by Emma Hart
“Very well, very well. Cash, I can do.” He waved me into the main office. There was a small safe in the corner, and I raised my eyebrows as he prodded in a code.
That didn’t seem very safe to me, but what did I know?
I just wanted my money back.
I waited patiently for him to count out three hundred dollars and secure it in a brown envelope.
Why the hell did I feel like I was executing a drug deal?
“Thank you,” I said, taking the envelope. “Can you have someone come out with some crates? My car is full.”
“Of course. Ten minutes.” He nodded, signaling that I should leave.
I did just that and almost walked right into Adam.
“Whoa, Red. Careful.” He touched my arms and looked down at me with a smile. “Where’ve you been? Drug deal?”
“Shit. You caught me.” I rolled my eyes. “No, I had to go on a mission. Walk to my car with me?” I started walking before he could say no.
“Like a secret mission?” he asked, catching up with me.
“I wish. It would have been more fun with a cape and a mask.” I sighed. “Remember how I fake-remembered to help Rosie earlier?”
He side-eyed me. “Oh, that was fake? I couldn’t tell.”
I nudged him with my elbow. “Well, turned out, there was a real issue. The hotel has run out of chicken.”
“How does a hotel run out of chicken?”
“Something to do with a supplier. Anyway, I sent Rosie to bed because she was this close to having a heart attack.” I pinched my finger and thumb together to show him just how close. “And the guy tells me they are also about to run out of strawberries.”
Adam rubbed his hand over his stubbled jaw. “I think I can see where this is going.”
“Right. So, I told him he had until I got back to find a new chicken supplier and get it here first thing tomorrow morning, and I’d go on a strawberry hunt.”
“Don’t say it.”
“Yep. I’ve spent the last hour or so looking like a crazy woman, and…” I unlocked my car and popped the trunk. “Voila. If you need strawberries in Key West, you’re shit outta luck, because I bought them all.”
“How many strawberries do you need?”
“Three hundred dollars’ worth.”
“Are you serious?”
I turned to face him. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
“No. I’m just wondering why the hell three hundred dollars’ worth of strawberries is necessary.”
Leaning against the side of my car, I said, “Because I’m petty as fuck, and they needed a lesson taught to them.”
“That…weirdly makes sense to me. I can see my sisters doing the same thing to me one day.”
I grinned. “Then don’t make this mistake.”
“Noted. Are they coming to get them?”
“No, they’re staying in my car until they’re ready for them.”
“Poppy.” He drew closer to me, cupping my chin. His thumb stroked the curve of my lower lip as he dipped his head, bringing his mouth closer to mine. “Stop running your mouth.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’ll make you.”
“You can try.”
In hindsight, challenging him like that was a bad idea.
Gripping my hip, he pulled me right against him, bringing his lips to mine for God knows how many times today. I didn’t care—kissing him was like flying. Everything else melted away when Adam held my body against his and our lips came together.
He cupped the back of my neck, his other arm clamping around my lower back. My hands fisted in his shirt, grabbing the collar of the polo as I leaned into him.
Something inside me—my heart, my soul, whatever—sighed. And no part of me had any business sighing at anything when he kissed me.
Some kisses were fairytale ones. Heart-thumping, foot-popping, soul-sighing kisses.
I’d always imagined mine would on a first date or under a sunset or after the ‘L’ word.
But, no. My fairytale kiss, my heart-thumping, foot-popping, soul-sighing kiss, was standing in a parking lot next to a car full of three hundred dollars’ worth of strawberries, with a guy who was kissing me to shut my smartass mouth up.
I didn’t want to think about how much more appropriate that was for me than something romantic.
A throat cleared behind us, and before I’d even turned, my cheeks were burning.
The young guy who’d obviously cleared his throat shifted. “The, uh—Mr. Smith sent us to get the strawberries.”
I swallowed, stepping away from Adam. “Right there. Please take them before they get fried.”
Adam covered his mouth with his hand, dipping his head. His shoulders gave away his light chuckle, and I jabbed him with my elbow.
That was all his fault.
We waited in silence until the team of porters had moved all the strawberries into crates and into their wheelie-things. It took them a good fifteen minutes, and I hoped like hell they had a decent fridge to keep them cool.
They thanked me and left. I slammed the trunk shut and locked my car, the beep sounding extra loud in the silence of the parking lot.
“That was awkward,” Adam announced, grinning.
“Story of my life,” I muttered, stuffing my keys into my ass pocket. “Did Mark find you earlier?”
He nodded. “Rory talked my ear off for forty-five minutes before Mark finally convinced him to get ice cream.”
“He picked you over ice cream?” I raised my eyebrows. “Wow. He must really love you.”
Shifting, he answered, “Yeah, I sometimes have that effect on kids.”
“Aw, now what’s awkward?”
“I just… Yeah.” He rolled his shoulder, reaching behind to rub the back of his neck. A tiny smile played on his lips. “I don’t see myself the way Rory does. I just play hockey ‘cause I love it, Red. I don’t do it to be some kind of superhero.”
“It just comes with the territory, right?” I leaned back against the car.
