by Emma Hart
“Dinner. Saturday night.”
“Yep. He called me yesterday and told me Mom wants to see you. I was growing a pair so I could call you and ask you, but I guess Dad beat me to it.”
“He called and invited me. I didn’t want to just show up, and I had today off training, so I thought I’d come see you in person.”
I pushed hair behind my ear. “You could have called.”
“I could have called,” he said, tilting his head to the side. “But, Red, I wouldn’t have gotten to see you then, would I?”
I blushed lightly. “I don’t suppose you would have.” I paused and played with the hem of my shirt. “Look, you don’t have to. I told him you were busy so probably couldn’t come. It’s fine.”
“Do you want me to come?”
“You’re busy. You have a million other things you need to do—”
“That’s not what I asked, Red.” He shifted so he was closer to me and I could all but feel his leg as it got close to mine. “I asked you if you want me to come.”
I took a deep breath and looked away for a minute. “Do you want to come?”
His lips pulled to one side. “Well, I don’t particularly want to have dinner with your mother, no. I feel like there’ll be all sorts of questions I don’t want to answer.”
That was the story of my life.
“It’s fine,” I said. “I’ll just—”
“But I want to have dinner with you,” he added softly, his eyes capturing mine. “And if that means your parents are there, too, then that’s perfectly fine with me. And pretending to be your boyfriend for a few more hours isn’t such a hardship, either.”
“I…” I trailed off.
This didn’t help. This was a step backward. I was trying to get over him—and failing, but whatever—and this wasn’t going to do that.
But, fucking hell, I missed him.
And that was crazy. I knew it was crazy. How could you miss someone after only a few days? It was meant to be a fling, nothing more and nothing less. Yet here I was, three weeks after said fling, with a severe case of feelings-itis.
“If you don’t want me to, say the word and I won’t. I can be busy. It’s not a problem,” Adam said. “That’s why I asked you.”
“No, I…” I sighed. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”
“No. Absolutely not. But I think we should do it anyway.”
“Okay,” I said quietly. “Pick me up at five-thirty.”
“You got it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE – ADAM
A Series of Bad Ideas
“You’ve lost your mind,” Warren said, shaking his head. “One weekend was bad enough.”
“He ain’t wrong,” Kyle piped in, putting down the weight he’d been using.
I stared at them both. “I like her, all right?”
“We know. You’ve been a miserable bastard ever since you got back from that wedding. I told you to just fucking call her.” Warren snorted.
“I didn’t want to. She made it perfectly clear that what we do, all the traveling, all that shit, isn’t for her,” I said.
“Then why the fuck are you having dinner with her family on Saturday?” Kyle sat on the weights bench in front of me and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Just…why?”
“If you had the chance to see Keisha one more time, would you?” I said, referring to his girlfriend. “Poppy was pretty clear that she’s not the kind of woman who can hack what we do. That’s fine. But I didn’t exactly tell her that I wanted to try it.”
“So that’s what you’re gonna do? Pretend to be her damn boyfriend and tell her how you really feel?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I just wanted to see her again, ‘cause fuck me, I missed her. I missed her mouth and her laugh and her sass. I missed fucking everything about the feisty redhead who’d barreled into my life like a tornado.
Warren smacked his lips. “It makes sense, but only if you’re gonna be honest with her. You have to get closure on this chick, because she’s been distracting you since you got back.”
And wasn’t that the truth. Poppy Dunn had consumed my mind. I’d thought about her every single day, and it’d done nothing but piss me off that I hadn’t had the balls to call her.
It was easier to walk into her damn restaurant and see her in person than it was to pick up the phone.
“Makes sense. I’ll do dinner, then after, we’ll get a drink and I’ll tell her how I feel. If she tells me no, fine. She can leave without being under pressure.” I rubbed the back of my neck. “If she tells me yes, we’ll figure it all out.”
