She pumps her fist in the air.
“You butchered the lyrics.”
“Who cares? I got the title and artist. That’s two points for me.” She makes a pair of tick marks with her finger against an imaginary board and looks all too pleased with herself. “This is a great song.” She juts her chin forward and back, enjoying it.
I’m convinced that Poppy has absolutely no idea how striking she is—not just physically, either, though she is that. I should know. Seeing her in a bathing suit last week. Having her in my arms—on a number of occasions—and the way her soft skin felt against my hands.
But more than her outward beauty, she’s a cool person. She’s delightful, the way she tells me things in such a whole-hearted way. How chatty she is. Her perpetual cheerfulness. I can’t help but feel like if I can be near her, some of that warmth will rub off on me and leave me better than I was before.
Holland’s got himself a real gem. I would feel guiltier about having these thoughts and feelings for Poppy if there was any chance that I was somehow luring her away from Holland.
She did me a favor when she likened me to an older brother. It had the effect of a cold shower. But—silver lining—it also took away any remorse I was feeling for spending time with her. She sees me as a friend and only a friend. There’s no reason for me to check myself around her. I can have fun, and be goofy, and do whatever I can to make her laugh and make her blush. The only collateral damage is to me and my heart. I can live with that. So we’re good.
“Oh! I know this one too. Michael Jackson!” Poppy plays the drum beat against the armrest as another song starts.
“Who would dance, if the girl’s on the run?” she belts out.
“That is not even—”
“‘Billy Jean!’” she yells.
“—close,” I finish.
“This is the moonwalk song.”
For a person who cannot string together accurate lyrics, she’s been dead on when it comes to title and artist. And she knows a surprising amount of music history. We’ve been playing this game for the past thirty minutes, en route to Green Bay, and Poppy is smoking.
I should say she’s smoking me.
I mean, she is smoking hot too. But we’ve been over this.
She’s in a great mood, likely because we’re on our way to pick up Holland from the airport. She hasn’t seen him in almost a month. Of course she’s happy.
Her phone chimes, and she stops drumming to pull it out from where she had it wedged under her leg.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her frown down at the screen.
She types something and clicks the screen to black, but she’s gripping it between her hands, not setting the phone back down.
“Everything okay?”
Her shoulders roll inward. “I think so. That was a message from Rose. She’s visiting Noli in Florida this weekend since I’ll be tied up with the wedding.”
I nod.
“Neither of us are huge fans of Noli’s live-in boyfriend. Rose got to their place and overheard them having a huge fight. She waited outside, and Nelson stormed off. He didn’t see her, but Noli was pretty upset when Rose went in.”
Poppy has completed deflated, and I hate it. “Anything we can do?”
Look at me, using the royalwewhen it comes to the Kasper sisters. I guess I’ve grown fond of them all. Mostly, I want to bring the light back to Poppy’s eyes.
“That’s sweet of you to ask, but I trust Rose to take care of it. She suggested to Noli that they check into a hotel for a spa weekend. They’ll be fine.”
She says this last line with authority—as if she can will it to be so.
I find myself wondering how many times in Poppy’s life she’s had to will things to go her way. I wouldn’t bet against her.
She clicks around on her phone again. “Looks like Holland’s flight is landing.”
