Page 86 of I'll Keep Her Safe
“Absolutely.” I click back to the home page, reading the manifesto aloud while Poppy nods along, chewing her lip. “This is exactly what I said to you on the plane,” I remind her. “It’s like they’ve read my mind.”
She shifts her weight. “Well…”
“This is what I want to do,” I tell her. I don’t realize it until the words are out of my mouth, but the moment I say it, I know it’s true. I don’t care about fancy, manicured yards in Park Slope.Thisis what matters—growing food you can eat, taking part in the vital role of feeding yourself.
“I know,” she murmurs, a smile nudging her lips. “But… you can’t contact them.”
I glance up. “Why not?”
“Because…” Poppy exhales, sliding onto the stool beside me. “They don’t exist. I made that website.”
“You… what?”
She motions to her laptop. “Those areyourvegetables, Wyatt. The pictures are of your patch at the community garden.”
I look back at the images, examining them carefully. They’re all plants I have growing currently, but I don’t remember them lookingthisgood. The closer I look, the more I can see she’s right. They’re mine. How did I not realize? I guess I haven’t seen them in a couple days, since Marty and I worked on his patch, planting out broccoli seedlings he’d nurtured in a small greenhouse he keeps in his own yard.
“How did you…”
“Daisy took the pictures.”
Daisy. Of course. She’s a brilliant photographer.
“But why…”
Poppy places her hand atop mine. “I wanted to show you what’s possible. What you could do. I made this because I thought if you could see it, you might realize what a great idea it is.”
“I…” I have no words. She made this website, took Daisy to the garden to photograph my plants, all to convince me to pursue this passion?
“You don’t have to abandon the business you’ve got,” Poppy adds, squeezing my hand. “But you could find someone to run it while you build this. Why not have both?”
I blink as I absorb her words. I could have both, couldn’t I? And seeing the website with my own eyes makes it feel real. It makes it feel possible.
But… there’s more to this than that. The fear crystallizes in my mind as I imagine striking out with this new venture, only to have it flop. What would Bailey think? I can’t stand to imagine how my daughter would see me if I failed. She already believes I’m a failure as a father, even if she’d never say it. Even if she doesn’t show it.
I glance at Poppy, pushing the thoughts away. Those fears don’t change what she’s done, what she’s trying to do for me. There’s a hard squeeze in my chest as I stare at her, thinking about how much she cares. How much she wants me to be happy. That’s all she’s wanted all along, isn’t it?
Poppy grimaces, taking my silence as disapproval. “I hope I haven’t overstepped,” she murmurs, withdrawing her hand. “I didn’t mean to—”
I cut her words off as I crush my mouth to hers. She sighs against my lips, relaxing into my embrace as I pull her from the stool and into my arms. God, I am so in love with her. I haven’t said those words since we first confessed them, mainly because I haven’t wanted to scare her. I was surprised when she whispered them after we’d made love, surprised and unbelievably happy, but part of me wondered if she’d only said it because she was wrapped up in the moment. Part of me wanted to be sure she meant it.
Because I sure as hell do.
I never meant to fall so hard for Poppy, but I can’t fucking help myself. I can’t stop myself from loving the woman who cares for me so much. The woman who makes me feel things I haven’t felt for… well, ever.
And I can’t hold that in any longer.
“I love you so much.” My voice is thick as I rest my forehead to hers, closing my eyes.
“I love you too,” she breathes. Her soft fingers stroke over my beard, my cheek. “You’ve made me so happy, pushing me to cook more, to do something with my food. I want to do the same for you.”
“Poppy…” How is it possible to feel this intensely for someone so quickly? I want to fall to my knees and ask her to marry me. To tell her I can’t imagine being with anyone else, that I can’t imagine being without her at all.
I open my mouth to speak when the buzz of my phone ringing on the counter interrupts me. Ah, it’s just as well. What’s wrong with me, feeling these things after only a week? She’s twenty-five for God’s sake; who knows if she’s ready for something so serious? And with a man seventeen years her senior, no less.
I swallow, turning away as I lift the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Is this Mr. Mathers?” an unfamiliar male voice asks.
