Page 94 of One and Only

“And Beckett is the right person for you?” she asked quietly. “He’s so … serious. I never pictured you with someone like him.”

I kept my face even—internallyweepingthat I couldn’t turn around, plop on the bed with my little sister, and have a juicy sex talk about my hot AF husband.

I was the one who told Poppy how to make sure her first kiss didn’t suck.

I was the one who had the real sex talk with her after my mom gave her the sanitized version.

I was the one who gave her the dirty books to learn all the best things.

And now I had to add this onto the heaping mountain of bullshit we kept peddling to the people in our lives.

Damn Beckett and his unwavering moral compass—Mr. We Can’t Act On It Because Lies Are Bad.

They were bad.

And with my little sister asking me perfectly reasonable questions, continuing those lies felt an awful lot like sucking on a rancid lemon.

“Greer,” Poppy repeated. “Are you even listening to me?”

“I’m listening. Just … thinking.” I blew out a sharp breath. “If it helps, I never pictured myself with someone like him either. Opposites attract and all that,” I answered, keeping my tone airy.

“But what’s helike? How did you guys even … I mean, I know about Olive. It’s admirable. But you must have had some magic juju happening between the two of you to get a guy like that to marry you so fast.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly.

“Oh come on, you have to admit it’s insane. You have always needed …” She stopped, searching for the right word. I found myself holding my breath until she did. “Fireworks. You’ve always needed fireworks.”

It was hard to swallow because she was right.

I had always needed those. Which is probably why my relationships tended to end with messy explosions that left a lot of collateral damage. Usually to me.

Now it was my turn to choose my words carefully. “There weren’t fireworks the night I met Beckett,” I told her. I glanced up at the ceiling, refusing to label the truth of what I was about to say for what it was. “But there was recognition. It was almost like”—I shook my head slightly—“like I knew something was very different about him. Even if I wasn’t sure what that thing was.”

My answer still left her wanting. “So we moved from recognition to insane chemistry to I could see us together but let’s speed this up for the sake of my child. In just a couple of weeks?”

I rubbed the back of my neck. “Yes?”

“Greer.”

“What do you want me to say, Poppy? I know how it sounds, trust me. But he’s just … he’s so earnest. He says what he means, and he’s not afraid of my crazy ideas, and he doesn’t try to make me be anything other than what I am.” I shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know what else you want me to tell you.”

That was also a lie.

Poppy wanted to know if my serious, quiet, earnest husband had a hidden dirty side. She wanted to know what feminine power I held in order to unlock it, and Iknewthat because I knew exactly what ran through her mind at all times.

But fucking A, I wanted to know if my husband had a dirty side too, and there was no way I could tell her that.

Her eyes were wide in her face. Pleading eyes. Begging eyes. Little sister ‘tell me all the things’ eyes. “If you’ve got magic moves, then you better share tips because someday I will have someone I want to use them on.” She paused. “Especially if they’re experienced, and I only know shitty and boring and forgettable.”

The light bulb went off over my head. Oh did that bitch go off in a major way. Warning sirens accompanied it, blaring and harsh.

I gave her a stern look. “Poppy, is this about Jax?”

“No.” But her face was bright red. “Or not exactly about him. I know he only looks at me like I’m an annoying little sister type, but he does …” She paused, searching for the right words. “Represent the dream.”

I studied her face. “What dream?” I asked softly.

Before she answered, Poppy took a long moment to stare down at her lap. When she glanced up, she focused on one of the framed pictures on her wall. Our parents, not long after they got married.

---