“Okay, but you’ve never had a relationship with anyone since you got drafted,” Kyle pointed out. “It’s not like Keisha and me where we’ve been together since college. By the sounds of it, Poppy doesn’t even like hockey.”
“She didn’t know who I was when we met,” I reminded him. “Of course she doesn’t like hockey.”
“See, that’s my favorite fuckin’ thing about this,” Warren said. “All the girls in the world throw themselves at Mr. Fuckin’ Superstar over here, and he picks the one damn girl in the world who has no idea who he is.”
“She’s the most genuine one.” Kyle shrugged and got up to adjust the weight of the machine. “She just saw the lovable asshole we’re so fond of, not the mega-rich superstar.”
“She didn’t know, and she doesn’t care.” I leaned forward and rubbed my hands down my face.
“How do you deal with the fact you don’t know how to have a relationship on the road? She has a life here, right? A job? An apartment?” Kyle sat back down. “It’s a big change.”
“I can make it work.” I knew it. I knew we could if we tried. “I just never found anyone worth trying for until her.”
My two closest friends on the team shared a look.
“Well, fuck,” Warren said simply.
“You make it sound like I’m a playboy bachelor,” I grumbled,
Kyle paused. “No. But you’ve always put hockey first. Not that it’s a bad thing,” he added quickly. “We all do it, but nobody as diligently as you, man. If you’re willing to push it aside, even just a little, for a girl you’ve known less than a week in the total time you’ve spent together, she’s gotta be somethin’.”
Somethin’.
That was one way to describe Poppy Dunn.
And, weirdly, probably the most accurate.
Because she was. She was something.
I just wanted that “something” to be mine.
***
Issy: Did u buy her flowers?
Me: No. It’s dinner with her parents.
Issy: U should always buy her flowers.
Me: I thought this trolling stopped when I moved out.
Issy: Not trolling. Just some sisterly advice. If a guy dates me, he better bring me flowers.
Me: If a guy dates you, he better bring security.
Issy: Ur a dick. Go or ur gonna be late. And take flowers.
I rolled my eyes at my little sister. She was the youngest, but fuck me, she was the most headstrong.
Flowers would do nothing in this situation. Despite her insistence that I had to, I liked to think I knew a thing or two more about dating than my twenty-year-old sister.
And, if not, I had issues.
I stuffed my phone into the pockets of my jeans and grabbed my keys and wallet. Poppy’s dad had already insisted on buying dinner, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t try to hijack that.
I locked the door behind me and headed for my car. I was nervous as fuck. Three weeks without seeing her properly—I didn’t count a twenty-minute conversation two days ago as properly—and I felt like a teen boy on his way to the prom.
I just wanted to see her again. If this was the last time I got to see her, then fine. I’d accept it. I could accept it. It wasn’t the end of the world—at least that’s what I was telling myself.
At the end of it all, Poppy was a flame and s
he’d burn her own way. If she really believed we couldn’t work because of what I did, then I could accept that. But that didn’t mean I wouldn’t try.
Four days. We spent four fucking days together, and the little pain in the ass had wormed her way under my skin so brilliantly she may as well have been a part of me.
Maybe it wasn’t healthy to feel the way I did after so little time. Maybe it wasn’t fucking normal that, three weeks later, I was still hung up on the little spitfire. Maybe this whole thing was fucking weird, but I was going to roll with it.
That last night in Key West, on the beach, before she cut her foot and attracted the local marine wildlife, I felt it.
Something took hold of me, and I knew the idea of a fling was fucked. It wouldn’t be a fling. It was something more than we’d planned, and fuck, I was done.
I wanted her.
I wanted her then, and I wanted her now. Maybe more so. I should have forgotten about her by now, but I hadn’t. Not even close. She consumed me like the fire she was.
I fought off any more thoughts of her as I headed across the city to her apartment. I knew Avery would be there, and I didn’t know what to say to her. We hadn’t spent a lot of time together at the wedding, at least not enough to know if she was for or against me and Poppy.
