A slow grin spreads across my face. “Well, congrats, bud. You were just dropped from the team.”
The asshole’s face falls, his brows tugging together with confusion, but instead of hanging around to explain to him that Bruce Wiley is a long-time member of the club, and that he owes me a huge favor after getting him and his kid tickets to the Championship last year after they sold out in seconds, I turn and collect Poppy’s things, and without another glance in his direction, I walk out with my grin lingering, my chin held high.
“What happened?” Poppy asks when I return, her gaze wide and full and concern. “Did he say anything?”
I shake my head, avoiding the question and instead loading the rest of her things into the trunk and closing it up. Then, I hand her the fob before I make my way to the passenger door.
“What is this?” Poppy asks, looking from the fob to me.
“Car key,” I say, confused by her question. “You’re driving.”
She eyes the Range Rover dubiously. “I can’t drive this. It’s too big and… expensive.”
“Well, you better get used to it; it’s your car now.”
She gapes at me. “But what about my?—”
“It’s handled,” is all I say, knowing she’s referring to her little blue shit box. I already have a tow truck booked for tomorrow to have it removed and stored—or crushed, I haven’t decided yet.
I hop into the car and wait, closing my eyes and leaning my head back against the leather headrest. Poppy climbs in, and I hear her get herself comfortable in the driver’s side, but then nothing. Confused, I open one eye and look at her.
“Are we gonna go or just sit here and wait to be carjacked?”
She glances at me, a sheepish look in her eyes as she holds the fob up and says, “I don’t know how to start it. Like, where does this even go?”
I close my eyes and stifle a groan. “Oh my God…”
CHAPTER 11
POPPY
This is apinch memoment. Standing here, in front of a wall of open pocket doors, the warm, salty breeze blowing in, the ocean glistening beneath the slowly setting sun reflecting fragments of amber and gold… I think I might actually be in heaven. Maybe I died without realizing.
Turning away from the spectacular view, I take in my bedroom. Again. Though, it’s hardly a bedroom; it’s a whole-ass suite, way bigger than the one-bedroom apartment I shared with Simon. There’s a separate living area with a corner sofa that looks out over the sprawling tropical vista, a coffee table with fresh flowers sitting in a vase, a huge television hung up on the wall that looks more like a pretty framed piece of art. A bed that looks as if it could fit a family of five with the plushest comforter I can’t wait to wrap myself in tonight. And the bathroom. Oh. My. God. The bathroom. It’s more like one of those expensive day spas rich people spend a lot of money at to get facials and massages and colon cleanses. I could get lost in the shower alone.
This has got to be heaven. Or a fever dream, at least. Either way, I might cry if I wake up.
After I finished putting my things away, which took nolonger than half an hour since I don’t have much at all, I took an extra-long shower, luxuriating beneath the multiple shower heads, and now, dressed in my oversized t-shirt and pajama shorts, I stand and admire the view a little more before it gets so dark out that the ocean starts to seep into the vastness of the inky night sky.
As if on cue, my stomach comes alive, rumbling to remind me that I haven’t eaten since the egg sandwich I had before I came over here to sign my contract earlier today. Wow. The last twenty-four hours has been a dizzying chain of events—new job, new (fake) boyfriend, and a new place to live all in a day. I need to remind myself to stop and catch a breath before I pass out.
When my stomach rumbles again, I look around for what, I don’t know. I have no food. Hell, I don’t even know where the closest Publix is to grab some groceries. Maybe I could DoorDash some food. I sure have more than enough money in my account since my first payment cleared today, which, by the way, made me scream; I’ve never had an account balance that required a comma before. But I don’t know how DoorDash works with this being a gated community and all.
I’ll just go out and get some water from the kitchen, fill my stomach that way, and then I can have an early night and maybe find a local grocer in the morning. I’m sure Brookes won’t mind if I stash some staples away in his sprawling kitchen.
Padding out of my room, which is on the other side of the house, I follow the wide corridor past the stairs that lead up to where I assume Brookes sleeps, following my nose to the big open living area where I stood earlier today and signed away my life, or at least the next few months of it.
The kitchen is thankfully empty, lit only by the dull glow of the lights under the overhead cabinets. The living room is dark, nothing but the moon and the garden lights outside shining in through the walls of glass.
With a relieved breath, I tiptoe into the kitchen, studying the cabinets, not sure where I might find a glass. I don’t know whereBrookes is. He might be upstairs. He might be out for all I know. Either way, I don’t really want to bother him for a glass, and I definitely don’t want to be rummaging through his kitchen. So, after checking the coast is clear, I move to the big sink in the island, flick the tap, and lean in, placing my lips just under the faucet and gulping a few big mouthfuls of water.
“What are you doing?”
Jumping at the sound of the low, gruff voice coming from behind me, I slap a hand over my mouth, stifling my scream. Spinning, I find Brookes leaning against the doorway, arms folded across his chest, one brow quirked, the hint of awhat-the-hellsmirk twitching at his lips.
I swipe at the water droplets that have spilled on my chin, trying to catch a breath and think of an excuse as to why I was just drinking directly from the faucet. How embarrassing.
“Not a fan of glassware?” Brookes says as he strolls casually into the kitchen, moving around me and pulling open the fridge.
