Brookes: I fucking hate drama.
I take a deep breath, glancing around my tiny bedroom, the one place that’s all mine. My safe space. All I want is, one day, to be able to get the hell out of here, away from Simon and his bullshit, to know that despite everything, I made it on my own.
Me: Okay… I’ll do it.
Brookes: You sure?
Me: Yeah.
Brookes: I’ll have my manager draw up a contract.
Brookes: Baby
Puffing a big breath from my cheeks, I sag back against my pillows, trying so hard not to second guess my decision. Like Brookes said, this is a mutually beneficial agreement, and this just might help me reach my dream a little sooner than never.
CHAPTER 7
POPPY
As I follow the directions from Google Maps on my phone, I’m taken aback by the drastic change in scenery as I cross over the sound and onto the island. Pristine streets lined with pretty palm trees that climb high up into the cerulean sky, sprawling mansions locked away behind fancy wrought iron fences, and lush, green gardens. This is a whole other world than what I’m used to, and I am completely out of my depth. I do not belong here. My rusted blue Ford Focus with its missing hubcap certainly doesn’t belong here.
When I’m forced to stop at a big set of gates, a security guard waving at me to wind my window down, my breath hitches in my chest because… am I trespassing? Oh God. Am I going to be thrown in jail?
“Hello,” I say with a slightly wavering smile as my window glides down. When it shudders and then gets stuck halfway, my smile turns into more of a grimace. “Sorry… it’s… broken.”
“Name?” the security guard practically barks at me.
“Oh, I’m Poppy.” I’m smile again.
He deadpans. “Name of the person you’re here to see.”
“Oh…” I laugh nervously, but when he just blinks at me, not seeing the funny side, I clear my throat and square my shoulders. “Brookes Devereaux.”
The security guard stares at me, one brow slowly arching and when he doesn’t say anything, I realize he doesn’t believe me. And why would he? I’m sure I’m not the first woman who’s tried to lie her way in to get close to the sports star. I’m probably not even the first woman today.
“I have a meeting with him.” I glance at the time on the clock in my dash. “In, like, three minutes…”
“Stay here.” The man turns, and I watch as he walks into the gatehouse and picks up a corded telephone, his dark, no-bullshit gaze trained on me the entire time like I’m about to step on the gas and plough my Ford Focus straight through the three-inch-thick steel bars.
A few seconds later, I’m startled by the gates as they creak and groan, opening slowly. Glancing at the man, he waves a hand, indicating for me to drive and, at the risk of him changing his mind, I don’t hesitate, continuing in through the gates and gasping at the scene spread out in front of me.We are certainly not in Kansas City anymore, Poppy…
When I pull into the open gates of the address Brookes texted me earlier this morning, I’m not sure what to think as I navigate the driveway lined with perfectly manicured hedges and trees before coming to a stop outside a contemporary glass and concrete structure that looks more like some fancy modern art gallery than someone’s house.
A white Lamborghini SUV sits parked in the circular drive, a sporty black Porsche parked behind it and, quite frankly, I’m embarrassed to pull up to a stop anywhere near the display of luxury vehicles. But I do. I’m in no position to waste time; I start my shift at the club in an hour. I just hope my car doesn’t leak oil all over the pristine white concrete.
With a deep, fortifying breath, I smooth my hair and give myself a mental pep talk my mind doesn’t even listen to before hopping out of my shit box and walking in the direction of whatI assume is the front door; with these kinds of new architectural-style home designs, it’s hard to tell. I tug at the hem of my Vista Palms polo shirt, suddenly more self-conscious than I’ve ever felt before, which I hate. This is so not me. But, before I can talk myself out of it and run back to my car, I knock on the huge oak door and wait, nervously wringing my hands behind my back.
After a few long beats, the door edges open, but instead of Brookes, I’m met with an unfamiliar man dressed like he stepped straight out of the nineteen fifties, slicked back hair, a smarmy smile, predatory eyes. I’ve never met this man before, but he’s almost a carbon copy of the men I deal with on the course daily.
“You must be Poppy.” The man looks me up and down, blatant in his assessment. “Come on in.”
“Um, thanks.” I step over the threshold, trying to ignore the knot that balls in the pit of my stomach.
“I’m Blake Mestroni.” He holds out a hand. “Brookes’ agent.”
“Poppy… Crawford.” Tentatively, I shake his proffered hand, my gaze flitting about nervously, taking in the inside of the house. It’s all polished concrete, sleek stone and glass, and it screams expensive. Expensive but… sad, almost. No life whatsoever.
“Come on in, Poppy.” Blake turns and leads me down a wide corridor lined with very expensive-looking framed art that, at first glance, makes no sense to me whatsoever.
