Brookes heaves a sigh. “Fine.”
I tamp down the bubble of laughter that threatens to explode out of me when I notice a familiar older lady sweep through the crowd making a beeline for Brookes, her eyes practically hearts. And, as if on cue, Brookes startles from the feel of a hand tapping his shoulder.
“Mrs. Varsey!” Brookes exclaims, his voice climbing a fewoctaves in pitch as he glances at me, a fearful look in his wide blue eyes when he realizes I just made that dare, knowing full well he was going to have to tell the wife of the owner of Vista Palms Country Club what color underpants he is or isn’t wearing.
“So good to see you here tonight, Brookes,” Mrs. Varsey practically gushes, smirking at me. “And I see you’ve brought the lovelyPoppywith you.”
I smile sweetly despite my gritted teeth, knowing full well this woman wouldn’t have the faintest clue who I was if I was still just a cart girl and not Brookes Devereaux’s quote-unquotegirlfriend.
“Yes, ma’am.” Brookes places his hand on the small of my back, pulling me closer.
“I might just have to start up some special dating service at the club,” she says with a grating laugh, nudging me playfully with her bony elbow. “Huh, Poppy?”
“Hi… Mrs. Varsey,” I say so sickeningly sweet, like this woman didn’t once demean me in front of a party of her haggard old ex-wives-club friends on the ninth green when I gave her a glass of Sauvignon Blanc, which she specifically asked for, instead of Chardonnay, which she apparently meant to ask for, not realizing that I don’t actually have the ability to read minds.
“Oh, I’ve heard a lot about you, Poppy.” Mrs. Varsey offers me a conspiratorial wink, as if she genuinely knows me, and it takes all I have not to roll my eyes, instead turning to look up at Brookes, arching an expectant brow when I see him side-eye me.
“Are y’all having a good night?” Mrs. Varsey asks, seemingly oblivious to my silence conversation with Brookes.
Brookes nods. “Yes, ma’am. It’s a… wonderful event.”
I grin, making a point of clearing my throat, which earns me a playful pinch to my side that causes me to jump and stifle a squeal. I purposely nudge Brookes with my hip, and his gritted grin widens.
“Such a tremendous cause, too,” Mrs. Varsey adds.
“Yes, absolutely,” Brookes agrees. “In fact, I’m… wearing my favorite pair of blue underwear to… celebrate the… occasion.”
Mrs. Varsey blinks, her smile faltering momentarily as she’s trying to figure out whether she just heard him correctly, and a loud barking laugh escapes me before I can slap a hand over my mouth to stop it. I’m forced to turn my head, burying into Brookes’ side in an attempt to compose myself, my shoulders trembling with the laughter I’m trying so hard to control.
When Mrs. Varsey says a quick and awkward goodbye, I’m still looking down at the floor, stifling my giggles when I feel Brookes’ lips graze my ear, his warm breath fanning against my skin as he murmurs, “Satisfied?”
Clearing my throat, I do all I can to ignore the way my body reacts to his closeness, the way his spicy scent curls around me. Forcing my head up, I meet his intense gaze, biting back my smile with a nod. “Good job.”
“Careful, Pops,” Brookes suddenly says, his tone laced with warning. The veil of indifference he wears so well is back, masking his face, and as he takes my hand in his, leading us back through the crowd, he doesn’t look at me as he says—quiet enough so only I can hear him—“Two can play at this game…”
The rest of the night goes by without issue.
I could tell the moment Brookes was done giving his speech, he was starting to retract back into his shell, and although I can see he tries so hard to play the part of the perfect celebrity, it takes its toll on him. So, I squeezed his hand after he was done taking a selfie with yet another guest-slash-fanboy, and when he glanced at me, I said the word. Megalodon. And, with a relieved smile, he squeezed my hand right back, and we left.
Now, after a late night Chick-fil-A run where the teenage boys who were working in the kitchen practically hung out ofthe drive-thru window, salivating over Brookes’ Ferrari, we pull into the six-car garage, between my designated Range Rover and Brookes’ vintage Ford Bronco, and silence settles between us with nothing but the ticking of the cooling engine to fill the void.
“Tonight was fun,” I finally say, breaking the silence.
Brookes sniffs a laugh. “I mean, I wouldn’t go that far, but…” He glances at me, his blue eyes twinkling beneath the muted glow of the dim garage light. “It was… tolerable.”
I smile at him, something unexpected passing between us. At least, I think it does. I can’t be sure. But there’s definitely something there in his eyes when they momentarily dip down to my lips, the air in the car between us turning thick with something I don’t necessarily hate.
“Well, goodnight,” I practically squeak, quickly unfastening my seatbelt and turning to get the hell out of this car before I do something stupid.
“Hey, Poppy?”
I pause, a thick swallow working its way down my throat before I turn back to Brookes to find his intense gaze fixed on me.
“What’s up?” God, my voice is so high.
“I realize I never told you—” He hesitates, rolling his lips together.
My brow furrows. “Told me what?”
