Intoxicating

by Heather Heyford

  Poppy was really going to do this. She was really going to grow up and move away, out of his life forever.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The evening of the fashion show, Heath got himself tangled up in a production issue at the brewery. Between this fall’s pumpkin ale—always one of the year’s most popular—and their regular beers, tank space was tight, patience running a little thin. And though his team didn’t need his two cents, he felt a compulsion to give it to them anyway.

  Thing was, he wasn’t exactly raring to get to the charity event, to watch Poppy get “hitched” to that self-absorbed pretty boy, Daryl Decaprio—no matter how good the cause might be.

  He was pretty sure his staff breathed a sigh of relief to see the sight of the boss’s backside finally walking out the door. The kind of people Heath hired didn’t need babysitting.

  The consortium parking lot was packed when he got there. Clarkston had been buzzing about this event all week. Heath thought it might be big, but not this big.

  He could hear the music thumping even as he walked through the parking lot.

  “Here’s your program,” yelled a perky usher wearing bright orange lipstick.

  “Thought the show would’ve been half over by now.”

  “We’re getting a late start. You’re lucky—you haven’t missed a thing.”

  Lucky. Heath looked down at the folded paper. On the front was a photo of Doofus Decaprio with his arm around a stunning beauty, her face framed in an ivory veil.

  So—this is what other people see when they look at Poppy. No wonder that makeup company wanted her to model for them.

  As he ogled the photo, he was bumped from behind by the people who were still pouring in.

  He stepped out of the surge of bodies and looked around to get the lay of the land. Craning his neck over the heads of what must have been a hundred and fifty women milling around, he recognized the portable stage Sam had told him about. It was shaped like a T, with rows of chairs lined up several columns deep on either side of the long arm.

  He decided he would stay right there, hug the farthest wall from the stage and bide his time. Then, as soon as it was over, he’d head over to the bar, make sure there were no problems with the beer service, and then he was out of there.

  But no sooner had he found an ideal spot than a long arm waved to him from the front row.

  Aw, shit.

  Sam had saved him a seat up there.

  Heath knew he shouldn’t have come. Weddings were nothing but frothy charades, opportunities for women to get dressed up. Fifty percent of marriages ended up splitting, anyway. That included his own parents’.

  Heath shook his head, but Sam was insistent.

  Cursing under his breath, Heath wove his way through the chattering throng to the prime seats in the house, inside the right angle where the stem of the T met the cross bar.

  “I was just going to stand in the back,” Heath yelled into Sam’s ear.

  “No, stay up here, will ya? I need a seat filler for me and Doc. We’re going to be hopping up and down, putting out fires. Capisce? Be right back.”

  Sam was gone before Heath could protest again.

  He lowered himself to the rented chair sprayed with gold paint and waited for the show to begin.

  He felt trapped, surrounded by those women all jabbering at once. Calling across the room, squealing when they spotted a friend they’d probably seen only yesterday. In all that chaos, it was a wonder any one of them could understand a word being said.

  Reconciling himself to an hour of pure misery, he sank his chin on his hand and stared straight ahead, wishing he were anywhere but there. It was only going to get worse when he had to witness Poppy paired up with Dickwad Decaprio from his front-row seat.

  Ten minutes later, the show still wasn’t starting. His restlessness increased. Would Daryl have the audacity to kiss the bride? What if he did? Would anyone but him consider that to be way out of line? Why did he care, anyway? He and Poppy were just friends. The idea that they could ever form a covalent bond was out of the question.

  After what seemed like an interminable wait, things finally got under way. The mistress of ceremonies talked briefly about the Brides for a Cause mission, and then down the runway came a parade of hipster guys in beards and bow ties and women in all manner of fancy getups.

  Without warning, Red flounced down beside him, out of breath.

  “Do you think it’s okay?” she asked, dewy with exertion, brow furrowed in concern.

  “Best fashion show I’ve ever seen,” he assured her. No need for her to know it was the only one he’d seen.

