My grandmother materializes like a demon summoned by impure thoughts. Perfect timing, as always. I tear my gaze away from Poppy, blinking hard to refocus.
“Grandmother.” I accept her air kisses while trying not to look at Poppy. I fail. She’s across the room now, but I catch her profile, the curve of her neck.
“I was just telling your mother how thin you look. Are you eating?”
“Yes.” My voice sounds distant to my own ears.
“Properly? Not just those horrible protein bars?”
“I eat fine.” I take a sip of whiskey, the burn grounding me.
Poppy’s across the room now, checking something with the restaurant manager. She wears a professional smile, but I can see the tension in her shoulders and the way she’s gripping her clipboard like a lifeline, holding herself together by sheer force of will.
“—listening to me?”
I blink, realizing my grandmother has been talking. “What?”
Her eyes narrow as she follows my line of sight. “I asked if you’re seeing anyone.”
“No.” The answer is automatic, but something in my chest tightens as I say it.
“What about that lovely girl from the club? Patricia’s daughter?”
“Married. To a woman.” I drain the rest of my whiskey.
“Oh.” She sniffs, her lips pursing. “Well, surely there’s someone—”
“Excuse me.” I abandon her mid-sentence because Poppy’s got that look—the one that means something’s wrong, and she’s about to handle it alone. It makes my feet move before my brain catches up.
She’s in the corner with the restaurant manager, her voice low but her body language screaming stress. Her shoulders are hiked up near her ears, and her knuckles are white around her clipboard.
“—understand, but we specifically requested—”
“What’s the problem?” I interrupt, stepping into her space.
She glances at me, and for a second, her professional mask slips. I see exhaustion and frustration underneath. “Nothing. Just a small mix-up with the—”
“Poppy,” I warn, not afraid to use my lawyer voice on her.
She looks down at her heels, biting her bottom lip, then back up at me. “They, uh, gave away our private room.”
Heat floods through me, sharp and immediate. “Double-booked,” the manager says helpfully, tugging at his collar.
“You double-booked the rehearsal dinner?” My voice drops to that dangerous quiet that makes junior associates sweat.
The manager shifts his weight, avoiding eye contact. “There was a miscommunication—”
“Fix it.”
“Sir, I—”
“Fix. It.” I use my lawyer voice—the one that makes opposing counsel sweat. I step closer, and he actually backs up. “Or I’ll have my entire law firm here Monday morning going through your contracts with a microscope.”
He pales, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Let me… see what I can do.”
He scurries off. Poppy stares at me, her lips parted slightly.
“You didn’t have to—”
