I don’t want her to ever leave us.
“My family is religious and practically force it on me. The tattoo was more of a rebellious streak I had in college.” She looks down at her hip, lifting the hem of the shirt and grinning at the cross wrapped in rose vines inked there. “Josh hated it, and so would my parents.”
“I love it,” I reply, looking to Vance who nods in agreement, swiping a hand across his mouth to clean it.
“What about you? I didn’t notice any tattoos, Tristan.” She says it as a question. She must’ve noticed the scars on my thighs and back especially when she touched them earlier.
“None I chose.” I get to my feet and clear our plates.
“Let me help.” She jumps to her feet, grabbing our cups and helping me in the kitchen. Usually, our housekeeper would dothe cleaning for us, but Vance gave her the week off. Christmas is in five days, and she likes to travel to be with her family.
After loading our dishes into the dishwasher, Poppy stands beside me, playing with the hem of the shirt she’s wearing. Vance has taken his bottle of whisky to the couch where he’s flicking through channels, the hue from the TV casting him in a blue glow that seems to have Poppy captivated.
“I wanted to thank you again,” she murmurs quietly.
“For making you come?” I pause my loading, dodging her when she swipes out a hand to hit me.
“Well, yes. But I was referring to you allowing me to stay for a few days. I’ll have to go back to the apartment soon to pack my things, plan my next step.” She looks down at her feet, flexing her toes that are painted cherry red like her fingernails. My heartbeat roars in my chest cavity at the thought of her going anywhere.
Clearing my throat, I will myself not to make my next words sound like a command. “We can go with you to collect your belongings. You’ll stay with us, spend Christmas here.”
She blinks up at me. “Are you sure?” Before I can respond, her head moves to look over at Vance. “I don’t want to ruin any plans you guys have. But if you’re sure you don’t mind, it’ll only be until I can get a flight back home.”
She is home—I don’t say that though. Truth is, I could charter her a plane to get her home, but I’m selfish and want to keep her. Instead, I push a strand of hair behind her ear, “I’ve never been surer. Now come, let’s watch a movie with Vance.”
Vance grabs Poppy’s wrist when she moves past him on the couch, dragging her squealing body onto his lap. I take the seat at the other end, my heart stuttering when she shifts off his lap and lays her head there instead, spreading her legs until her feet move onto my lap.
This must be what it feels like to have a family.
ELEVEN
Poppy
The shower in Tristan and Vance’s apartment is unbelievable. There are eight heads, hitting every part of my body all at once. Josh’s and my shower always splutters and chokes. I have to hit it a few times just to get it to pump out enough water to rinse the soap from my hair.
The bathroom door opens, but with all the steam, I can’t see who has come inside until Tristan’s large frame closes in behind me, causing my pulse to spike.
I sometimes still wonder if I took a harder fall that day at the office and this has all been a coma dream. If it is, I don’t want to wake up.
Large palms roam down my arms, and I sigh, leaning into his touch. When he takes a bottle of body wash from the shelf, I don’t inform him that I’ve already washed and was about to get out.
Shifting me out of the spray of the shower heads, he begins rubbing the fruity-scented gel into my skin. It’s an expensive product I can’t usually afford. Focusing on the way his hands slip and slide over my skin, I try not to let my thoughts wander to why he has all these female products on hand.
When Vance brought me a whole bundle of items the first night I came here, I wanted to ask if they belonged to an ex, but I didn’t want to sound jealous or rude. I concluded that they must have family who comes to stay and simply keep a supply on hand.
“What are you thinking about, Poppy?” The timber of his voice vibrates against my back.
Shifting me to face him, he drops to one knee and lifts my foot to place it on his quad, lathering the soap up my calf, knee, and thigh. I clench my stomach muscles and try not to moan when his fingers brush my pussy lips.
“I was thinking about how well you’ve treated me.” I bite my lip when I look down at him, kneeling before me, a god at my feet. “How grateful I am.”
“You deserve nothing less.” He replaces my foot with the other, repeating the cleaning process. “And I’m the one who’s grateful to get to worship you.”
He focuses on my tattoo, I sweep my thumb over the small scar under his eye, he kisses my wrist, and I swallow the emotion clogging my throat at the prospect of someone inflicting all his scars. “I hate that someone hurt you.” My voice is barely above a whisper.
Looking up at me, he kisses my inner thigh. “They’re dead. Do my scars define me?”
“No,” a whisper escapes my lips. “They show your strength, your defiance against breaking.” My hands cradle his neck. “They’re beautiful silver lines of survival, detailing everything you’ve overcome to be here.”
