by Lindsay Becs
I smile, loving that she has pale-pink nails with teal polka dots. It’s the opposite of what I’d ever envision for her, and yet it suits her perfectly.
“I do. It’s on top of there.” I point my spoon to the top of the fridge where there are three bottles of whiskey, a bottle of vodka, and a dusty bottle of wine.
Pulling over a chair, she goes in search of it. “Not much of a wine drinker I see,” she laughs, wiping the dust from the bottle.
I lift a shoulder, stirring the chicken to cook evenly and adding the cut-up vegetables and a can of tomatoes. I show her where my glasses are, not fancy wine ones obviously, and the cork screw I miraculously have in the back of a drawer.
She washes the bottle off under the faucet, giggling under her breath, before opening it and pouring a glass—or cup rather—of wine for each of us.
After draining the pasta, I add it to the pan with the chicken and vegetables and toss it all together, letting it cook together for a few minutes before I fill plates for each of us. Poppy has already found the silverware and has it resting next to our wine cups.
“Bon appetite!” I say, placing her steaming plate in front of her.
Leaning forward, she inhales, smelling the food wafting in front of her. “This smells delicious!”
“I hope it tastes just as good.” We clink forks and dig in.
Her moans fill my kitchen, and I smile around a mouthful of pasta. I realize now that I love the way she moans, no matter what it is that’s giving her pleasure. “Oh, this is sooo good!” Her moans continue. It makes me snicker and earns me a punch in the arm.
We finish our late dinner together mostly in silence. She tries to clean up, but I don’t let her. I want to do this for her. It seems like so little after the way she helped me this past race season, but at least it’s something.
Poppy pours us each another cupful of wine, finishing off the bottle. Drying my hands on a dish towel, I close in on her, caging her in with my hand on each side of the counter. My nose travels up the length of her neck, and I inhale all that is Poppy, sweet and floral.
Taking her hand in mine, I guide her to the couch, where we settle in close to each other. She leans into my side as I wrap an arm around her. “Twenty questions?” I ask.
“Alright,” she giggles, “me first. Which house do you like more? This one or your one in Vegas?”
“I like them both for different reasons.” I pause to think about it. “This one. But only because my Grams is close by and it’s where I grew up. It’s a good reminder to stay humble and remember where I came from and all the shit I had to go through to get where I am.”
“I was going to be mad at first, but I can’t be mad at that answer.” She looks back, rolling her eyes dramatically.
“What made you change your mind about coming here? About me?”
“That’s two questions.”
“But they go hand in hand like peanut butter and jelly.”
Chuckling again, she shakes her head. “I knew I wanted you and this the second you asked me, but I was too scared to admit it. I was the one who said we’d keep it simple. Then I talk to my aunt Pen, and she basically told me to get my head out of my ass and if I really loved you, then I needed to not be scared.”
“Remind me to thank her when I get back to Vegas.”
“Not a chance, dude. I also heard about how you two have swapped saliva in the past. You’re lucky I love you; otherwise you’d be paying for my therapy. And I’d never do this again,” she sasses before kissing me.
Her soft lips make it hard to resist. Her tongue sweeps into my mouth, and the moment our tongues connect, my cock instantly twitches to life. Taking her hand that is wrapped around my neck, I move it to my dick to show her what she’s doing to me and groan into her mouth when she grips me through my pants and rubs her hand on me.
But then the little tease pulls back and too far away. “If you weren’t a racer, what would you be?” she asks while sipping her wine some more like she didn’t just make me hard as a rock.
“I honestly have no idea. I’d like to think that if things had gone differently, I’d have gone to college or gotten a real job, maybe trade school. Really, I think I would have ended up in prison or dead by now.” I reveal a truth not many people would suspect. “Do you want a family of your own? You know, a husband and kids,” I ask before she can question me more about what I just admitted to her.
