With any of the women I’ve dated, if you can call it that, I’ve never cared who they hook up with on the side. It never bothers me to think that they might have other people on the go. But for some reason, jealousy licks up my neck at the thought of Poppy juggling suitors.
I’m protective of her.
“I’m not,” she argues. “And I really can’t afford to be picky, anyway.”
“Don’t tell me you’re ready to settle.”
Relationships aren’tmything, so I really shouldn’t be one to give advice. I’m sure getting to spend the rest of your life with the love of your life is amazing.
Unfortunately, nothing lasts forever… All I saw growing up, after my mom passed, was how much losing her hurt everyone who loved her. Most of all, my dad.
But that doesn’t mean I can’t see the appeal in relationships for other people. Poppy is the kind of woman who deserves someone to love her for exactly who she is. Someone who will care for her, shoulder her burdens, take interest in everything she loves.
“I’ll settle for a man who’s willing to marry me in the next two months,” Poppy says with a wry laugh.
“Wow, two months. That’s…”
“Fast, I know.”
“I would have used ‘warp-speed’,” I joke. “What’s the rush?”
Poppy’s shoulders drop with a huff, her expression falling.
“I’m going to lose the café,” she admits.
I search her face for answers, to make sense of how her getting married has anything to do with the café.
“In order to transfer the deed, I have to be married. Some old, outdated law.”
“But your aunt wasn’t married…” I’m still trying to put the pieces together to figure out some way for Poppy to get around this.
“She was. Widowed young. Before I was even born. She didn’t talk about him much.”
Clearly, Poppy has looked at this from every angle, and the best solution she’s found is to get on Crush. Sift through the very limited dating pool in Heartwood.
“Let me see, then. I can help vet some of them for you.” I hold my hand out for her phone. For some reason, a deep urge propels me to see who she’s matching with, make sure they’re good for her.
“You don’t have to do that,” she protests.
“Give me your phone, Pops.”
She reluctantly reaches into a pocket on the side of her leggings and hands it over, flashing me a withering glare in the process. I open the Crush app and flip through some of the men that come up on the Home Screen.
Left, left, left. No, no, no.
God, these guys are losers. Assholes and losers left andright. Poppy’s gaze darts between my face and her phone screen.
“Well, you’re right.” I close the app and hand her phone back to her.
“About?”
“No good matches,” I answer. “None of these guys are good enough for you.”
“How can you tell that quickly?” She asks, snatching her phone back from me and scanning the bio I was reading.
“Oh, I can spot an asshole from a mile away.”
“But how? This guy looks perfectly fine to me.” Her big, brown doe eyes look back up at me. Her thick dark lashes are almost long enough that they brush her curtain bangs.
