Heath grinned in spite of himself as he watched his friend’s van circle through his driveway and pull out onto Chehalem Creek Road toward town.
Sam’s right, he thought, walking back to the house.
But Heath wasn’t Sam, suave and confident and people-savvy. His style was more cautious and tentative. He had to wait until the time felt right.
Besides, this autumn he had the luxury of seeing Poppy whenever he wanted. It was almost too easy. He had her schedule memorized. All he had to do was stop in the café when he knew she would be working—which he did, nearly every day.
* * *
October slipped by. Heath closed up the tree house for the winter. He and Poppy went on as if that night at the consortium had never happened.
Every so often they got together with their group for a movie or drinks.
In early November, Poppy invited him to her place to help her go over potential test questions at her kitchen table, while in the living room her parents watched TV.
The next time he came over, her parents were out somewhere. By now, sitting next to Poppy with that scent wafting around him and nobody else around was making him go crazy with desire. Halfway through their session he brushed his foot against hers under the table, and when she looked up in surprise, his eyes delved into hers.
“How about some ice cream?” Poppy jumped up and hid her blush behind the open freezer door.
Without thinking twice, Heath got up, walked over to her like an automaton, took the ice cream carton out of her hand and set it on the counter. “I don’t want ice cream.” He folded her in his arms and kissed her breathless. “I want this,” he murmured, sliding his hand under her shirt in the back.
His surprise attack seemed to be working. She was every bit as ardent as he, her hands raking over his body, wrinkling his T-shirt, pressing his hips into hers.
But after a minute she pulled back. “What are we doing?” she gasped, red-faced and wet-lipped, her hair tumbling over her forehead where he’d run his hands through it, hiding half her face.
“We’re making out.”
“No! I mean, what are we doing doing?”
“Uh, like I said . . .”
“Heath,” she said, turning her back on him, planting her palms on the counter, trying to catch her breath.
“We agreed we can’t do this. It’s not good. Not for me, and certainly not for you.”
Then the sound of her parents’ tires crunching up the gravel driveway had them hurriedly wiping their mouths and straightening their clothes and Poppy furtively scooping an enormous bowl of ice cream for Heath, which he couldn’t think of eating. And once again, things went back to the way they’d been before they reached puberty.
Mid-November, her mom had him over for spaghetti. Heath’s dad was invited, too, but of course, he didn’t go.
Thanksgiving weekend, Poppy set up another table service get-together at the consortium. This time, there were no catastrophes.
In all that time, Sam’s suggestion was never far from Heath’s mind. He knew time was running out. Soon he would go from seeing Poppy whenever he wanted, to who knew how often.
When December came, he started getting anxious. He tried dropping a few broad hints about coming over to his place, but she didn’t take the bait.
Once, he came this close to actually inviting her over, but he remembered her terms, and he wasn’t at all sure he could trust himself if she did. There wasn’t much time left until her exam. He didn’t want to rock the boat.
But a few days later, the temptation became too much. He decided he would ask her in for one final study session. It would be just like when they were kids and he tutored her at the café while eating fries and drinking lemonade. Only this time, he’d pick up some grown-up food: an assortment of good cheese and some artisanal bread. Nothing over the top. He didn’t want to look too obvious.
The day before her test, Heath paced the hallway, practicing the script he’d carefully composed to Guinness and Amber until they got bored and trotted away in search of something more interesting.
Then he took a deep breath and called Poppy up.
Chapter Fifteen
“It’s me.”
“I know.” Poppy grinned to herself. Heath’s name had been on her favorites list since her very first phone. Yet, in all those years, she could count on one hand the number of times he’d called her.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah. I just . . .”
“Yes?” She lowered the list of top-rated wines she was trying to commit to memory and flounced back into the pink bed pillows stacked against her headboard. Just yesterday, she’d overheard some visiting hopheads down at the café bragging about having spotted the reclusive Heath Sinclair walking down Main Street “just like a regular person.” If they only knew how human he was, how flawed. How dear.
“Um, yeah, I was wondering . . .” He coughed. “’Scuse me. What you are doing?”
“Right now?” She looked past the doodles she’d scribbled all over her study guide to help lodge the vocabulary in her mind, to the papers scattered across her flowered comforter. There was still so much to learn, and only hours left before her test.
But her head was filled to bursting with wine names, descriptors, vintages. She was tired of studying. Impulsively, she balled up her paper and threw it across the room.
“Nothing.”
“Would you like to, uh, come over here, to my place?”
“The tree house? Sorry. Too cold for me. It’s supposed to get below freezing tonight. Might even snow.”
“Not the tree house. The house. The real house.”
Concern gripped her. Hardly anyone had seen the inside of Heath’s new place. Everyone had been patiently biding their time until he felt comfortable extending an invitation. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Nothing’s wrong.”
It occurred to her that maybe he’d invited others over, too. “Is it just going to be us?”
There was an uncertain pause. “Yeah,” he said, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Just us.”
