Just… winks. Like we’re sharing a secret. Which I guess we are. Like that kiss never happened, and also like it’s all she can think about.
Damn it.
The dinner drags on—speeches about love, commitment, and forever. All the things I used to believe in before I learned better. Each speech feels like a knife between my ribs, a reminder of what I lost, what I gave up on.
By the time the evening winds down, I’ve had enough. Enough of watching Poppy run herself ragged. Enough of family members asking about my love life. Enough of pretending I don’t notice every time she tucks her hair behind her ear, every time she laughs, every time she moves.
I find her on the restaurant’s back patio, finally alone, shoes off, rubbing her feet with a grimace.
“Those look painful.”
She doesn’t look up, fingers digging into her arch. “Beauty is pain.”
“Beauty is stupid if it cripples you.” I lean against the doorframe, watching her.
“Spoken like someone who’s never worn heels.” But there’s no heat in her tone.
“You’ve got me there.”
She almost smiles. Almost. The corner of her mouth quirks up, then falls.
I lean against the railing, close enough to see the exhaustion around her eyes. “You haven’t eaten.”
“I’ve been busy.” She continues rubbing her foot, avoiding my gaze.
“You’re always busy.”
“Yeah, well.” She shrugs, her shoulders tight. “That’s the job.”
“The job is planning weddings, not martyring yourself.” The words come out sharper than I intend.
Her head snaps up, eyes flashing. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“I’m not martyring—” Color rises in her cheeks.
“When’s the last time you ate a full meal? Slept eight hours? Took a break that wasn’t forced on you by someone else?”
She stands, though I can tell her feet are killing her. She sways slightly, catching herself on the railing. “Why do you care?”
“Why don’t you?” I take a step closer.
“Because I have a wedding to pull off. Because this matters. Because if I stop for five seconds—” She cuts herself off, jaw clenching.
“What? What happens if you stop?”
“Nothing. Forget it.” She grabs her shoes, clutching them to her chest like armor.
“Poppy—”
“No.” Her voice cracks slightly. “You don’t get to do this. Swoop in and act concerned when it’s convenient.”
“Convenient? You think any of this is convenient for me?” I laugh, the sound bitter. Meeting Poppy Monroe might be the least convenient thing that’s ever happened to me.
“Then why are you here?” She’s breathing hard now, her chest rising and falling.
Good question. Why am I here? Why do I care if she’s eating? Why does watching her hurt herself make me want to shake her and hold her at the same time?