Fuck, was this what my life had become? Wondering if her best friend was on side for us being together?
Jesus fucking Christ. I needed to get ahold of myself. I was losing my goddamn mind.
After too many minutes, I pulled into the parking lot outside their apartment five minutes early. I killed the engine and smirked as Poppy’s words ran through my mind—she was always late.
Would she be ready now? Probably not, knowing her tendency to piss off her mom at every turn.
I locked my car and headed for the building. Pressing the buzzer on the outside of the building, I waited for someone to let me in.
“Hello?” Avery’s voice crackled through it.
“Hey. It’s Adam.”
“Oh!” Silence. “It’s open!”
“Thanks, Avery.” I pushed the door open and make my way up to the apartment. My shirt felt too tight and my goddamn stomach felt like it needed to roll like a ball going down a hill.
I still didn’t know what I was doing, not even as I knocked at their door.
“It’s open,” Avery called.
Swallowing, I pushed the door open and stepped inside. “Hey,” I said.
“Hey!” Avery bounded up off the sofa and hugged me. “How are you doing?”
“I’m good. How are you?” I returned the hug.
“I’m good, thanks. She’s not ready yet. Make yourself at home. She’s gonna be at least twenty minutes.”
“I heard that!” Poppy yelled from somewhere in the apartment.
Avery rolled her eyes. “Seriously, Adam, sit. The girl is nowhere near ready. She’s a mess.”
“I heard that, too!” A door opened. “Shut your dirty mouth!”
I laughed into my hand.
Avery grinned. “She’s so fun to piss off,” she whispered. “Get dressed, for God’s sake, or I’m calling your mother!” she shouted.
“I hate you!” A door slammed, and Avery’s smile only got wider.
“So,” she said in a hushed voice, perching on the edge of the sofa. “You gonna tell her you like her?”
“I’d love a drink, thanks, Avery. Do you mind if I use your bathroom? Training’s going good. Thanks for asking,” I said dryly.
She snorted. “Good to know. Kitchen’s right there. Well, are you?”
“It’s not that simple and you know it.”
“Actually. I think you’re both complicating it beyond belief,” she said quietly. “But that’s just my opinion, and opinions are like assholes. Everybody has one.”
“And some people speak with theirs,” I added.
“Nailed it.” She winked. She stood up and went to the hall and banged on a door. “Poppy! Hurry up! You’re gonna be late!”
“If my mother expects me to be on time she’s a damn idiot!” she yelled through the door.
“She’s a little tense,” Avery whispered.
Something slammed on a door. “You are a bad whisperer and a terrible friend. Go to work, you heathen!”
I paused, trying not to laugh.
“Fine! I’m going!” Avery pounded on the door with a fist. “But your fake boyfriend is out here looking like a bar of chocolate during shark week—”
What the?
“—So you get your ass out here before I drag him to a street corner and start soliciting his services to the ladies to bump my bank account!” Avery winked at me.
“I swear to God—” Poppy snapped.
Avery grabbed her purse and stopped at the door. In an extra loud voice, she said, “You guys have fun! I’m working ‘til one tonight, but Adam, I want her home by midnight, you hear?”
“You got it.” It was so fucking hard not to laugh.
“And if you’re still here tomorrow morning, I hear you make a mean omelet.” She grinned, opening the door. “There are eggs, bacon, and mushrooms in the fridge. I won’t be mad waking up to your fine ass making me breakfast in bed.”
“Avery!”
“And now I’m leaving,” she said with one final smile my way.
I rubbed my hand down my face, laughing.
Holy shit, Avery knew how to piss her off.
I sat back in the chair and waited for Poppy to come out. She was taking her sweet-ass time, and one glance at my watch told me we were going to be late.
Just as I settled in to watch TV, a door opened on the other side of the apartment. I turned my head in that direction, and Poppy stepped out into my view.