  A few minutes later he recognized Junie Hart’s mom strutting down the runway wearing a tan-colored dress.

  “Ladies,” said the MC, “Dr. Jennifer Jepson-Hart, our next model, is wearing the perfect mother-of-the-groom dress. What is it that makes it so perfect, you ask? As all of you former MOGs know, your primary role is to sit down, shut up, and wear beige.”

  While the women in the crowd exchanged knowing looks and snickered behind their hands, Heath scrubbed a hand across his chin and wished to God he had a beer. He could have made sure his contribution to this affair went smoothly without subjecting himself to this.

  Someone came up behind Red and whispered in her ear, and she leapt up and scurried off to solve whatever fresh catastrophe had arisen. A torn seam; a dropped lipstick, most likely.

  Moments later, Sam took the seat Red had vacated. He angled his head toward Heath’s so he could be heard above the music. “Just got a glimpse of the bride backstage.” He made a face and whistled. “Babe City.”

  Sam had replaced his jeans with trousers. “You clean up good,” Heath said, not bothering to conceal his admiration. “First time I’ve ever seen you in a suit.”

  “Hands to yourself,” muttered Sam, his eyes on the show, grimacing as he ran a finger between his neck and his collar. “I like the ones who sing soprano.”

  At his cue, Sam leaped easily onto the stage, followed by a half dozen “groomsmen” and Daryl.

  Amid much twittering and positioning of cell phone cameras, Heath realized that Sam had been cast in the role of minister—traditionally, the person responsible for saying, “You may now kiss your bride.” Frantically, Heath skimmed the program for a hint of the script, but there was no clue as to how far this charade would go.

  Even if there was a script, Sam could easily go rogue and improvise. What could anyone do, once it was over? It came down to Sam’s whim whether Daryl and Poppy kissed.

  He wished to hell the idea didn’t bother him so much. He kept telling himself he was being ridiculous. It was just a show. But there was no use denying it—the prospect of Daryl’s lips anywhere near Poppy’s was driving him up a wall.

  The MC said, “And now, ladies and gentlemen, the part you’ve all been waiting for. Tonight’s grand finale features our very best bridal gown, donated to us by the designer herself. That means that unlike many of our other dresses, it has never been worn—not even once.” She called out toward the ladies’ room that did double duty as a changing area. “Are we ready?”

  Following a tense pause, an assistant popped her head out the bathroom door and gave the nod.

  “Cue the music!” yelled the MC.

  At the first note of the bridal march, the crowd got to its feet and turned as one toward the base of the T.

  Heath found himself holding his breath along with everyone else.

  And then a vision floated into view. She was wrapped in a column of white that took the shape of her waist, hips and legs, then trumpeted out in a gentle swirl around her ankles.

  The angel paused at the foot of the runway to give the audience the full effect, then began to glide forward, leading from the hip.

  Left . . . right . . . left . . . right, one foot in front of the other. With every step, the pliable fabric clung to first one thigh and then the other, draping close over her hips and up to her waist where she clutched a tightly
bound bouquet. Higher, to where the fabric smoothed out over her breasts, then gathered again at the base of a swan neck.

  Heath’s hands felt clammy. His heart raced with the obvious physiological reactions to sex hormones and neurotransmitters gone haywire, activating his stress response.

  “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

  When did Red come back?

  Now the bride was gliding past directly in front of them. With every stride, Heath could almost hear the swoosh of silk over the music.

  She looked neither left nor right. A veil covered her face.

  But he’d know that scent of orange blossoms and jasmine anywhere.

  He was excited, even euphoric. He suddenly couldn’t wait to be close to her again in one of their ordinary, innocent get-togethers, to stare into her eyes, indulge himself in her fragrance to his heart’s content. Everything about her was just so easy. He never felt ill at ease around her.

  Then she was past him, and he realized he was standing there like a statue amidst hoots and catcalls and a smattering of applause. He tried to swallow, but the sides of his throat stuck together. His adrenaline and cortisol levels must be off the charts.

