She nods, tears shining but not falling. She looks relieved and happy.
“So,” I say lightly, because if I don’t make this funny, I might explode. “Are you gonna marry me, Poppy Grace Murphy, and make me the happiest man in the world?”
She snorts through her tears. “I’d love to get rid of the Murphy last name.”
“Me too,” I say. “I’m very excited to upgrade you. Although I’m not sure what kind of upgrade Kendrick is.”
She laughs, really laughs, and it’s my favorite sound in the world. “But I hate to leave Owen behind and not have his be the same as mine.”
Ours. I want to correct her, but I don’t. We’re still pretending, I remind myself.
“Okay, so we’re really doing this,” she says. “We’re getting pretend married.”
“We’re getting married.” I wink. “Don’t worry, I’ll wear something hot.”
“You always do,” she mutters.
I grin. “Poppy, are you flirting with your fiancé?”
She scoffs, trying to hide her grin. “No.”
“Kinda sounds like it,” I say, pulling her in close, loving the warmth of her and feel of her.
“Are you sure you’re okay with us moving in with you? That’s a big step,” she says as she bites her lip.
“Babe, we’re getting married. That’s a natural step after marriage,” I tease.
Her eyes soften when I call her babe, and I make note of that.
“Okay, then. I have to figure out how to get Owen on board. Should we tell him it’s pretend?”
“He’s on board with whatever,” I say. “He just needs to know the plan. We can be straight with him.”
She looks at me, worry flickering across her face. “What do we tell our friends?”
“What do you want to tell them?” I say softly, taking her hand in mine.
“I think we should tell them privately what we’re doing, butI think we need to act real with everyone else. We don’t know who turned me into CPS. And I think you’re right. If Monica gets wind that this isn’t real, she’s going to think we’re even more messed up and take Owen away,” she says, shaking her head.
“First off, we’re not messed up,” I say, cupping her chin. “We’re real. And we’ve always been there for each other and for Owen. That is real.”
She nods, her voice dropping. “How do we act in public? Are we supposed to kiss? What if it doesn’t look real?”
I smile, slow and knowing, letting my gaze linger on her mouth for a little too long. “Trust me,” I say quietly. “When we kiss, no one’s going to question whether it’s real.”
“Well, what if we kiss and it’s weird?” she says, quieter now. “Like it looks awkward and they think we’re bullshitting.”
My gaze drops to her mouth before I catch myself. I lift my eyes back to hers, voice low. “That’s what you’re worried about?”
She nods, swallowing. “Yeah. I want it to look real.”
I lean closer, close enough that the air between us changes. “It would,” I say softly. “Nothing about kissing you would be fake.”
Before she can think better of it, I kiss her, slowly and deliberate, like I’ve waited my whole life for this exact second. Because I have. My lips settle against hers, and she exhales into me, melting instantly, like her body’s been holding this in just as long as mine has.
She kisses me back, tentative at first, then her fingers curl into my shirt. I deepen the kiss, tilting her just right, my hand sliding to cradle the back of her neck as I take my time learning her. Every breathy soft sound she makes goes straight to my cock, and I have to work damn hard to regulate that because holy shit, I’m kissing Poppy.
I pull her closer until she’s straddling my lap, warm andgenuine and exactly where she belongs, my hands framing her face as the kiss turns slow and hungry and impossibly intimate.
