Rosaline picked at her own sandwich, tearing off a corner of the bread and popping it in her mouth, nibbling idly unlike Poppy, who had already devoured half her sandwich, hungrier than she’d even realized. “Cooking is...nota skill I possess,” she admitted with a wince. “Years ago, when Lyric moved in with me, I made—triedto make—this five-cheese lasagna I saw someone make on the Food Network. There may or may not have been a minor incident involving a small broiler fire that resulted in the fire department being called.” Her wince turned into a chagrined smile. “As Lyric loves to say, it’s safer for everyone if I just stick with takeout.”
The LAFD might beg to differ, but it was a travesty not to make use of a kitchen this gorgeous, with top-of-the-line appliances.
“And that was what? Eight? Nine years ago? Maybe it’s time to get back on the horse.”
“Implying I was ever on said horse to begin with.” Rosaline rolled her eyes and gave a self-effacing laugh. “Like I said, it’s simply not a skill I possess.”
She said it as if it were immutable: once a terrible cook, always a terrible cook.
“I started a kitchen fire once.”
Rosaline paused, hand hovering over her plate. She looked at Poppy curiously. “Is that why Curran got you the cooking lessons? Cheaper than a full-kitchen remodel?”
She huffed out a quiet laugh. “No, I was, uh, I was six at the time, I think. Maybe seven.”
Rosaline frowned. “And your parents were where exactly?”
“Out.” Poppy shrugged. “Some work dinner for my dad, I guess.” Time had blurred some edges of the memory and sharpened others, setting them in stark relief. She remembered the blue raspberry sucker the very kind fire captain had given her while they waited on the porch for her parents to return. How she’d been so confused when her dad had lied and said the sitter must’ve run to the store and left Poppy by herself. How later that night Mom had been hysterical, her voice shrill as she cried and demanded to know what in the world Poppy had been thinking using the stove when she knew good and well she wasn’t supposed to. That she could’ve burned down the house and what were they supposed to tell the neighbors who’d all seen the fire trucks parked out on the street? “My babysitter canceled last minute, and my parents figured I was old enough to stay home alone for a few hours. Which would’ve been fine had I not gotten hungry and tried to make myself mac ’n’ cheese. On the stove.” She cringed. “I forgot the water.”
She hated the way Rosaline looked at her, green eyes full of pity Poppy didn’t want, her lips parted like she didn’t quite knowwhat to say. It was just a stupid thing that had happened when she was a dumb kid. She knew how it sounded,bad, but it’s not like she was traumatized by it. She was fine. There was no use crying over burned macaroni from almost two decades ago.
“Poppy—”
“The silver lining was the fire department came to my school two weeks later for a safety demonstration—stop, drop, and roll and all that jazz—and it was the same firehouse that responded to the call at my house. The fire captain remembered me by name, and all my classmates thought it was the coolest thing ever. I was easily the most popular kid in class for the rest of the week.”
Rosaline’s expression settled into a scowl. “No offense, but I don’t think I like your parents very much.”
“They’re not bad people,” she stressed, not wanting to give the wrong idea. “They’re just—”
“Bad parents?” Rosaline arched a brow.
Poppy shrugged. “They were just done having kids by the time they had me.”
To hear the stories Dillon and Jessica, her brother and sister, told about their respective childhoods, someone would think they’d been raised by entirely different parents from Poppy. Parents who took them camping on the weekends and on fun family summer road trips down the Oregon coast and taught them how to ride their bikes and swim and helped them with their homework and went to all their soccer games.
Poppy had never gotten any of that.
Which was fine. So maybe on occasion they’d forgotten to sign her permission slips and pack her lunches, and maybe there hadn’t been any money left in the college savings account after Dillon got his master’s, meaning she’d had to take out student loans, but they’d never laid a hand on her, she’d never gone hungry, and herclothes were new and clean. And she’d always had Cash, first to run around the neighborhood with and later to whisk her away in his beat-up Honda Accord. Poppy’s childhood might not have been anything to write home about, but she’d turned out okay. Moderately well-adjusted, some might even say.
Rosaline’s face was pinched. “That’s no excuse to—”
“Let’s not talk about my parents.” Rosaline wasn’t her therapist; she didn’t want to hear about Poppy’swoe is mechildhood. It was depressing, too depressing for the casual relationship Rosaline was seeking. The one Poppy was determined not to ruin, especially not with her too-big feelings and not by talking about her parents, either.
Rosaline looked like she wanted to argue but instead dipped her chin in a reluctant nod. “So you can cook. Tell me, what other secret talents does Poppy Peterson possess that I don’t know about?”
“I’d hardly call it a talent,” she demurred. “The cooking classes did the heavy lifting, trust me.”
By nature, she wasn’t very talented. Hardly anything came easily or intuitively to her, but what she lacked in natural ability she made up for with a streak of stubbornness a mile wide, unable to take no for an answer, even when the call was coming from inside the house. When her own inaptitude was what held her back.
Rosaline rounded the counter and joined her at the bar, sliding onto the high-back barstool beside her. She turned, facing Poppy, one of her knees slotting between hers. “You should give yourself more credit.”
“You haven’t tried my food,” she joked.
Her hand found Poppy’s thigh and squeezed. “I wasn’t just talking about your cooking, Poppy.” Her gaze had softened, her voice too, and Poppy didn’t know what to do with the warmth unfurling inside her chest other than steadfastly ignore it.
“But maybe you can sometime.” Rosaline’s fingers toyed with the hem of the borrowed, oversize shirt that hit Poppy mid-thigh. Baby pink and with the name of a barre studio printed across the front, it smelled like the lavender sachets Rosaline kept in her dresser and a little like her perfume too.
“Maybe I can what?” she asked stupidly, not even sure what they were talking about anymore. Rosaline’s touch was distracting, the way her fingers brushed against Poppy’s thigh wreaking havoc on her ability to focus.
