Page 156 of Pucking Sweet

“Too late.”

“No. I’ll ruin this. I’ll—Poppy, let me go.”

“Never.” I extend my hand, silently asking him to take the coffee. His hand wraps around it, our fingers brushing. “You have a game to prep for, and I have to go hunt down Mark. We’ll finish this later.”

Turning away, I leave him standing there. I’ve said what I need to say. Now he needs space to retreat and panic and wrestle with his own feelings. I know he loves me too. He shows me every day. The words will come eventually.

I step into the stairwell, letting the door close behind me. My whole body feels like it’s humming. I’m angry, I’m tired, I’m so freaking stressed. But I’m alive, and I’m fighting, and he’s right, I amdoneaccepting less than what I deserve.

And what I deserve is Lukas. With all his flaws, all his feelings of unworthiness. I deserve Colton too. I deserve the beautiful life the three of us can build together. Iwantthat life. I want the house, and the high-powered jobs, and the adorable babies. I want my men rubbing sunscreen on my shoulders as our kids play at the beach. I want sunset sailing and cozy nights on the couch. I want a family who loves me, friends who make me laugh, and a job that respects me.

And, god help me, I’m going to get it.

55

Squaring my shoulders, I march into Mark Talbot’s executive suite. I haven’t stopped to look in a mirror, so I have no idea what I look like, but I know I’m still dripping water on the floor. “Is Mark in? I need to speak to him.”

His personal assistant takes me in with wide eyes. “Did you fall in the fountain?”

“Is that seriously the most plausible explanation you could come up with for why the director of public relations is standing at your desk dripping wet?” I retort. “You think I tripped and fell ass-over-tits into a fountain?”

Slowly, she glances over her shoulder.

“It’s not raining outside,” I shout, making her jump. “Is Mark available, yes or no?”

“Poppy?” Mark pushes his own door open. “I thought I heard you out here—whoa.” He chuckles. “You got caught in the little sprinkler mishap too? I just got off the phone with—”

“Mark, we need to talk,” I say over him. “In private, if you please.”

He steps back, gesturing for me to enter. “Hold my calls, Nadine.”

I sweep past him, my toes squelching in my shoes as I cross from tile to a nice carpet. The far wall of his office is windows looking out over the Jacksonville skyline. I take in his cluttered walls of sports memorabilia—a pair of boxing gloves signed by Muhammad Ali, signed baseballs, pictures of Mark with quarterbacks and golf pros.

I spin around, hands on my hips, and take in the man himself. Mark is tall, late forties, with a head of salt and pepper hair. He looks like he’s a better fit for a Silicon Valley tech presentation than a Hockey Hall of Fame dinner.

“Well, it looks like your office is bone dry,” I say.

He steps around to sit behind his desk. “Yeah. You know, these little hiccups are to be expected when—”

“Let me stop you right there,” I say, holding up a hand. “If you don’t mind, Mark, I’m gonna go ahead and speak, and I’d like for you to listen. And if I cry, please know it’s not because I’m too weak or too emotional to be a working professional capable of running your PR department. It’s just that crying is a stress response to the amount ofangercurrently coursing through my body.”

I pause, eyes wide. Standing here, soaking wet, in the middle of Mark’s swanky office, a truth hits me. Oh my god, it’s so obvious. It’s been floating right in front of my face for days, weeks. All the signs were there, and I completely freaking missed it? I blink back tears as I look to Mark. “Also, I may be realizing in this exact moment that I’m pregnant, and you’re the first person I’m telling, and I’mdefinitelyfeeling pretty emotional about that too.”

Mark clears his throat. “Um…congratu—”

“Don’t you dare,” I say with a shake of my head. “And I’m still speaking.”

“Fine. The floor is all yours, Poppy.”

I take a deep breath. “Right then. Mark Talbot, I accepted this job because you promised to roll out a golden carpet for me. ‘State of the art,’ you said. ‘Top of the line,’ you said. Virtually unlimited expenses, the power to hire in my own team, control over the direction of philanthropy efforts. Do you know what I’ve received so far? A tiny little cupboard of an office with no window, no phones, no internet, and a lingering smell of Funyuns.”

“Okay, well I can address a few of those—”

“Still talking,” I say, raising my voice. “You have lights that flicker, elevators that break, generators that stall out, and sprinklers on the fritz. The house is crumbling, Mark. Fix the freaking house! And I am at least three people short to run my department effectively. I’ve put in the requests to hire, and they’re still languishing in HR. Because of my lack of a functioning office space, and my short-handed staff, I am dropping plates left and right and center. I am missing calls. I’m getting information late. I’m chasing my freakingtail for you, Mark. All of this leaves me feelingcompletelyincompetent when we both know I am anything but. I’m tired, I’m stressed…and I deserve better.”

He watches me, waiting.

“And I’m done,” I say. “Talking, I mean. Not, like, with the job. I’m not quitting…yet.”

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