The black dress she wore hugged her figure to perfection, even as she muttered to herself and flattened it out across his hips. Her hair hung around her shoulders in her signature loose curls, and the hot-pink lipstick that coated her lips made me want to kiss her so fucking bad.
She stopped, looking up when she caught me staring at her. “You want a picture?”
“Yeah, actually.” I smiled at her. “Got a problem with that?”
She blushed, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Let’s go before I get my ass kicked. And, if we’re late, it’s traffic.” She grabbed a purse off the kitchen table that was covered in painting things and shoved her phone in it. “Let’s go.”
“Hang on.” I turned off the TV by the remote and got up, intercepting her before she reached the door. “I’m officially your fake boyfriend again, which means I get to do this.”
Cupping the back of her neck, I kissed her. She melted into me, her hands instantly going to the sides of my shirt, and that told me all I needed—all I wanted—to know.
I wasn’t the only one with feelings.
“Now we can go,” I whispered against her lips.
Her throat bobbed, and she nodded. “Let’s go.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR – POPPY
Questions and Absolutely No Answers
Adam locked the car in the parking lot of the restaurant and immediately drew me into him. His arm snaked easily around my waist, and I tucked into his side as if I’d never left it.
It annoyed me how easy it was. How easy the kiss in the apartment had been. How right it felt to get into his car with him holding the door. How goddamn perfect it felt to be nestled into his side without a care in the world.
Except for my parents being inside, that was.
We were lead right to our table. Somewhere between the hostess’ stand and the table, Adam had slipped his fingers through mine, and we moved so fluidly together.
That scared me. It was oh-so-natural, and while I was slowly accepting my feelings for him, I’d never really believed he felt anything serious for me.
The ease with which he accepted being my boyfriend yet again hit me hard.
He’d told me in Key West that pretending to be my boyfriend was the easiest thing he’d ever done.
>
Was that still true?
Because fuck me sideways with a suitcase, pretending to be Poppy, Adam’s girlfriend, was so fucking easy it was scary.
Mom and Dad were sitting at the table as we approached. The greeting was easy and simple—hugs, kisses, handshakes. We all took our seats and Dad poured us all a glass of wine, which Adam rejected since he was driving.
Mom’s eyebrows shot up at that, and I could tell she was impressed by that. He wasn’t even willing to risk one small glass. Because my dad’s idea of a glass of wine was not what people in a restaurant assumed to be a glass. There was a reason he always poured his own wine.
A glass of wine was just that—a glass.
If wine was meant to be half the size, the glasses would be smaller.
“So, Adam, we heard about your new sponsorship deal,” Dad said. “We’re thrilled for you. Tell us a little more.”
Adam shifted, slightly uncomfortably. “It’s the team sponsor. We agreed on a deal for a new line of sneakers and other sports equipment, mostly designed for helping children get into hockey. The value of it is mostly an investment—I don’t need the money, so we agreed the deal on the basis that ninety-five percent of the agreed figure goes into junior hockey across the United States and Canada.”
“Are the media figures accurate?” Mom asked.
“Mom!” I sputtered. “You can’t ask that!”
“He doesn’t have to answer,” she said like I was stupid. “It’s just a question.”
“It’s okay.” Adam squeezed my thigh. “Yes, the figures are accurate. My team is trying to get out about the agreement, but it’s proving important.”
“Well, I imagine the media are more concerned about why hockey’s highest-paid player needs a thirty-million-dollar sponsorship deal,” Dad said matter-of-factly.
Jesus Christ.
Kill me.
“You’re correct,” Adam said. “They are. My team is working overtime, but most people don’t want to know the truth. Even during the press conference, they were unconcerned about the real purpose.”
“Get the sponsors to say it,” I said, reaching for my wine. “They have a bigger platform than you do. Have them issue a statement to all media outlets regarding the terms. If they don’t issue the statement, the sponsors remove all advertisement from their channels. It’s not hard.”