Page 51 of Catching Sparks

“Your judgment is too loud in my sleepy state. My washing machine is in the basement and only works half the time, so I haven’t attempted to use it in a while,” she says, the words almost slurred.

I shift to face her. “How does it only work half the time? Why haven’t you gotten it fixed?”

She shakes her head. “Sleep time.”

“Poppy,” I grumble.

“Garrison Beckett,” she whispers.

I inhale deeply and let it go. “Up the bed and under the blankets.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

“I’m not old enough to be your daddy.”

She cracks a smile and shuffles up the bed. I pull the comforter down for her and watch her slip beneath it. Tucking the edges beneath her body, I make sure she’s comfortable and warm, fussing over her despite myself. Only when I’ve pulled the blanket to rest beneath her chin and turned the lamp off at her bedside do I step back and shove my hands in my pockets.

“Good night,” I mutter.

Her smile doesn’t stray as she says, “Good night. There’s a key outside beneath the yellow-painted flowerpot you can use to lock the door.”

I frown. “That’s a terribly unsafe place for a spare key.”

“Good night, Garrison,” she murmurs, eyes falling shut for the last time.

Tongue poking my cheek, I leave her room. It’s not to the front door that I go first, though. That would have been the smart thing to do. The obvious option. Instead, I search for a door that will take me to the basement, and once I find it at the back of the house, I head down into the dark.

The string at the bottom of the stairs attaches to a lone lightbulb, so I pull it and blink at the light that fills the basement. It’s small, the ceilings low enough I have to duck to move through to the stacked washer and dryer in the corner. The grate in the floor directly in front of the out-of-date appliances is damp, like the washing machine has been leaking.

The entire space is a nightmare, the cement cracked and the smell definitely moldy. It doesn’t sit well that she has to come down here to wash her laundry, and especially not when her washing machine looks this old and broken down.

With a frustrated sigh, I pull on the string again and take the stairs upstairs. Sliding my shoes on, I check my phone, ignoring the time before dialing Nathan’s number.

It’s still ringing while I slip outside and lock the door with the key from beneath the pot. I shove it in my pant pocket instead of back under the pot.

“You better have a good reason for calling me at one in the morning, asshole,” Nathan groans, clearing the sleep from his voice.

“I need you to get something ordered for me tomorrow. Delivery as soon as possible. Same day if possible.”

“And you couldn’t have asked your assistant to do it?”

“I don’t trust her with this.”

Or much of anything. But especially not with anything to do with Poppy. One comment to someone and I’ll have the entirety of Swift Edge breathing down my throat.

He huffs. “Fine.”

I list off everything needed and bristle at the silence that follows. My steps are quick to the truck, each one bringing the call closer to its end.

“Just get everything ordered for me. I don’t want to hear your thoughts on it. Not right now. Not fucking ever,” I add stiffly.

“Just be careful,” he warns.

“When am I never?”

The question feels redundant. I haven’t been careful since the moment I stepped onto Cherry Peak soil.

The rusted truck is too loud in the quiet of night. I feel like a teenager sneaking in after curfew as I pull onto the Steele Ranch road and creep past the main house. The lights are off, meaning the Steeles are still asleep for a change. Other than the first time I snuck back after being with Poppy, I haven’t seen this place so still. So damn calm.

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