“A husband, sure.” She lifts a shoulder. “I’d like to get married one day or at least have a life partner. But kids?” Her eyes get wide, and she shakes her head. “I don’t want kids. I don’t think I’d be a good mother. I think I’m too selfish to have kids, really.”
“You’re not selfish, Poppy. You just know what you want in life and aren’t afraid to go after it. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Still doesn’t mean I want kids. I hardly like them. Why would I want to create my own spawn to mess up? Hard pass.”
She finishes off her wine, and I mimic her by gulping down the remainder of mine. I swallow hard, pushing down all I want to say to her. I want to tell her that she’d be an awesome mom and that I’d love to put a baby in her belly one day and raise a family with her, but I don’t.
“Why? Do you want a wife and kids with the picket fence and all?” she asks, like it’s crazy that I would want a family.
Rolling my lips in, I bite down on them, debating how to answer and trying not to be offended by how she’s assuming I don’t want those things. I slowly nod my head. “Maybe not the fence,” I say, trying to act cool.
“You really want that, don’t you?” she wonders aloud. I can tell by her softening face that she sees the truth in mine now.
“I do.” I smile at her. “I didn’t grow up like kids are supposed to. I love my Grams and I’m so grateful for her, but life was hard. I saw things no kids should. She loved me and I loved her, but it doesn’t mean I still didn’t want to have two parents with family game nights and all that shit.”
“You wished for my childhood, and I’m trying to run from it,” she says, looking down at her lap.
“Why would you run from that, Poppy? You have parents who still act like the universe spins just for them. They love you and Harry and Ruby and would do anything for you guys.”
She nods, dropping her chin to her chest. “That’s true. But it doesn’t mean that there weren’t years when they were traveling and we were left behind, making life lonely. I know my parents love me; I never question that, but sometimes it wasn’t enough. I never want to have a kid and have them feel like they were an afterthought or the next best thing instead of the best thing.”
I let out a breath, removing my hat and running my hand through my hair. “Let’s put a pin in this conversation for now,” I say, needing to not say more about it. “I want you to meet my Grams tomorrow.” I change the subject.
“I’d like to meet the woman who put up with you all those rebellious teenage years.”
“And you’re in luck. Tomorrow there’s a carnival going on. Grams makes the best apple pie and enters it in a competition every year.”
“I’ve never been to a carnival before,” she admits, chewing on her lip.
I rub my hands together. “Oh, a virgin. I’m going to pop so many of your cherries tomorrow.”
“You’re disgusting,” she laughs.
“But I didn’t think you hated anything about me.”
She rolls her eyes and gives me the finger as she gets up and goes in search of my bedroom. I watch her with a smile on my face. I know she’s the one, and I don’t want to lose her ever again.
13
Poppy
“Nope. I’m not doing it,” Zander says, shaking his head violently side to side. “I know when not to mess up a good thing.”
We’re at the carnival, and his Grams has her signature apple pie in the ‘Who’s Pie Is It?’ contest. We’re trying to convince Zander to do it, but he is terrified that he’ll never get a piece of Grams
’s pies again if he guesses wrong.
“Come on, old man! It’s all fun and games,” I press.
“Yeah, until someone gets hurt. Or in my case, gets banned from all of Grams’s delectable desserts.”
“Do you really think I’d ban you from my cooking?” Grams finally pipes in with her hands on her hips.
“It’s a risk I’m not willing to take,” he answers matter-of-factly.
“I’m too full from the pie-eating contest,” I say, rubbing my belly. I did win after all, thank you very much.
He runs his hand through his hair then. “Alright. I’ll do it. God help me,” he mumbles, looking up and blowing out a puff of air.
“That’s it, old man,” I say, patting him on the back. “You got this, dude.”
“Please, don’t hate me Grams if I guess wrong,” Zander pleads as he walks up to the stage to take a seat behind a table.
