right now . . . It’s my future. Because I want Poppy to be in it, and I’m scared I already blew my chance.
Would I take me back after the way I acted?
I’m wound tight by the time the cab drops me off by Central Park. I hurry through the tourist crowds, breaking into a run as I round the corner to the boathouse, where sure enough, there’s a wedding just finishing up—the crowd all congratulating the happy couple, as . . .
Are those pigeons being released overhead?
I shake my head and search the crowd, impatient to find . . .
Her.
I swear my heart stops in my chest, and not just because Poppy is wearing the most ridiculous ruffled bridesmaids dress known to mankind.
She’s radiant. Beaming happily as the older couple take to the dance floor, even as she dabs at the tears in her eyes. Because of course she cries at weddings. She’s hopeful. She believes in true love. And I can only hope I haven’t put a dent in that fierce optimism.
There’s only one way to find out.
25
Poppy
The wedding is beautiful. Hank and Betsy pledge their union surrounded by family, friends, and two dozen domestic pigeons. We ooh the happy couple, aah their first dance, and the whole thing goes off without a hitch—except for when the pigeons circle back to start attacking the dessert table. But luckily, three different members of the wedding party thought to bring birdseed along and managed to tempt them away from the reception.
Crisis—and cake-bombing—averted.
I watch them dance (to “Fly Away with Me,” of course) and try to ignore the wistful ache in my chest. I’m so happy they’ve found each other and that I was a part of their love story, but it still makes me wonder if I’ll ever find a man who gets me the way those two understand each other.
Or rather, if I’ll find another man like that.
I sigh, and eat another slice of cake. Cake, at least, doesn’t lead me on and break my heart. Cake is always there for me.
And always will be. On my hips.
“There you are.”
I turn. It’s Scottie, from the rehearsal dinner, with a big expectant smile on his face. “Where have you been hiding? How about a dance? I’ve got my jive shoes on,” he adds, giving his hips a thrust.
Uh-oh.
I open my mouth to make a lame excuse, but luckily, Betsy and Hank finish dancing and move to the head table. “Sorry!” I blurt. “I think they’re making their toasts.”
The toasts that I spent all week writing for them. The crowd falls silent, and Hank begins, talking about the very first time they went birding.
“. . . We sat in that keep for five hours in total silence,” he says, to laughter. “That’s when I knew she was a keeper—so to speak.” He winks.
That was definitely off script, but I don’t mind. He throws in plenty more bird-watching puns, until finally raising his glass to Betsy.
“They say swans mate for life, and although it took me far too long to find you, I can’t think of anyone else I would rather spend my days with. My love, my wife.”
She raises her glass in return, and I try not to sob.
Is it just me, or is it raining on my face again?
They sit down, but before the music can start again, someone else taps their glass for attention. I look around. I thought I had all the speeches covered today, but maybe someone is speaking off the cuff.
“Hank, Betsy, I don’t know you very well. Or even at all. But I can see you both have found something special, so I hope you won’t mind me adding my voice to celebrate you today.”
I freeze.
Wait a minute. I know that voice . . .
I crane my neck, ducking through a pack of bridesmaids until I can see him. Dylan. Standing with a glass of champagne in his hand, looking totally out of place—and utterly delicious—in a plain white T-shirt and jeans.
My heart begins to beat in double-time as his eyes meet mine across the dance floor.
What is he doing here?!
“I’ve never been good with words,” Dylan continues, holding my gaze. “I’ve always had trouble telling people how I feel. I guess it’s just been easier to let other people do the talking for me, but there are some things you have to say yourself. From the heart.”
I hold onto the back of a chair for dear life. Has a man ever been sexier?
No. No he hasn’t.
“What you guys are doing here today, you make it look so easy,” he says, giving a nod to the happy couple before turning his gaze to me again.
Speaking every word to me.
“But the truth is, we all know it’s hard. Letting somebody know how much you care about them. Opening up and taking that leap. It’s not easy,” Dylan says. “And sometimes, it seems simpler just to walk away. But . . . someone showed me that it’s worth the risk.”
He sends me a heart-stopping smile. Like we’re the only two people in Central Park. “I know it took me a while to figure it out, but I realize now. And I’ll do everything in my power to be brave, like her. And not let the most important thing in my life slip away.”
Oh my God.
Is he saying what I think he’s saying?
I watch in disbelief as Dylan finally seems to remember we’re at somebody else’s wedding. He gives a bashful grin and raises his glass. “To the happy couple. Thank you for giving us all an example of love.”
“To the happy couple,” everyone echoes, toasting them.
The band strikes up, and everyone takes to the floor. But I’m still standing here in total shock, too dazed to do anything but gape as Dylan makes his way through the dancers and arrives at my side.
“Hey,” he says, looking nervous—and completely adorable. He clears his throat. “I, uh, maybe shouldn’t have done that. Or, you know, waited until we were alone, and not hijacked someone else’s wedding.”
“Are you kidding?” I tell him, still reeling. “It’ll be the highlight of the whole day for them. Look.” I nod to where Hank and Betsy are waltzing nearby—trying their best to eavesdrop as they beam and send me a thumbs up.
“Oh. Good.” Dylan swallows, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him this anxious before. Which has to be good, right? Nobody would put themselves through all of this if it didn’t mean something.
I take a shaky breath, my heart pounding. “What you said up there . . .”
“I meant it, every word.”
Dylan takes my hands and gazes into my eyes. “I’m sorry, Poppy. I screwed everything up. What we had . . . I didn’t see it coming. I freaked out and pushed you away. I was going to tell Jasmine no,” he adds. “I swear it. But then you showed up, and it was like a part of me was trying to sabotage everything. Trying to keep you at arm’s length, because I knew that if I let you in, this would be . . . real.”
“I’m sorry too,” I blurt. “I didn’t mean those things I said about you. You are capable of more than just fooling around. I’m sorry if I made you feel like you weren’t good enough.”
“I deserved it,” Dylan insists. “I me
an, look at my track record. But I want to be different now. I want this, with you, to be different. I’m falling in love with you, and I’ll do whatever it takes to prove I can be the man you deserve.”
I melt.
“You already did,” I tell him, seriously trying not to tear up right now.
Dylan’s smile grows, and finally—finally!—he pulls me into his arms and kisses me.
Hot, and slow, and everything I’ve been pretending I could live without.
I sink against him, greedily grabbing a handful of his T-shirt. “I missed you,” I say when we finally come up for air. “Don’t you ever pull that crap again!”
“I won’t,” Dylan vows. He grins at me, flicking a peach ruffle that’s cascading from my bodice. “What’s with these guys and their feathered theme?”
“Long story,” I beam as he leads me onto the dance floor.
“Then it’s a good thing I’m not going anywhere,” Dylan replies, pulling me into his arms.
26
Poppy
A few months later . . .
“We’re late.”
“And?”
“And, it’s your party!”
“In your honor.”
“Which means we’re both being rude.”
“Mmmm . . . I like being rude,” Dylan grins, trailing kisses down my bare back.
“Me too.” I sigh happily, melting against him. We’re locked in the VIP suite at his hotel, making use of the massive spa bathtub and 400-thread-count linen sheets. We’re supposed to be upstairs on the roof with a hundred of our friends, but of course, Dylan just had to show me the new beds they’ve ordered . . .
And then test one out. Rigorously.
It turns out that he’s right. The best sex is hotel sex.
“So, how do you think I’m doing?” Dylan asks, rolling me onto my back.
“At this? Top marks,” I grin, sliding my hands over his back. “A-plus effort and attention to detail.”
He laughs, grazing his lips across my chest. “I meant with the whole boyfriend thing.”