Even thinking about the split-second decision that took her mom’s life made Poppy’s old insecurities rear their ugly heads. She could still remember the grinding of the tires on asphalt, the sound of metal scraping metal, the feel of the car as it rolled over and over. It was the sensation of control being ripped not just from her, but the whole world. More than the sounds or the sensations or the smells—god,the smells—Poppy was haunted by the helplessness she felt in those moments. She’d spent an excruciating and helpless hour in the car while the first responders pried the doors open.
Along with the skin on her right arm, her heart had been singed, her outlook on life forever altered. In that moment, she promised herself that she would always be in control of every aspect of her life. It was crucial to her survival.
“I’ll only do it if I have your blessing,” Opal said.
What was Poppy supposed to say to that? How was she supposed to tell her aunt that she couldn’t sell her own home and travel the world the way she wanted to? Refurbished, this place would bring mid-seven figures. That was enough money to live a dozen lives. The selfish part of Poppy wanted to say no. But the rational part, the part of her who lived to please others said, “Maybe it is time to let another family enjoy the magic.”
Because that’s what this place was…
Magic.
4
“Can we talk about the giant censor tag in the room?” Poppy’s best friend and human wrecking-ball extraordinaire, Kiki Pham, asked.
They were sitting at a table in the garage-turned-woodshop, staring down at the floorplan for the new layout of Stark House. The furniture had been removed, the memories wiped away with a broom and washcloth. Poppy felt empty.
“What are you talking about?”
“This.”
Kiki handed over her phone and hit play. Poppy’s mouth fell open so far she could catch flies. Because there, playing in Technicolor, right below his signed jersey and next to a poster of the San Diego Saints, was a guy who looked a hell of a lot like Jamison, twisted like a pretzel around some woman, who was in a silver thong with “San Diego Saints” written across the ass, and he was in nothing but an FCC censor tag and his team hat.
She knew there had been a sex tape, but knowing about it and seeing it were two separate things.
Turning her attention back to the blueprints, Poppy said, “You know what they say about men with big censor tags?”
“They have big dicks?”
Poppy met her friend’s gaze dead in the eye. “They’re overcompensating for small appendages.”
Kiki snorted. “Okay, censor tag aside, did you see the way he sat on the barstool? He had to straddle the thing.” Kiki clucked her tongue. “I’m telling you, he’s got a hockey stick between those legs three rinks long. And he knows how to use it.”
“You got all that from how he sat?”
“You forget I took that Sexuality of the Human Body Language class.”
“You didn’t just take it. You took itthree times.”
“And got an A every single semester,” she said proudly. “I couldn’t help it that the TA liked to practice what he preached.” Kiki unwrapped a DumDum lollipop and stuck it in her mouth. “Aren’t you just the least bit interested? Because he most definitely was.”
Poppy’s stomach flipped like a dolphin playing in the waves. Unable to maintain focus on the task at hand, her eyes slid again to Kiki’s. “He was?”
She shoved the lollipop to the side of her cheek. “Oh yeah. He couldn’t keep his eyes off you. And the way he kept leaning closer, as if he was trying to inhale your every last pheromone? It was sexy as hell.”
Poppy chortled. “I didn’t shower before the date. He was probably smelling sawdust. As for the rest, he didn’t even know we were on a date. Heck, he didn’t even know my name.”
Poppy had been on a lot of embarrassing first dates in her lifetime. First there was the introvert who puked on her shoes when his nerves got the best of him. Then there was the guy who went on and on about how he couldn’t wait to introduce her to his best friend, Richard. Turned out Richard was his dick’s name and he got angry when Poppy refused to “shakehands” with him. Yet none of those compared to being on a date with a man who 1) didn’t know it was a date, 2) played along anyway, and 3) didn’t even know her name.
“Didn’t seem to matter to him. One look at you and he was interested.”
Poppy rolled her eyes and went back to studying her designs. “How do you even know this? You weren’t there.”
“The internet, obviously. You were being recorded by the public at large, remember?”
Poppy suddenly regretted that third cup of coffee she’d had that morning as it churned in her stomach, turning to raw acid. “My non-date date has been witnessed by thousands?”
“Oh, honey. We’re talking millions.”