  In the center of the stage, the woman in white pivoted to face the audience.

  The music stopped.

  Daryl reached over and lifted her veil, and Heath gasped. That bone structure . . . though he’d seen it a thousand times before, somehow he’d never appreciated it.

  Sam’s mouth was moving as he read from an open book he held before him. There was a terse exchange between Daryl and Poppy. Sam uttered some directive, and then Daryl leaned in and bussed Poppy’s cheek, and the crowd erupted into fresh cheers, while Heath took in the scene like watching his future unfolding in slow motion. Dopey Decaprio’s kiss didn’t matter at all. What mattered was that suddenly, all the puzzle pieces in Heath’s broken life came together as he recognized the only thing that could make him whole again.

  Poppy.

  He drove home in a daze. Halfway there, it occurred to him: he never did check on the beer.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Are you kidding me?”

  Sam stood inside the threshold of Heath’s new house with his hands propped casually on his hips. “How many people live here?” he asked with his typical sarcasm.

  His words echoed throughout the cavernous interior. The house was still settling into its site, just as Heath was still settling within its walls. He still got occasional whiffs of freshly stained wood.

  Heath jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocked back and forth on his soles. “Me.”

  Guinness, sitting patiently beside the console that held the dog biscuits, barked.

  “And these guys,” he added, on his way to get Guinness his bone.

  Outside a sliding door, Amber clamored for attention, and Heath let her in while Sam strolled around the sparely furnished great room.

  From its inception, Heath intended that this place was going to be clean and sleek, not cluttered, like his old house.

  Sam whistled. “All this empty space. How do you intend to spend your time here all by yourself?”

  Heath shrugged. “Maybe do some gardening.” He loved plants almost as much as he loved animals.

  Sam made a face. “Gardening.”

  “Yeah. Gardening.” Who cared what Sam thought? He was still waiting for Sam to tell him why he had shown up at his place, unannounced.

  “What, get one of those little gnomes, set it out in the front yard?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What about people?”

  “What about them?”

  “Don’t you want to get hitched someday? Have a couple o’ little beer nuts?” asked Sam, strolling over to the picture window that looked down through the woods to the creek. “Shame not to share this.”

  Heath’s mind was still reeling from the fashion show. It was one thing to see Poppy all glammed up on the stage in that fantasy setting, another to transfer that fantasy to reality.

  Let someone else into my carefully crafted world, put everything on the line, only to be abandoned all over again?

  “I’ve got my dad next door. The guys at work. Rory. Keval. You.”

  “I’m not talking about us assjacks. You know what I mean. A woman. Nothing like a woman to make a man feel alive.”

  Whispered offers of favors . . . perfunctory actions between unfamiliar sheets. All his past encounters with women flew into Heath’s memory. “I’ve had my share.”

  He wasn’t a robot.

  “Just not here,” quipped Sam, reading between the lines.

  Sam was right, as usual. Heath had never brought a woman here. This house was sacred space. It had never been designed with casual hookups in mind.

  Damn that Sam. Someday, he was going to get to the bottom of that spy rumor.

  “Like I said, I’m fine the way things are. I don’t need anyone.”

  “Au contraire, amigo. If nothing else, you could use someone to bounce wardrobe ideas off,” said Sam, eyeballing Heath’s T-shirt.

  “What?” Heath asked, looking down at the silk-screened picture of Bill Nye the Science Guy emblazoned on his chest. “This is my best shirt.”

  “Forget it. So how do you handle a trusted old friend who happens to have a hot body?”

  Heath blinked. “That doesn’t compute.”

  Ugh. Maybe he was a robot.

  “Seriously, man. What’s Poppy think of this Shangri-La?”

  There was a pause while Heath tried to think of something to say that wouldn’t have Sam calling him the biggest wuss he’d ever met.

