Page 22 of Brewing Up a Bad Boy

“Poppy?”

“What?”

“Platonic?”

Platonic.

Hell.

Fuck.

Yes.That was what she’d decided before coming to the UK with him. It took all of her willpower to let his dick go, wrapping her arms around herself. She tipped her head back against the wall and closed her eyes. Doing the deep-breathing techniques that she and Sera had learned at the yoga/meditation class they’d started taking at the community center.

But the smell of Alistair was in her nostrils, her breasts were full, and her center was humming; not ready to walk away.

Too bad—her mind was in charge now.

“Yes. Sorry. That one’s on me.”

“Wish you had been on me longer,” he said.

Opening her eyes, meeting his gaze, she couldn’t help the smile that teased her lips. “Same. But I’m trying... I need to be smart.”

“We both do. When the time is right, it will happen,” he said. “I don’t want you to have any regrets this time, Pop. Get your nap.”

The sounds of Poppy moving around upstairs as she washed up and settled in the guest room were hitting him harder than he’d expected. The walls in the house were solid, but he could still hear the faint sound of her voice as she called someone. Given that her friends and family must all hate him, he guessed that she was going to have to explain her choices.

Or given the woman Poppy was now, she might not bother. He had no right to be proud of the woman she’d become, but having known her at eighteen when she had just a shimmer of the woman she was today, he couldn’t help it.

Chances were, the impetus for that growth probably started as a bigfuck youto him.

Still, that didn’t tinge the way he felt.

His own phone had been vibrating in his pocket since they landed. It took all of his willpower to wait and respond to the messages later. Part of his recovery from his anger issues was detoxing from being available twenty-four-seven for everyone.

When she was quiet upstairs at last, it took all of his control not to go check in on her. Instead, he went out to his brewery. Actually, it had started its life as a summerhouse, but he’d slowly rebuilt it over the past year to suit his brewing needs. First, he wanted to check the kombucha he’d put up before he left.

Walking toward the building, he pulled his phone out. There were three messages from his mum, two from George and one from Owen. He opened the one from Owen first.

I’m thinking of a doing a summer beer fest. Want to come as a guest brewer and make your Summer in Kent IPA? Kind of like a residency. You could stay upstairs again if you need a place.

Let me check a few things. But I like the idea. I’d get my own place. What dates?

Don’t have anything formal yet but figured I’d run it from end of June through September.

I’ll let you know tomorrow.

Owen gave the message a thumbs-up.

Birch Lake was Poppy’s place, not Alistair’s. It was a small town. But not that small. If things went wrong he’d at least have his own space. He would consult with her, see if she would be comfortable with it, before he agreed to Owen’s invitation. As it was, he was more concerned with the details of the deal he was trying to work with George to terminate his employment with Lancaster-Spencer.

He read the text from George, which just said that Dad had had a three-hour meeting with his solicitors that morning. George would update him when he had more info.

It was odd for his brother to reach out. Since he’d gotten married last year, George had been more...brotherly. Was that even a thing? There were four years between them, and they’d never really been close. But after Alistair’s explosion at work, George had been sending him messages once a week or so.

At first, Alistair had ignored them, still pissed at everyone. But at his lowest, that weekly text from George had been a lifeline. He’d never tell his brother that, but there were nights when he was pretty sure George had saved his life.

Thanks for keeping me in the loop.

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