Glancing back at Poppy again, I meet her eyes before looking out over the sea of people milling about the lobby, my brows knitting together when I turn back to the man. “My manager specifically requested a two-bedroom suite.”
The man’s gaze flits to Poppy, and he offers her the flash of a sympathetic smile. I know what he’s thinking, and I don’t like it one bit.
“I get up early on tournament days,” I say sternly by way of explanation, not that he or anyone deserves an explanation. “I-I don’t like to wake her.”
“Oh, I see.” The man nods slowly, looking down at the computer screen in front of him again and humming. “Ah, yes, I see it here. Two bedrooms.”
My shoulders sag with relief and I force a smile.
“It appears we received a call from your… personal assistant, two days ago… asking to change to one bedroom.” His eyes flits up, meeting mine.
“My personal—” I shake my head. “I don’thavea personal assistant.”
“Oh,” is all the man says. Then he shoots his gaze about the lobby, looking for what I have no idea. “Sir, I—” He snaps his mouth shut, pressing his lips together in a forced smile. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to do anything. We’re… we’re fully booked because of the—” He eyes me up and down. “Well, because of thetournament, sir.”
I square my shoulders with a heavy exhale, slapping my hand over the keycard that sits on the counter, my jaw clenching. “Right. Okay. This is… whatever. Thank you.”
Turning back to Poppy, she looks up at me through her lashes, and I’m forced to avert my eyes, because fuck, when she looks at me like that, I feel it both in my heart and in my dick, and if we’re about to be forced to share a goddamn bed for the next four nights, then I need to fucking cope.
“I can sleep on the couch,” she says softly.
I don’t respond because over my dead body is she sleeping on the goddamn couch. Tightening my hold on her hand, I allow security to escort us through the excited throng, groaning at whatever this shit show is and making a mental note to have Cam rent a goddamn house for the Open next month.
I glance at the time on my watch. We’re late. I don’t really give a shit about being late to the stupid sunset mixer the tour is throwing for the golfers and our significant others, but I’m hungry. And the sooner we get there, the sooner we can eat and come back home.
“Poppy?” I knock on the door to the bedroom, pressing my ear up against it. “You ready?”
There’s shuffling on the other side, followed by a string of muttered cusses. I bite back a smirk and take a step away from the door when I hear footfalls grow louder before it swings open. With a gasp, Poppy gapes up at me like she wasn’t expecting me to be standing right here, like a fucking weirdo.
“About time,” I mutter. “I’m fucking starving.”
She looks me up and down, arching a brow when her midnight gaze meets mine. “You literally just ate an entire bag of jerky from the mini bar.”
I hold my arms out at my sides. “Poppy, I am six feet, two inches and two hundred and thirty-five pounds of pure muscle. You really think a bag of jerky is going to curb my appetite?”
She rolls her eyes and mutters something unintelligible, brushing past me, and as I turn, I catch sight of what she’s wearing—a super short white sundress with skinny straps that shows off way too much of her smooth golden skin—and, like a jackass, I almost stumble over my own damn feet.
“Are you wearing a cardigan?”
Poppy pauses then, turning slowly to look at me, one of her eyebrows arching higher. “Acardigan?”
I nod. I’m pretty sure that’s what those things are called…
“Brookes, it is eighty-four degrees out.” She scoffs. “No, I’m not wearing acardigan.”
My gaze instinctually dips to her chest, to where those perfect fucking tits are practically spilling out. And, don’t get me wrong, I love tits. Huge fan, in fact. I’m the unofficial president of the tits and ass fan club. But Poppy’s tits and ass? For any of those fuckers tonight to gawk at? There’s a pounding deep in my gut, and it’s taking everything I have not to rip my shirt open and drape it over her.
Pink lips pursed together, Poppy looks up at me expectantly, placing a hand on her hip which only further accentuates her curves. “Do you have a problem with me wearing this dress, Brookes?”
“I-I mean…” I search for words that won’t result in a slap to myface, scratching a non-existent itch at the back of my neck. “It’s a little… short.”
Poppy’s eyes flare, and if looks could kill, I’d be a cindering pile of ashes on the floor right now. “Would you be saying that if I were a size four?”
“What?” I guffaw. “I-I… I don’t even know what that means! I just mean I….” I trail off, waving a hand to indicate her breasts, the same breasts that have been taunting my every lonely night.
Poppy glances down at herself, but instead of unabashed fury, when she looks back up at me, all I see is a teasing glint in her eyes.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Do mybreastsoffend you?” she asks, casually skimming a hand over the swell of her tits, my traitorous eyes following her every move because I’m just a pathetic male after all. Her hand skates downwards, trailing the hourglass dip of her waist and hips before landing on the short hem of that godforsaken dress and flipping it playfully, showing off the tops of her thick, juicy thighs.
