Page 93 of When in December

“Sounds … good.”

I turned back and stared at Poppy again. This time, it didn’t take long before she glanced back toward me, eyes narrowing while Barrett was still talking. She was too polite to turn her attention fully away from him. She went back to the conversation while I continued to stare.

Poppy. Poppy Owens.

I’d kissed Poppy Owens.

I kissed Poppy Owens.

And it wasn’t the first time.

Something seized in my chest as everything came back to me. I remembered our kiss—comfortable and soft. Like when I was breathing. How easily we’d come together when nothing else had felt as good in my entire life. And how I hadn’t felt that for the first time the other night.

It all made sense now. How it’d felt like that last piece of home that I’d thought I lost long ago.

Because Poppy was the last piece of home I’d had before I moved out of the city. That night at the party, I barely remembered anything. But I remembered that kiss. I remembered her and the kindness she showed me. I thought maybe, I dreamed it all, because it felt a little too good.

And … she hadn’t said anything.

Why had she not said anything?

I started to walk toward Poppy, unable to take my eyes off her. Until a much broader, less appealing form stood in my way. I stopped before I ran face-first into a knitted reindeer.

“Barrett”—I leaned around his shoulder—“I need you to move.”

“Hold up a second.” He put up a hand.

I attempted to get around his hand, though I didn’t know exactly why. What did I plan to do when I got to Poppy? Confront her? Ask her why the hell she didn’t tell me that she knew me?

“I plan on opening a kennel.”

My eyes snapped back to Barrett.

He raised a golden brow. Just one. “You didn’t hear a word I said to you, did you?”

I sighed, and my shoulders slumped. “No. I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“I wanted to let you know that I put in my final letter to the Army. I’m out. Officially this time,” he said.

“Wow.”

“I’d been turning things around in my head for a while now, but after everything that happened and seeing maybe that you’ll be around, I’m moving forward with those plans.”

“And what are they?”

“I bought the farmhouse here to fix up. And once the weather warms up, a kennel is going to be built on the property,” he said.

“For dogs?”

“Yeah, of sorts,” he explained. “Retired K9s specifically, but we’ll see how long that lasts. I didn’t get this land out here for no reason. It’ll be a rescue.”

“That’s—” I usually joked at his expense whenever I got the chance, but now, I watched the calmness settle over my friend’s otherwise tired expression. “I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks. Like I said, I don’t know what your plans are?—”

“I’m”—I didn’t know either—“sticking to the plan.”

“Well, if that plan doesn’t work out, know that I’ll still be here. How’s Oz doing, by the way? I figured when I hadn’t heard anything …”

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