She bit her lip. They’d managed to quell their—whatever it was that they had—for a while, until he had kissed her in her mother’s kitchen. Since then, Poppy had gotten flustered and out of breath every time he walked into the café. Being all alone with him in that big house in the woods was way too risky.
“I need to be up bright and early tomorrow morning to drive to Portland,” she said, fanning her face.
“I just thought . . . if there’re still some things you’re struggling with . . . I could quiz you one last time.”
Darn it, Heath, just stop. Don’t you see? It’s you who’s going to get hurt when I leave.
“Poppy, I—”
She clutched the phone, waiting with bated breath for his next words.
“I need to see you. Just for a little while.”
Just like that. No practical reason, not even a made-up excuse. She knew how hard that was for Heath. How could she say no?
“Okay. But I can’t stay long.”
Fifteen minutes later, Poppy raised her fist to knock on Heath’s door, but he opened it before she made contact.
“Brrr!” She strode in without waiting to be asked.
She did a double take. He looked different. He’d got his hair cut, and in place of his usual geeky tee, he had on a woven shirt, sleeves stylishly turned up, top three buttons left undone.
“Nice shirt.”
“You like it?” he asked, looking down at himself self-consciously.
But while he closed the door against the cold, she was already exploring.
“You walked,” she heard him say from behind her.
“I’ve been studying for hours. I needed some fresh air. It’s starting to sn—oh my God.” She stopped and stared slack-jawed at the living room wrapped in glass, anchored with a black leather sectional atop a subtly patterned Oriental rug. Outside, along multitiered rooflines, yellow l
ights lit up the cobalt evening sky and made the slowly falling snowflakes twinkle.
Mesmerized, Poppy stepped into the clean, modern space.
“Heath,” she breathed, “this is amazing. You really designed this yourself?”
“I had some ideas. The architect drew up the blueprint.”
She tossed her bag on the ottoman and slipped out of her coat, not sure what to do with it.
“I’ll take that.”
After Heath rushed to take her coat and disappeared with it, she headed to the crackling fire to warm her chilled hands.
He was back in no time. “I wanted the fireplace to be double sided so you could enjoy it both in here and outside on the terrace.”
“Like the bed in your tree house.”
“Exactly.”
She never should have mentioned the word “bed.” She dragged her eyes away from her surroundings back to him. “I’m speechless.”
“Make a note. First time Poppy Springer was ever at a loss for words.”
“Ha.” She poked him good-naturedly in the side, and instantly, the details of her hands splayed across his back and sides and chest that night at the consortium came back to her. Then and now, he was like a rock.
Something stirred in her lower belly.
“Come on. I’ll show you the kitchen.”
Behind his back, she couldn’t help but sneak a peek at where his plaid shirt disappeared into his jeans.
His house wasn’t the only thing that was well-built.
Unlike in most kitchens, no appliances lined the perimeter. Instead, the sinks and a cooktop were set into two long islands, one stainless steel and the other rough-hewn wood topped with butcher block.
Air plants in glass bubbles suspended over the islands at varying heights softened the masculine edges of the room.
Poppy gravitated toward the island with a half dozen wine bottles sitting on it.
She picked up one and looked at the label. “Pinot gris.” Then another. “Saint-Émilion, two thousand ten. Are these—?” She looked at him with a question in her eyes.
Heath got two glasses from a cupboard flush with the wall. “Your leftovers. Sam brought them here.”
Playfully, she turned down her lip. “You invited Sam here before me?”
“No.” He hurried to console her.
“That’s okay. You’re allowed to invite anyone here you want, whenever you want. I was just . . . a little jealous.”
“You were?”
Yes, she was. That he was surprised only endeared him to her all the more. If she’d been wondering how well she’d managed to hide her secret attraction these past weeks, now she knew.
She took a mental step back, trying to examine Heath objectively, as if she hadn’t grown up with him, didn’t know all of his issues by heart. Physically, he was a nicely proportioned guy. Kind of quiet, but bathed regularly. Good job, kind to animals. What wasn’t to like?
But she had to tread carefully. The problem was, she couldn’t be objective for long. She knew him too well—and all that he’d been through. She was leaving soon, and the last thing she wanted was to subject him to more rejection.
“Sam stopped by to see the house on his own.”
“That’s Sam for you.” She chuckled. “Wouldn’t let a little thing like an invitation keep him away.”
“He had the wine in his van. He asked me to give it to you.”
“He wanted to save himself an extra stop,” she deduced, testing the feel of a silk drapery between her fingers. “If I’d known that’s why you asked me over, I’d have driven.”
“That’s one reason.”
She turned and faced him full on. “What’s the other one?” she asked, knowing she was only inviting trouble.
“Time’s running out. I wanted you to see it before . . .” He turned and picked up a clean dish towel to wipe at an imaginary smudge on a glass. “You know.”
He couldn’t even say the word “leave.” Her heart squeezed a little more.
“Well,” she smiled wistfully, “I’m glad you did.”
Heath picked up a bottle. “Which one do you want?”
“The zin will do.”
They carried their glasses into the living room. Poppy curled up at one end while Heath sat stiffly at the other.