The person running this guessing game has each contestant put on a blindfold, taking out the sense of sight to help match the pie to the baker. There are five different pies: Grams’s, Mr. Tenny’s from the truck stop, Mrs. James’s who rivals Grams every year for ‘Best Pie’, Marcy’s from The Rusty Bucket— who everyone knows uses premade crust and canned filling—and a store-bought one. The pie slices are lined on a long plate in front of each person who’s guessing. One by one, they try each pie, then go back and try again, making their guesses.
After about fifteen minutes of debates, everyone has made their guesses and takes off their blindfolds. A few pound their fists, knowing already that they guessed wrong. Zander sits there still and serious, waiting to hear how he did and his future pie fate.
“Pie number one belongs to… Mr. Tenny.” A few grumble from the stage. “Pie number two belongs to… Marcy. Pie Number three belongs to… Walford Market.” That one earns a few more grumbles and fist pounds. The next two to be announced is where fate will be determined. “Pie number four belongs to… Ms. Macallan. Leaving pie number five belonging to Mrs. Goldsmith.” Zander still looks stoic and hasn’t smiled or moved, making me nervous for him now. “It looks like we have a tie with winners. Only two of our ten contestants guessed all five correctly, Michelle Sutton and Zander Macallan. Congratulations!”
We clap and yell for Zander. He fake wipes sweat from his brow and then fist-pumps his way down to us.
“I knew you’d guess right. I never doubted you for a second,” Grams says, hugging his middle. “You’re a good boy, Zander. I think I’ll make your favorite for dinner tomorrow as your reward.”
I look up at Zander. “What’s your favorite?”
“Guinness stew. It’s Grams’s specialty.” He smiles down at this grandmother. “Will you make your bread too?”
“This boy.” She shakes her head, but I see the glowing smile on her face.
We have a great afternoon together, and I love watching Zander with his Grams. He’s so attentive to her and just oozes with pride and love for her.
“So, Soda Pop, you ready to go or you want to do anything else?” he asks, taking the attention off himself.
“I saw bumper cars...” I trail off, wagging my brows at him.
“Oh, you’re on,” he counters before kissing Grams on the cheek and stalking to me. He grabs my hand, pulling me behind him toward the tent with the bumper cars.
The line isn’t long, and within minutes, we are each in a car ready to go. We’re across the floor from each other, but our cars are facing one another. Leaning forward, I put my eyes right above the steering wheel, staring him down, gripping it with my hands, my elbows out to the side.
He leans back, flicking his chin up at me with an easy smile on his face. It’s a lot like how he looks on race days. I often wonder if it’s false bravado or if he really is that relaxed. Right now, it looks like the latter.
The light turns green, and soon the cars jolt to life, ready to roll and bump into each other. I stomp on the gas and gun it—or at least press as fast as the car will go—toward Zander, and he does the same, both of us aimed right for each other. We bump hard and both laugh loudly as our bodies are rocked back and forth from the hit.
He tries to escape to get me from behind, but he’s stuck between two kids. Laughing hysterically, I bust him out of the trio from the side, making him spin to the right. We continue bumping into each other and laughing like kids for the entire five minutes before the cars stall to a stop.
“You are a savage!” he yells with a face-splitting smile as he climbs out of the tiny car.
“Don’t be a wimp.” I roll my eyes. “But that was the most fun I’ve had in a long time.” I’m still giggling when we meet at the exit of the tent.
He takes my hand, tugging me to the side, and pulls me into him. His lips are on mine so fast it takes me by surprise, but I quickly melt into him, kissing him back just as fiercely as he’s kissing me.
He reluctantly ends our kiss and chucks me under the chin. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“Me too. I’m really glad—”
“Zander?” A woman’s voice interrupts our moment. I’m annoyed by this person, despite not knowing who she is. I easily just had one of the top-ten best moments of my life, and she’s ruining it. Offended by her mere presence, I turn my head to look at her, shooting daggers in her direction.
“Natalie.” Zander says her name with grit, and I wonder who she is to him.
“I’ve been trying to get in touch with you,” she says, acting like he’s the offending one.
