Page 154 of Pucking Sweet

“Greg, honey, call 911,” I say. “We’ll let the fire department figure out what the heck is happening. In the meantime, let’s all pretend it’s a fire. Not like we can work in hurricane conditions anyway.”

“I swear, this place is cursed,” Brandi mutters, following me toward the stairs.

We reach the first floor, our shoes squeaking, clothes dripping wet, and who should be waltzing toward me but Lukas, double fisting coffees? His smile falls as he takes us all in. “I swear, I didnotdo this,” are the first words out of his mouth.

“Okay, fire department says they’ve got no alerts for an actual fire,” says Greg, holding the phone away from his ear. “Looks like it’s just a faulty sprinkler. They say they’re en route.”

“Thanks, Greg. Hey, why don’t you all take an early day?” I say to the rest of the group. “I’ll stay here and deal with this.”

“Are you sure?” asks Brandi. “There’s still so much to do.”

“Well, take a break at minimum,” I reply. “Everyone, the coffee cart is open. No charge. And I’ll get one of the equipment guys to bring a stack of towels to the atrium.”

With muttered words of thanks, all my wet staffers wander away, leaving me with Lukas. “I came to invite you to lunch, but—Babe, what the hell happened?”

I take the coffee from him. “The sprinklers on the fourth floor are faulty. They just went off while I was in the middle of a phone call and—” I groan, glancing at my phone. I’ve missed two calls and four texts from a confused Julie and Todd. “Here—” I hand Lukas back the coffee. “I have to return this call. We oversold our VIP tickets and—”

“Well, wait. Just hold on a sec and talk to me.”

“I don’t have a sec, hon.”

He shifts his weight, blocking me from ducking around him. “Jesus, you’re not a surgeon being called in for life-saving brain surgery, Pop. It’s just some tickets—”

I scoff. “Oh really? I’ll have you know this is about twohundredtickets. It’s a security nightmare and—”

“Poppy!”

I blink, stepping back. “Lukas, what? Come on, I have to go and deal with this—”

“No, you have to stop for two seconds and deal withme.”

“But this is my job—”

“Yeah, it’s just a fucking job!” he shouts, finally breaking through my crazy fog of stress, adrenaline, and hyper productivity. “Poppy, this is a job that you’re grossly overqualified for and, frankly, it’s a job that has been treating you like complete dog shit.”

“That’s not true—”

“Itistrue! Poppy, you’re the director of public relations for a major international sports team. You coordinate multi-million-dollar brand deals before breakfast. You organize press junkets for Olympic team trials. You set up fundraisers that raise seven figures for pediatric cancer research. I mean, Jesus, youliterallykeep our asses out of jail. And Mark Talbot has you overworked and under-freaking-paid.”

“My salary is actually competitive for the market.”

“Pop, he shoved you in a shitty fucking office with no windows, no phone, and no fucking internet.”

“The internet got fixed,” I say in a small voice.

He just glares down at me. I can see it’s all he can do not to crush the piping hot coffees in his hands. “You are dripping on the goddamn floor right now. You aremine, and you deserve better. No one gets to treat you this way and fucking breathe.”

His words sink like an arrow through my chest. “These are just growing pains. The building is new—”

“Stop making excuses,” he shouts. “Stop making excuses for Mark. Stop making excuses for your mother, for your shitty fucking sister—”

“This isn’t about them,” I cry.

“Yes, it is! Because it’s all aboutyou!” He steps in closer, eyes blazing. “Poppy, this is about you constantly lying down and allowing shitty things to happen to you, and I’m telling you it’s enough. Stop accepting less when youknowyou deserve more.”

Tears trail down my face, and he holds out the coffee cup again.

“Will you please fucking take this so I can touch you?”

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