She sipped her wine. “Mm. This is very relaxing.”
“So. You ready for this?”
Her head whipped around.
“I didn’t mean this. I meant, you know, tomorrow.”
“As ready as I can be. You’ve already helped me so much. We don’t have to do any more. Studying, that is. But just in case, I brought some stuff we haven’t gone over before.”
“I’ll take a look.”
She pulled her folders from her bag and handed them to him, chuckling lightly. “It’s okay to scootch closer.”
He inched closer, but not much.
She cradled her glass in her lap. “Mix up the order a bit, if you wouldn’t mind.”
“Okay,” he said, back in his element now that they had something concrete with which to occupy themselves. “Here we go. Which New Zealander sold his namesake sauvignon blanc label in two thousand three and started the organic brand called Loveblock?”
“Kim Crawford.”
“Good.
“In eighteen fifty-five, the merchants of Bordeaux chose sixty-one prime estates and put them into five classes. In what area of France were these estates located?”
“The Médoc.”
“Next, what is the most distinctive characteristic of German wines?”
“High acidity.”
“Three for three. But these are just one-word answers. What about your essay questions?”
“There’re some on the back. I’m going to get a tad more wine. There wasn’t much left in that first bottle. And then I have to go. You?”
He drained his glass and held it out to her. “Sure.”
“Here’s a tough one for you,” said Heath when she returned. “Describe the Italian technique used to make amarone.”
She tucked a leg under her and pictured the map of Italy. “Amarone is made in Verona from only the ‘ears,’ the grapes protruding outside the cluster that get the most sun. The process is called recioto.”
He nodded, impressed. “You’ve been hard at it.”
“I have to know the material better than anyone else because it takes me longer to write down my answers. Once that clock starts ticking, I can’t take precious time to figure things out.”
“Okay. No more Mr. Nice Guy. Time to go full on.”
Poppy raised her glass. “Bring it.”
“Define meritage and describe how it is made.”
She was ready for this one. “Meritage is a blend of cabernet sauvignon, merlot, cabernet franc, malbec, and . . .” She scowled. At least, she thought she was ready. “What’s that other one?”
“Mm-mm. No helping this time.”
“Petit verdot.”
He nodded.
“You have to keep each varietal separate during vinification and aging. Then you decide how much of each to blend before you bottle it.”
Too soon, their glasses were empty again.
“I feel like having another, if that’s okay with you.”
“Of course. What’s mine is yours.”
“I know you said you have to go, so I’m not pressuring you, but I wouldn’t be polite if I didn’t offer . . .”
She hesitated. She was so done with months of studying. Now it was almost over. No more holing up in her parents’ house every evening. No more schlepping coffee to unappreciative diners. No more mopping up dried egg yolk from under high chairs. She couldn’t wait. “Sure! Why not? I’m in the mood to celebrate.”
While fat flakes of snow fell outside, they worked their way through page after page of her notes in front of the fireplace.
And whenever their glasses were empty, one of them would get up and refill them.
“Name five historic ty
pes of decanters,” said Heath as Poppy returned with yet another round.
“Um, lemme see.” She fell onto her back on the couch, her head landing on Heath’s lap, and counted on her fingers. “There’s cruciform. . . globe and something . . .”
“Shaft,” said Heath. “It says here, shaft and globe.”
“Shaft and globe, um, mallet? Is mallet one?”
“Mallet.” He nodded.
“Yay! Mallet! High five!”
They took aim—and missed.
Poppy collapsed into gales of laughter. “We’re some pair, you and me! We can’t even manage a high five!”
With some effort she drew herself back to sitting, holding her head. “Ohhh. My brain is drained.” She gulped yet more wine. “And look—my glass is, too!” She rose, giggling when the room wobbled. “You wan’ some more?”
Heath was on his feet, reaching out to steady her, but the ottoman caught the back of her knees and her bottom plopped onto it.
“Whoa!” She laughed.
“Better let me walk you home,” said Heath.
“Not now. I’m having too much fun.”
Moments later he called from the kitchen, “The wine’s all gone.”
“No way!” Poppy yelled, heading out to the kitchen to see for herself.
She shut one eye and peered inside bottle after bottle. Then she turned them upside down and shook them over her glass, but only a few, sad drops fell out.
“Oh, pooh!”
“We went through six bottles.”
“But some of them only had a little itty bit in them,” she said, squinting between her thumb and index finger.
He grinned lazily and pulled her toward him. “How much did they have?”
“A little itty—” She pouted. “You’re making fun of me.”
Heath slid his arms around her waist and pulled her hips into his.
“Never,” he growled, gazing into her eyes. “I would never, ever make fun of you. Y’know why?”
Heath’s body felt firm against hers. His arms were warm and protective against the cold black winter night, visible from every angle through all that glass.
“You should drink wine more often,” she said. “This is nice.”
She tried to focus up into his half-closed eyes. “What was that you were starting to say a minute ago? Oh yeah. You said you would never make fun of me. Why is that?”
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