7
Poppy Davies was doingher best to focus on the conversation at hand as she stood beneath a crystal chandelier hung from a rustic wood beam in the reception with Frankie, Zion, pop star Karina Black, and host ofHome Sweet HomeLauren Harrison-Stevens. Which, to be clear, was not a scenario teenage Poppyeverexpected to think about, let alone experience in real life.
Poppy grew up in Pine Ridge, only thirty miles from Hope Falls, Karina and Lauren’s hometown, but their orbits had never once crossed. She was a huge fan of both women, who were discussing the behind-the-scenes production secrets of Poppy’s favorite real estate reality show, and she should be sipping all the gossip tea as she enjoyed the last of her prosecco. Instead, Poppy’s attention kept tunneling away from the conversation, returning like a homing pigeon to one man, Adonis Josiah Costas.
She’d learned his full name from his aunt Joanna.Adonis, he actually was a Greek god.
Over the course of the evening, she’d heard people describe him as anti-social, but the man had been the bell of the freaking ball. Every time she’d turned around, he was speaking to a newgroup of people, he’d been on the dance floor with two aunts, one cousin, and his grandma. After hours of being coy, Poppy had marched herself over to get some answers from Frankie for herself and her brother Liam, who had been sulking all night. She’d asked Frankie what AJ’s deal was while also questioning her in regard to why Liam was walking around with a dark cloud over his head. Before she got any answers, Karina and Lauren joined their group, and she’d been left with curiosity blue balls.
Poppy discovered something about herself during the reception, her brother wasn’t the only Pinocchio in the family. At the beginning of the night, she’d told herself she’d be fine with a one-sided, unrequited crush. Well, she lied. That standard for happiness was way too low. She wanted more.
Every second that passed without an AJ encounter sent her deeper into the pit of disappointment. She’d pulled out every single tool in her flirting toolbox and failed miserably.
All night they’d been playing eye-contact tag from across the room. She’d gone with the modern twist on the old faithful drop-the-handkerchief technique: catch his gaze, hold it for three seconds, smile, and then look away. Textbook, baby. She couldn’t count how many times that silent mating ritual had taken place. If the handkerchiefs had been literal, the entire room would have been littered with them. People would be slipping and falling on their asses.
Like now, she sensed him staring at her. The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood, and she lifted her eyes in his direction, and sure enough, there he was, his gaze locked on hers from across the room. He stood next to his brother, both identically handsome, but he was about a half-inch taller than his twin, with a face that could sell high-end cologne or inspire bad poetry or ruin a person’s life. His athletic frame was draped in a suit that fit his broad shoulders like it had been tailored by God himself. He stood with a kind of contained authority in the way he heldhis posture, like he knew the secrets of the universe. With his IQ…maybe he did.
That was the thing about AJ, it wasn’t just his appearance, it was the aura. He had a way of looking at people like he saw them, like he saw her. And Poppy wanted—needed—that gaze focused solely on her, preferably naked.
Three, two, one. She tore her eyes away and forced them to return back to base, which consisted of Frankie, Zion, Lauren, and Karina.
Part of her just wanted to walk up and introduce herself, but something was holding her back. She knew that men wanted a chase. But maybe he didn’t. But if he were interested in her, he would have made that interest known. It was the whole he’s-just-not-that-into-you because if-he-wanted-to-he-would.
The voice she’d named Darla Delusion in her head was telling her that he was making his interest known. That the stolen glances were a game of seduction. That she could feel his attraction, but he just hadn’t made a move.
During Girl’s Night Out, Frankie mentioned that the twin who played professional baseball dated actresses, pop stars, and international models, and somehow the other twin pulled even hotter women than him. She’d said that women had always gone crazy for the strong, silent thing that he had going on. They thought he was mysterious, and they loved the challenge of being that special one to make him open up.
Upon reflection of that discussion, AJ’s actions this evening made more sense. She was not in the upper echelon baddie category of women. It’s not that she’d ever had low self-esteem. Far from it. She knew what she was bringing to the table. She was attractive, but more importantly, she was bright, funny, nurturing, loyal, hardworking, and honest.
She’d always prided herself on being “wifey material.” Every man she’d been with had said they saw her as the mother of theirchildren. That was what her diagnosis had taken from her. It had stolen her identity.
Which is probably why she’d been in hibernation. Where she used to be confident, self-assured, and bold. Tonight she was second-guessing herself, she was insecure, and she was timid.
Holy shit. Was this what her mother felt like with her father? Was this how he’d been able to breadcrumb her for over two decades? She promised herself she would never become like her. Never allow a man to be the center of her world, her worth, her happiness.
Obviously, this was just one night, it wasn’t significant, but it had to start somewhere, and she feared it was a slippery slope.
That sobering thought caused her to wrangle back her mind from the dark side of AJ’s inattention just in time that she barely registered the DJ announcing, “Single ladies, assemble on the dance floor!”
Even hearing the words, she hadn’t computed what was happening until Zion pointed at her and said, “You’re up, chickadee!”
Right. The bouquet toss. Poppy wasn’t exactly in the mood to stand in the middle of women jockeying to catch flowers thrown in the air, but she knew if she sat this out, there would be more questions. Questions she did not want to answer.
Don’t you want to get married someday?
Why aren’t you out there?
Is there someone special we don’t know about?
So she marched herself into the fray, determined to look like she cared enough to keep up pretenses. The ballroom pulsed with anticipation, women adjusting their hair, pretending, at least for one night, that flowers thrown by a bride could alter the trajectory of their romantic destinies.
Poppy was flanked by support with Jenna, Hope Falls’ hairstyling goddess and microblading maven, side-eyeing thecrowd like she was about to sprint the hundred-meter dash to her left. To her right, Tiana the yoga master was in the Zen-zone. Both women greeted her with hugs and knowing grins.
“These women look like they’ll play dirty,” Tiana whispered, eyes narrowed. “Watch for elbows. I’ve seen injuries from bouquet tosses that are worse than those from mosh pits.”
“Agree,” Jenna co-signed. “Head on a swivel, ladies. Head on a swivel.”
Poppy smiled, happy that her friends were making light of the tradition. They lined up in the second row, and Poppy took a step back, just close enough to be seen participating but out of the risk of black eyes. There were at least thirty women packed on the dance floor, all of them radiating a barely disguised competitive energy. The ages ranged from early twenties to sixties. Most wore game faces, some laughing.
