Page 95 of Catching Sparks

I tug her further into me, forcing myself to breathe again. When I do, it’s all her. Her smell, her warmth, her happiness. Her everything.

I’d always considered myself to be incredibly intelligent. Vigilant and honest, as well. But not once had I ever considered myself a fool until I met her and didn’t immediately seek her out after we parted. And even more so after I allowed her to slip from my fingers.

I would love to blame it on my narrow-minded focus on work and how pissed and betrayed I was with my father and company for sending me to Cherry Peak in the first place. But it’s more than that. It was my own inability to stop looking down my nose at those around me. If I hadn’t been such a stubborn ass, I wouldn’t have lost so much time.

The gifts scattered around the bedroom have been accumulating in my possession for the past few weeks now. After ordering her the new washer and dryer, I became enamoured with buying things for her that I noticed she needed but doubted she would ever ask for. Some of those purchases are here, but a few wait at her house for our return.

Her attention lingers on the new coffee machine sitting on the floor beside the bed, still in the large box that spouts something about espresso and lattes that I didn’t care enough to read fully.

My heart hammers behind my rib cage to an uneven beat. It’s like flaying my mind wide open and offering the chance to root through it. Allowing myself to be vulnerable is a new skill I have yet to master, but with her, I think I could enjoy the time it would take to do so.

The two new pillows wrapped in their protective coverings on the floor beside the coffee machine box are next in her perusal.

They’re the same kind as the ones I have back home, and after spending two days in her bed using the thin pancakes she calls pillows, I figured maybe she’d like some new ones. It was an impulse buy far too late at night, but I couldn’t bring myself to cancel it the morning after. I didn’t want to.

For some odd reason, it’s the baskets full of skin care, body lotions, and shower products that make me the most nervous. I feel like a creep having memorized all of her favourites from my time at her place. Every bottle and jar and container of product I saw, I found myself purchasing every night, one after the other. They began arriving this week, the delivery delayed like everything else, but once they started coming, they didn’t stop. I’m sure even more have arrived in the time I’ve been gone.

“I know it looks like I went out and bought all of this today just to try and bribe my way back in your good graces, but everything here has been building for a while now. I, uh, yeah,” I ramble, frustrated with myself for being so on edge right now.

“Garrison Beckett . . . are you nervous right now?”

“Yeah, I guess I am,” I choke.

She spins in my arms, hands falling flat to my chest, over the thrashing heart beneath. I’m weak-kneed as I stare down at her, cautiously hopeful. Her eyes are soft, a warm milk-chocolate colour that reflects her every feeling. The disbelief and appreciation. Fuck, even a gut-punching emotion that borders on what I want to call love but can’t bring myself to label.

I have the overwhelming desire to drop to my knees before her and beg for forgiveness, and surprisingly, that doesn’t scare me.

I trust Poppy not to take advantage of my vulnerability. And maybe that’s what pushes me to drop one knee to the ground and then the other. I shudder, keeping my eyes on hers as she now has the ability to stare down at me.

“I’m sorry, Poppy. So sorry for hurting you,” I whisper.

The soft curves of her hips feel heavenly beneath my hands as I touch her again, rubbing up and down and back to front. Her dress is smooth, a silky mauve material that hugs her in all the right places, as if it was designed exclusively for her. She’s a goddess, and I fear I may be unworthy of this sacred position in front of her.

Reaching down, she carves her fingers lovingly through my hair and sets her other hand on my shoulder. I watch with rapt attention, hanging on by a thread for her next words.

“How long until we take off?”

I can barely make out the words she speaks through the thick desire coating each one.

“Half an hour, maybe.”

Her nails trail behind my ear and along my jaw. I shiver, darting my tongue along my lips as I lean forward, digging my nose into her soft belly.

“Shut the door, and then come right back here. On your knees,” she orders softly, the hand on my shoulder sliding back to grip my nape, massaging it gently.

I move in slow motion. I’m half out of my mind as I glance out into the open area of the plane and find it empty before shutting the door harder than necessary. I linger in front of the closed door, feeling the wood beneath my palm as I gulp down breaths, my muscles coiled tight enough to burn.

“Garrison,” Poppy calls, and I turn.

She hasn’t moved an inch. I’m pulled to her by an inexplainable force, and I surrender to it.

Falling to my knees in front of her again, the plush carpet soft beneath my slacks, I return my hands to her hips and hold her, waiting.

“I accept your apology,” she murmurs. “You didn’t have to do all of this. I’d have forgiven you without all the gifts and the trip.”

“I did have to because I wanted to. You deserve this and more. Don’t forgive me yet.”

I never thought I’d ever want to have to earn forgiveness like this before. But with Poppy, I want to fight for it. All of this . . . it was only the start.

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