I want to tell her to fuck off. That he’s mine now and she needs to move on, but I don’t. Only because then I see a little boy standing behind her and it makes my stomach drop. My head snaps in Zander’s direction, and I see it all. I see the anger and regret mixed with a thousand other emotions, and I know. I know that things just took a turn I wasn’t prepared for.
“Yeah,” he says, trying to look relaxed. I see your false bravado, dude. “Grams told me. What is it you want?”
She watches him for a minute before looking annoyed with him. “How can you really not care?” she asks as her annoyance turns to sadness.
“We had a deal.” He lifts a shoulder. “I’m keeping up my end.”
“You’re an asshole,” she spits at him.
“That may be true, but you’re the one who wanted things like this,” he says, stepping toward her and pointing an accusatory finger. “I do care. But I also know that all you care about is getting your money. So, again I ask, what do you want, Natalie?”
“I moved. I need to give you our new address,” she tells him, looking down at her nails, both of them ignoring the elephant between us all—the little boy watching both of them.
His nose is running, and his eyes get big, looking hopeful when Zander stepped toward them. Remembering I have some leftover fudge in my bag, I crouch in front of him as I pull it out. “Do you want some?” I ask this little boy as I take in all his features that look like a miniature version of the man I’m in love with. “It’s s’mores flavor.” I smile at him, hoping to ease him.
He gives me a small smile in return and steps toward me. We both ignore the arguing of the other two adults, both of whom seem to have forgotten about us.
I hand him a tissue to blow his nose before handing him the piece of fudge. He eats it down in three bites and is already covered in sticky chocolate. “Thank you,” he says quietly around his chocolate-filled mouth.
“You’re welcome.” I smile at him. “Mind if I help you get cleaned up?” He shakes his head no. Reaching back into my bag, I pull out some wet wipes and help him clean his hands and face. “My name is Poppy. What’s your name?” I ask him curiously.
“Blake,” he tells me with hopeful eyes. I don’t know what this little boy is hoping for, but I instantly want to pick him up and hold him in my arms to protect him from everything going on around him.
“It’s nice to meet you, Blake.” I tell him with a wink.
“You get away from my son,” the woman I’m guess
ing is named Natalie says to me, pulling Blake’s hand so hard his whole body jerks to fall in line with her.
“I was just—” I start.
“I don’t need his next warm body around our son,” she spews, giving me the final assurance that all my assumptions were right and that Blake is Zander’s son.
“Just go,” Zander says to her with a tight jaw. I can’t tell what he’s thinking right now, but I know I’m feeling a lot of anger mixed with a lot of hurt.
She scoffs at him as she turns away from us, pulling their son behind her. My heart breaks when Blake’s tear-filled eyes look back and meet mine.
“Poppy, let me—”
“Don’t,” I seethe between clenched teeth. “I’m not talking to you about this here.” I walk away from him so I don’t knee him in the balls or punch him in his stupid face. Knowing I need distance from him, he keeps space between us as he follows me to his car in the parking lot.
My jaw is locked and my body ridged as I wait for him to unlock the door. Once he does and I slide inside, I jerk the seat belt, but it keeps locking over and over, a sure sign of my anger. Zander calmly reaches across my body and takes the belt from my hands, slowly pulling it to click into place.
Turning the ignition, he puts the car in drive. I stare out the window, my back turned toward him the whole way to his house. He doesn’t try to talk to me or turn me to face him, continuing to give me the space I need right now.
Once we get to his house, I jump out, slamming every door I encounter in my wake as I stomp like a child inside and lock myself in the bathroom. Splashing water on my face, I grip the granite under my hands and will the tears in my eyes to go away. I let out a frustrated yell, slamming my hands against the countertop.
Smoothing my hair back into a fresh ponytail, I let out a long breath. Rolling my shoulders back, I exit the bathroom, coming face to face with Zander, who’s leaning against the opposite wall.
He looks like he’s been through a war in the mere minutes since I left his car. His pleading eyes find mine, begging me to listen to him without saying a word.