Page 92 of Pucking Sweet

And now he’s in the game too, and his threat is crystal fucking clear: He will hurt me if I hurt her.

“We good?” he mutters.

I nod again. “Yeah.”

He relaxes and gives a nod to Sully and Paulie. “We’re good, guys. Nov and I are on the same page again.”

They let him go and he stalks off, not giving me a second look.

“Someone wanna fucking fill me in?” Sully calls after his retreatingform.

I just sit there on the floor next to the crushed tortillas, feeling emptier than I’ve ever felt in my life. Cole is mad at me, and my Poppy-chasing days are officially over. I respect her enough as my colleague, and I respect him enough as a friend, to bow out gracefully, right?

I had my little taste of heaven, and now I’m done.

This is fine. I can live with this easy.

Plenty more fish in the sea, right?

So, you tell me why, for the first time in my fucking life, I’m lying here on this floor fighting the aching feeling thatIwant to be the one who gets caught for once, but only if Poppy St. James is doing the chasing.

30

“Uh-huh. Yeah, for nine people.” I tuck my phone between my shoulder and my ear, unscrewing the cap off my chilled bottle of rosé. I’ve been on the phone for the last hour, making plans for a rental house and arranging activities for Violet’s impromptu bachelorette weekend that I’m now suddenly in charge of hosting.

Listen, do I want to do it? No.ShouldI do it? Probably not. Am Igoingto do it? Abso-freaking-lutely. Because the more I ponder it—and trust me, I’ve pondered the heck out of it—the more this is all starting to feel like one big test. Like, maybe they want to see if this will be the thing that finally makes me crack. All the secrets and the lies and the sneaking around behind my back for two years wasn’t enough. Let’s add a little public humiliation. Let’s put Poppy front and center at the “wedding of the season.” Let’s stick her in a bright red dress and put her right behind the bride, reminding everyone that she had her chance to matter, and she blew it.

Not enough? Then let’s put her in charge of planning the bachelorette party so she can fondly remember the night of her own party…to the same man. The night when one of the drunk groomsmen sent her a grainy video of a stripper deep throating her fiancé.

Well, call me petty, but if this a game, I amnotgoing to let them win. I’m not giving anyone from that life a reason to pity me or call me pathetic. I know, down to my bones, that walking away from Anderson Montgomery was the best decision I ever made.

I pour myself a glass of wine as the restaurant hostess rattles off a list of available dining times. “Yeah, eight o’clock sounds perfect.”

A loud knock at my front door has me turning. I check the time on my stove. It’s a little after ten. I’m standing in my kitchen in my silky pink shorts and a cropped tissue-thin cross country T-shirt. Theneck is cut too, so it hangs off one shoulder. It might be my favorite scrap of cotton I own, but it’s not exactly the right attire for visitors.

Another knock, softer this time.

“Yeah, so we’re good?” I say into the phone.

“Yes, ma’am,” says the hostess. “I have you down for eight o’clock.”

“Great, thanks so much.” I don’t wait to hear her echoing “thanks” before I’m hanging up and hurrying over to the door. Glass of wine in hand, I tip up on my toes, peeking in the peephole.

I smile.

Colton is standing outside my door.

I was wondering when he might show up. We had sex in the elevatortwodays ago, and since then it’s been total radio silence. It took me until midway through my lunch today to realize the only reason there’s radio silence on his end is likely because he doesn’t have my cell phone number. The team directory only lists my office number, which still doesn’t work.

Still, he’s my neighbor. He could have tapped on the wall or slipped a note under my door, something to indicate we were more than a one-and-done. All his pretty words in the elevator are starting to ring a little hollow.

He’s about to leave, muttering something under his breath, and I’m still just standing here on my tiptoes, leering at him through my peephole. I twist the lock and fling the door open just as he’s turning away. “Colton—hi,” I say on a breath.

He turns back, his expression warming as he takes me in from head to toe. I do the same to him. He’s dressed casually in a Rays T-shirt and athletic shorts. His hands are full of a bunch of reusable shopping bags, fit to burst with groceries.

“A little late for grocery shopping—”

“I was in Orlando,” he says at the same time.

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