Page 103 of Catching Sparks

I follow Poppy inside as she takes the lead. No longer in the dress from her date, she slipped into a pair of cotton shorts, a flowy tank top, and flip-flops on the plane. She fits into the space beautifully, and I let her explore without interruption.

Her focus lands on the water waiting outside the sliding patio doors at the other end of the bungalow, directly across from us. The kitchen is beautiful, with a long island and updated appliances, but neither of us pays it any mind.

“This is something out of a dream,” she says while heading for the open door.

I slide my hands into the pockets of my shorts, having changed on the plane prior to landing as well. It’s been years since I’ve dressed so casually, but I’m quite enjoying it. The thin material of my polo is less restricting than a dress shirt, and without the weight of leather shoes on my feet, I feel a million times lighter.

“It’s very much reality, Poppy,” I tease behind her.

Stepping onto the deck, I blow out a long breath. The water is everywhere around us, making the world feel like it’s at the tip of my fingertips. Two white lounge chairs face the water on one side of the deck, while the other features a dining table with floral-printed cushions on the seats around it. The square pool is directly in the middle, cut into the deck on the edge of the water. I’d bet if I reached a hand over the ledge, I’d be able to touch the ocean.

Poppy steps up to the edge of the deck and leans on the railing. “How are we supposed to decide what to do first?”

I move behind her and grip the railing on either side of her, trapping her in place as I nuzzle her neck. “There’s still far more to explore inside, and I’m sure you’re hungry?”

The food on the plane was fine for plane food, but I’m starving for a decent meal.

She hums, leaning against my chest. “I could eat.”

“Come, baby.”

Taking her hand in mine, I spin her to face me and press a kiss to her forehead before leading us back inside. The pictures didn’t do this place justice. Not even close.

I show her the bathrooms first, including the one with a bathtub big enough to fit a dozen people and double wicker vanities, before tugging her to our bedroom.

The king bed is wrapped beneath perfectly white bedding and plush pillows with two towel swans kissing against the pillows. My brows jump at the scattering of red rose petals along the mattress and the ice bucket with a tall bottle of champagne on the nightstand.

A wooden canopy with sheer white curtains that move in the breeze is above it, and I’m drawn toward it as quickly as Poppy is. She turns to sit on the edge of the bed, and I instantly step between her legs, burying my hands in the hair at the base of her neck as I tip it back.

Her lashes flutter, so soft and brown without any makeup on them. “Are you going to kiss me now?”

“Do you want me to kiss you?”

“I seem to always want you to kiss me.”

My grin is full of pure male satisfaction. “Good.”

She tastes like cherry lip balm as I press our lips together and drink her in. Her hands find my hips and rest there, fingers drawing shapes over my thin shirt. Our kiss is slow, languid. There’s no need to rush here.

“Food. Let me feed you,” I whisper.

Smirking into the kiss, she replies, “Maybe I’m hungry for something else.”

It’s a ridiculous statement, and I love everything about it. Poppy’s so damn vibrant and alive. So free. Lame jokes have never sounded better than they do coming out of her mouth. They make me feel younger, as if I’m even old in the first place.

I feel it, though. Not in this moment, but over the past few years, I’ve begun feeling more like a bitter sixty-year-old man than I should. Every day was the same. All work and no play. Fuck, no anything that didn’t take place in a boardroom or in my office late into the night.

My company is my life, and I love it. But . . . could I still love it while also living a bit more? My stomach pangs. I don’t have anyone back home to live with me.

“Hey. What just happened?” Poppy asks, tracing the shell of my ear with one of her short, rounded nails.

The concern swimming in her eyes is nearly enough to send me spiralling. I can’t do anything besides stare at her, memorizing every feature that I’ve grown to love. The small indent in the centre of her chin, the hint of freckles on her cheeks that I know will pop up in the sun, and the soft shape of her eyes that gives away how sweet she is inside.

She thinks this place is a dream, but I wonder if she knows that the only one I have is her.

“I’m just happy. Really happy,” I tell her.

Those soft eyes of hers harden quizzically. She presses the pad of her thumb to the crease I know must be between my frows. “You’re frowning. That doesn’t typically happen when someone’s happy.”

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