The door swings open, and Poppy’s standing there, grinning at me.
“Where I come from, people knock to be let in. I might have a ghoulish last name, but that doesn’t mean I have a sixth sense that tips me off to your arrival.”
“Uh, right.” I step back, letting her walk out onto the porch and motioning her to where my truck is parked on my half of the driveway.
She takes the steps off the porch but then stops and looks to me. She does a half spin this way and that. “Do I look okay?”
This feels like a trap. I don’t particularly want to focus on how she looks. She’s Holland’s girlfriend. I have been determinedlynotfocusing on how she looks—which, I might add, has been a feat. Poppy is not the type of woman a guy can easily ignore. She’s like sunshine. Unavoidable in her luster. I can hardly ignore her question, can I?
“I wasn’t sure what the dress code is for Sunday family dinner. I’ve never been,” she goes on. “To yours or anyone else’s. This is already weird with Holland not being here, right? I want to make a good first impression.”
She’s smiling, but I can tell by the way she’s shifting her weight between her feet that she’s anxious.
Idofeel for her. She’s right. This is a bizarre situation. Here she is, in a brand-new town, about to be introduced to her boyfriend’s family by me.
Her boyfriend’s brother.
I blow out a breath and give her a once-over, not letting my gaze linger on any area in particular for too long. She’s wearing one of those dresses that looks like it’s made out of a man’s button-up shirt. But it’s sleeveless. Her arms are toned and tan against the light-blue wash of the dress. She’s got her dark hair up in a ponytail. Loose strands fall on either side of her face, and she’s donned simple earrings that keep glinting in the late-afternoon light. Basically, she looks put together but not like she’s trying too hard.
She looks gorgeous, okay? Effortlessly elegant.
Dang it.
I don’t want to be thinking about how attractive Holland’s girlfriend is.
“You look fine,” I say, angling my body toward the truck. “We should go.”
“Right.” She nods, hops into the passenger seat, and gives my truck a once-over. “Thanks for the ride. Your parents live closer to the water, right? This place is so gorgeous.”
She chatters on as I make the quick drive through town. Cashmere Cove is split into an upper district and a lower district. The upper district is where many of the traditional neighborhoods are, like the one that houses my duplex as well as the day-to-day businesses like the Pick ‘n’ Save and a Walgreens. The lower district, all along the water, is comprised of the historic downtown strip, vacation rentals, area small businesses, and larger homes, including the house where I grew up.
“This whole town was snatched from the pages of a storybook.” Poppy’s head is almost hanging out the open window. “Look at these mansions! I can totally imagine who lives in that one!”
She points to a house with lavender siding and a black roof. “I bet it’s a single woman’s property. She’s wealthy and dignified. She’s made her millions in the perfume industry. And”—Poppy lifts a finger in the air as if a lightbulb went on in her brain—“there’s a man who has been begging her to marry him for the last twenty years. But she’s still in love with a young page she met in England when she was a teenager and worked as an underling at Jo Malone.”
“Jo Ma-who? What are you talking about?”
Poppy looks at me and laughs. “Sorry. I got caught up in the game.”
“Uh…” I’m at a bit of a loss. “Care to enlighten me?”
“An electrician joke. Nice.” She holds up a hand for a high-five, and when I just stare back at her, she slaps her own hand. “It’s a game I made it up for Rose and Noli, my sisters, when they were in high school. Our living circumstances were…not ideal. So we’d drive to ritzy neighborhoods, get out of our car, walk around, and imagine who lived in the houses.”
As I’m trying to wrap my brain around everything she’s said—and let’s face it, there has been a lot—she goes on. “So, am I close? Who lives there?”
“Ernest and Willow Dunlap. He comes from a long line of meat packers, and she’s one of our local librarians.”
Poppy bursts out laughing. “Not close, then.”
“No.”
I pull into my parents’ driveway, and Poppy gasps. “This is your family’s house?”
I glance up at the stately white siding and black shutters of the two-story house where I grew up. The green, striped lawn is meticulously kept, right down to the putting green my dad has been tending along the side yard ever since Holland showed true potential to be a legitimate golfer.
“Home sweet home.” I cut the ignition.
Poppy steps out of the truck and brushes down her dress. “Any advice?”