  “Don’t tell me. She hasn’t seen it.” Sam looked at him askance. “You’ve gotta be kidding. You’ve got this showplace and a woman like Poppy Springer close enough to nab with a shepherd’s crook, and you haven’t put two and two together yet? What are you waiting for? An engraved invitation?”

  Heath looked away. They had a lot of shared past to overcome. Maybe too much.

  “It’s not like that with me and Poppy.”

  “Are you blind, man? Do you not see the way she looks at you?”

  His head jerked up. True, she had gotten a little carried away that night at the consortium. But she said it was because she was psyched about acing the blind tasting. Heath had taken her at face value.

  “Poppy doesn’t want to live in Clarkston anymore. She wants adventure and prestige.”

  “Poppy wants to feel good about herself. That’s what she wants. All anyone wants. I got news for you, man. There’s more than one path to nirvana.”

  “She asked for my help.”

  “You can help her without reading her the damn road map to the fastest route out of town.”

  Sam tried out the black tufted leather couch, crossing his legs, extending one arm along its back. “Try showing her what’s right next door.

  “Hey, cat,” he said, ruffling Vienna’s head.

  Mrrrw. Vienna leaped down off the couch and stalked away haughtily, tail held high.

  Sam might be a lot of things, but he didn’t know how to handle a cat—patiently, letting her come to you.

  “Far be it from me to stick my nose in another man’s business, but if I were in your boots, you know what I’d do?” Before Heath could reply, Sam charged ahead. “Invite her over here. Show her there’s more to this town than her bedroom in her parents’ house and her waitress job.”

  “That sounds manipulative to me. Besides, I like—”

  “Yeah, yeah. You’re subtle. You like your privacy. Blah blah blah. But sometimes you got to take a risk, man. Give up something in the short run to get what you want in the long haul. Hell, you know what I’m talking about. You’re a businessman. You need to step out of your comfort zone to get ahead. Never know what you might find.”

  Heath had had enough of Sam’s unsolicited advice. “What did you ever risk? Seems like everything fell into your lap as soon as you got back from the service.” Sam had a golden-boy aura
about him that made it seem as though he’d never struggled for anything.

  A shadow crossed Sam’s face. “Things aren’t always what they seem.” He looked at his watch. “Shit. I got a meeting in ten.” Hopping to his feet, he said, “Thanks for the tour. Props on this place. You did a bang-up job.”

  He gave Heath’s shoulder a fraternal squeeze on their way out to his logo-splashed van.

  But instead of climbing into the driver’s seat, Sam reached into the back and came out with a half case of wine and deposited it in Heath’s arms.

  “What’s this?”

  “Partials left over from Poppy’s practice sessions. Bought and paid for. Be a shame to let good wine go to waste. Besides, with all the wine rolling into my place on a daily, I don’t have much extra storage space. But you do.”

  “Why don’t you take it to her yourself? It’s only a minute out of your way.”

  Sam folded his arms against the late October chill, crossed one leg over the other and relaxed against the side of his van. “I could do that,” he said with a look laden with meaning. “Or you could ask her to drop by, get it herself.”

  A legitimate reason to invite Poppy over lent Sam’s advice added weight.

  Memories came to Heath unbidden: Poppy’s body arching beneath his on Sam’s red couch that night when they had the whole consortium to themselves, her eager, grasping hands urging him ever closer.

  But as she said, she was just jacked up about having done well on her tasting. The real Poppy was a sweet girl next door who had a nice family, a chocolate Lab, and a hankering to leave town. A fully rounded person, not one of those craft beer groupies, out to etch another notch on her tulip glass.

  Sam ducked into the driver’s seat, punched the ignition button, and grabbed the interior door handle, but Heath’s hand blocked it from closing.

  “You’re pretty free with the relationship advice, seeing’s how you don’t have a woman, either.”

  To Heath’s surprise, Sam threw back his head, opened wide, and laughed, the heartening sound ringing out in the quiet woods. “When we’re through with you, we’ll get me one, too.” With that, he gunned the engine.