Page 69 of Sunshine
“All right.” It’s weird how the idea of half an hour of conversation with Poppy gets me as excited as the thought of touching her. I’ve got her alone, and that’s all I need. “What do you want to talk about?”
“How about Izzy? She’s been at the new school for nearly a month. Now might be a good time to reflect on how it’s going.”
“Yeah. You’re right.” A quick glance at the speedometer confirms that Poppy is traveling just below the speed limit. “But keep driving like a grandmother, and there’ll be no time to kiss you before Izzy crashes our party.”
“You pay me to drive like a grandmother.” She cuts her eyes to me quickly before returning her attention to the road. “It’s in the job description. I’m being responsible.”
“You’re tormenting me.”
Her quivering lips and wide-eyed concentration tell me I’m right, even when she replies, “Me? Never.”
I rub my palms along the tops of my thighs to help me focus on something other than the desperate need to put my mouth onthis woman. “According to her teacher, Izzy is settling in well,” I say. “She’s enjoying her schoolwork. Making friends.”
Poppy’s smirk morphs into beaming pride. “She’s killing it,” she agrees. “Did you hear anything from Ethan’s parents about Izzy’s invitation to family night?”
Izzy’s new best friend, a boy named Ethan, who shares her love of books and plays a mean six-string, was honored last week with an official-looking pink paper invite to the next Davenport family night. Usually reserved for game tournaments of Monopoly and Pictionary, Izzy decided this one would be a performance of all the skills she’s collected in the last few months. Soccer drills. Conversing in Spanish. A mini ballet recital. And tunes on the trumpet.
Ethan’s the lucky man who gets to back her up.
Everyone’s invited, and even Chord is making an effort to be there. It’s going to be a long night, and I’m not sure if anyone but me is looking forward to it, but one glance at Poppy across the car and I realize I’m wrong. At least one other person is as into it as I am.
“Yeah,” I say. “His mom texted and confirmed. We can let Izzy know this afternoon.”
“Fantastic.” Poppy shoots me a sunshine grin. “Izzy wanted me to type up a program that lists the order of events for the night. You want to throw some ideas around now?”
I could think of something else I’d like to throw around, but we’re fifteen minutes from school and nowhere near an empty field where we can pull over and maul each other. And Poppy knows it.
“Sure,” I agree with a defeated sigh. “And let’s serve something other than chips and dip for once.” I hold up a hand to stop her argument. “Nope. I don’t give a shit what Daisy says.”
Poppy shrugs. “It’s your funeral.”
“You got a pen and paper?”
“Just use your phone.”
I pat at my pockets and find them empty, even though I’ve usually got a pad of paper and pencil on me at the restaurant in case inspiration strikes.
“I hate tapping out notes with my thumbs,” I mutter, checking the car door for a scrap of paper or a rogue pen. “I work best when I can use my hands.”
“Well, I was going to call you an old man, but who am I to argue with a creative genius?” She glances at my fingers. “And those are very clever hands.”
“Fuck, yeah, they are.”
Poppy rolls her eyes but laughs lightly. “Check my tote.”
I raise my eyebrows in mock scandal. “You want me to go through your bag? Isn’t rifling through a woman’s personal belongings a good way to lose my balls?”
She laughs again. “You have my permission.”
I heave the bag out from the back seat and drop it in my lap. One look inside, and I’m genuinely horrified. It’s packed with…well, crap. Papers and pens and gum wrappers. Straws and pins and hair ties. Bandages and antiseptic. A phone charger. Mini toys and puzzles for Izzy. Old receipts and crumpled napkins…
I pin Poppy with a disgusted look. “Seriously?”
“What?” She tosses her head indignantly. “If I didn’t collect random shit, you wouldn’t have anything to write on right now, would you?”
“Jesus freaking…”
I decide it’s better not to argue so I rummage for a pen, then dig around for something blank enough to scribble on. I’ve located an almost-clean napkin when a small pink box catches my attention. One look at the label and I know what it is, and my dick pulses against its denim prison as I pull out the box.
