Page 53 of Sweetest in the Gale
“I’m almost done,” she told him. “I know I’m a slow eater. Sorry.”
He shook his head firmly. “Don’t be sorry. Take your time.”
The answering beam of her smile was so dazzling, so bursting with affection and happiness, he had to blink.
While Poppy finished her dessert, they sat in a silence that wasn’t quite awkward. More…expectant. And then she was finally down to her last bite, and he couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen to his straining lungs.
“If I’d known embalming fluid tasted like rosemary and ginger and lemon, I’d have been preserving myself decades ago.” She tipped back her glass, draining the dregs of her mocktail. “I can only assume the carbonation keeps the skin of the deceased firm and supple.”
He couldn’t resist playing along. “That’s just science.”
Her laughter rang through the restaurant, and several nearby diners turned their way. He met their disapproving gazes with a hard stare, because he’d earned that laugh. No humorless assholes with scalpels were going to taint the moment.
“There may be a reason we don’t teach biology,” she said, still grinning.
With her fork, she scraped up the last crumbs of her cake. While she was distracted, he discreetly took care of the bill.
It’s the least a mentor can do for his mentee, he told himself. But even he knew that was complete and utter bullshit.
None of this, not their walks to the parking lot or his panic over her hot-glue-gun burn or the way his gaze was drawn to the pale, plump curve of her earlobe, was entirely professional. Certainly not their dinner tonight, or their imminent trip to her home.
This time, he couldn’t even fool himself.
And maybe—maybe—he was getting tired of trying.
Five
“I haven’t finished settingup all the rooms.” Poppy held the front door open for Simon, waving him ahead of her. “There are still boxes stacked to the ceiling of the guest bedroom. But the crucial spaces are done. The kitchen. The den. The workroom. My, uh, bedroom.”
At first glance, the home perfectly reflected the woman who lived there: colorful, crammed full of interesting details, and orderly despite the potential for absolute chaos.
Her entryway and den were the blue of a sunny day on the beach, her kitchen the color of key lime pie. Further down the shadowed hallway, he’d have bet his year’s salary that the open doorways to dark rooms promised yet more colors of the rainbow.
Her hands twisting together at her waist, she led him through the public spaces in her home. All the while, she chattered about nothing in particular, her voice breathier than normal. All the while, he observed. Her. Her home. His reaction to both.
Built-in shelves lined almost the entire den. They contained plenty of books, certainly, but also photo frames and sculptures and geological specimens and what definitely appeared to be a rodent of some sort, preserved through taxidermy.
He’d have to ask her about that…creature?…later, because she’d have a good reason for displaying it. He would bet good money on that too.
Other than its cleanliness, her home couldn’t have provided a greater contrast to his own house, all of which he’d painted a pale gray. Upon moving in, he’d figured neutrals would prove soothing, so his furniture featured dark wood and forgettable colors, and he kept clutter to a minimum. No unnecessary decorative touches. Nothing breakable.
Years ago, one of the few women he’d ever brought home had deemed the spacemonk-likeandspartan, and he hadn’t disputed the assessment. Even though he’d realized it wasn’t a compliment, it wasn’t a comment about his home alone, and it also wasn’t a good omen for the relationship as a whole.
There was no gray in sight here. Hundreds of objects and colors and textures competed for his attention, and he should have found it all disorienting. Chaotic. Objectionable.
“My workroom is down the hall,” she said, shifting her weight from foot to foot. “If you—if you’re still interested in seeing it.”
His gaze caught on her, because how could it not? How could henotlook at Poppy Wick, no matter the distractions surrounding them both?
Her hair was red-gold, her knit top the green of a wintry forest, her lips and cheeks pink, her wispy buns inevitably slipping, her jeans and sneakers splattered with paint. He was pretty sure that was chocolate cake smeared on the elbow of her cardigan.
A week ago, he’d have called her a mess.
A week ago, he’d have been a judgmental dick.
Tonight, he saw nothing but beauty, around him and before him. She should know that, so she could stop wringing her hands and frowning at the sight of her own kitchen.
Her nose scrunched up. “I know my home is a lot.”
