“And when you get up this morning, you’ll put on panties that say—”
“Thursday.”
He smiles, one of his rare ones. It takes over his entire face and enters his eyes. Again, it makes me think of things magic and rare—rainbows and four-leaf clovers and days when my entire class is painting in silence. And I wonder, have I found my own magic unicorn of a man who gets turned on by white cotton panties listing the day of the week?
“Do you always wear these?”
“I mean, no, not always. But if I start on Monday, I like to keep the streak going until Sunday. I’m a little superstitious about it, like it would be bad luck to just stop midweek.” I’m embarrassed now. “Is that weird? That’s weird, right? I’m sorry I’m a cotton brief kind of girl.”
“I’m not complaining, Poppy. Though I am wondering if you have cherry panties that matches your nightshirt.”
Now I smile widely. Because I do. I so do. Then it’s my turn to ask my own underwear-related question.
“You’re not wearing any, are you? Underwear, I mean.”
His smile turns sensual. “No.”
“Good,” I say and reach out to run my hand over his length and dip my hand into his pants. Feeling him bare, huge, hard, against my skin sends a wave of heat through me. I want him inside me.
He moans and rests his forehead against mine. “God, Poppy, you’re killing me.”
He slips a hand into my panties and strokes my aching center, teasing me.
“Same,” I say, desperate for him.
A cry from upstairs breaks through the quiet night.
Belle.We break apart guiltily.
“Shit,” he swears. “Shit.” He sits up, adjusting his pants and shirt.
A cry sounds again. Belle’s night terror must be back.
I kind of want to cry too.
“I’ll go.” His face is a mask.
I sit up, trying to break through the fog of lust, pulling my shirt down and wrapping my robe around me. “I can help.”
“No.” It comes out harshly. “I’ve got it,” he says, gentler now. “It’s safer for you to go back to your room.”
He leaves me like that, in the living room, body still pulsing from his hands and lips on me. And as the fog clears, I realize he isn’t coming back to continue this. Not tonight, at least. And I wonder if ever.
* * *
The next morning,I meet Conner at the now-vacant store on Main Street. Sadie joins us.
“Oh my God, Poppy. It’s perfect.”
“It is,” I agree. I can’t say anything else because Sadie is right. And if I weren’t dying for this property before, I am even more now. Because seeing it empty for the first time, I realize it has all the space I want. All the windows and high ceilings make it light and airy. There’s a room I could use for classes and events, and a separate area that could be set up as a gallery space and shop. The upstairs is even better than I could imagine, having been renovated with exposed brick walls and hardwood floors.
I’m dying to scream, “I’ll take it!” But I don’t. A lifetime of being told to be practical echoes in my brain.
Ever since middle school, I’ve done everything my parents expected of me.
I know I’m an adult. But as my sister pointed out, I haven’t exactly established full autonomy.
I try to think of WWRD.What would Ronan do?He lives his life on his own terms.