“Sometimes. I still don’t believe I’m a hero.”
“Tell that to my dad.”
“Exactly my point.”
I smiled at him. I couldn’t pretend to get it, because I didn’t. I would never understand how he viewed his world because it was so very different from mine. Sure, I didn’t care about what he was.
I had no reason to care. Not really. Not personally.
“All right. Enough of that.” He clapped his hands and wiped them on his shorts. “What time is the dinner tonight?”
“Six-thirty. So I need to be there for at least five-thirty.”
He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “All right…So, what you’re saying is we have time to go up to our room and finish what we started earlier.”
“No. I have to find the wedding planner since my sister is drugged and asleep.”
Adam looked at me, face void of all expression. “If I hadn’t seen her so anxious this morning, that would seriously concern me.”
“You’re not concerned?”
“No.”
“Good. Now, how do you feel about serial killers?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder as I walked away.
“Documentaries or being friends with them?”
“You know a serial killer?” Oh, man, I sounded way too excited.
He drew level with me and frowned. “Pretty sure a guy I went to school with killed three or four people when he was in college.”
I grabbed his arm, stopping us both in the middle of the parking lot. “Oh my God. Tell me everything.”
“Of course,” he muttered, sliding my hand down to his. “Most girls want me for my money, but you’re interested because I know a serial killer.”
“Not true. I was originally interested because you were hot. Now, I’m interested because you know a serial killer.”
He linked his fingers through mine and sighed. “All right. Get this wedding planner stuff out of the way—because that will t
ake forever—then I’ll tell you about him.”
“That’s the sexiest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
CHAPTER TWELVE – POPPY
Sex and Serial Killers
“So, he posed as a handyman and killed them?”
Adam nodded. “I think so. That’s what I remember, anyway. He got caught when he was on campus and posed as the handyman there. He didn’t realize the girl’s roommate was in, too, and he got caught. I’m pretty sure she hit him over the head with a lamp.”
I snorted, my cold water going up my nose. “I’m sorry—it’s not funny, but that’s just the lamp thing is why I keep a lamp by the side of my bed.”
“In case someone tries to murder you in your sleep?”
“No, in case a stranger wants to spoon.”
“A lamp wouldn’t be much good if they want to shoot you,” Adam pointed out. “Unless it’s bulletproof and they shoot at the lamp.”
“Well, yeah, but—” I didn’t actually have a response for that. “Shut up.”
Oh, look. I did.
He laughed, finishing his ice water.
“I don’t need a babysitter, Miranda. I’m perfectly capable of finding the bar on my own,” came my grandfather’s rough tones from the other side of the restaurant.
“That’s exactly why I’m here, Dad. To stop you from finding it!” Mom replied through what sounded like gritted teeth.
“Oh no,” I whispered.
Adam glanced over. “Your grandpa?”
I nodded.
“Too late!” He cackled. The clonk-clonk of his stick against the floor had me sitting up straight. “Pop-pop!”
Oh, no.
Adam stifled a laugh.
I didn’t stifle a glare.
“Grandpa. I see you made it here in one piece.” I hopped off the stool and kissed his old, wrinkled cheek.
“No thanks to your parents,” he mumbled, resting his cane against the bar and hauling himself onto the stool I’d just vacated.
Adam slipped off his and motioned for me to take his. I waved him away, but he pushed me to it, so I had no choice.
“I like him,” Grandpa said. “He’s got manners.”
“Unlike you,” Mom said, finally catching up with the wily old man. “Stealing your granddaughter’s seat!”
“She got up for me. Isn’t that right, Pop-pop?” He winked at me.
I shrugged a shoulder as I sat on Adam’s stool. “Sure. We can go with that.”
“Introduce me to your friend,” Grandpa demanded. “I’m Grandpa.” He stuck out his age-spotted hand.
“Adam,” Adam replied, shaking it.
“And he’s her boyfriend,” Mom interjected.
Give me strength. Or vodka.
They were the same thing, right?
Grandpa’s eyes narrowed, and he stared intently at Adam. “I know you from somewhere.”
Here we go again.
“Do you report the news?” he asked.
Adam shook his head. “No, sir. I play hockey.”
“Hockey?” Grandpa looked him up and down. “I don’t believe you.”
This was going well.
“Are you sure?” he continued.
“Yes, sir,” Adam replied. “I play for the Orlando Storms.”
Grandpa pinched the arm of his glasses and peered at Adam over them. “Didn’t they win the Jeremy Cup this year?”
“The Stanley Cup, sir.”
“Why do you keep calling me sir? I’m not a knight.”
Help. Help. Is there an escape route?
Mom clearly felt the same because she pinched the bridge of her nose.
“I was just being polite,” Adam said.
Grandpa barked a laugh and pointed at him. “I know! I’m fucking with you!”
“Oh, Jesus,” Mom muttered.
“What does an old man need to do to get a drink around here?” Grandpa leaned right onto the bar. “Hellloooo?”
Mom stepped forward and pulled him away. “Dad, no. You’re not drinking alcohol.”
“I just want a coffee!”
“Then we’ll go to the on-site coffee shop,” she replied.
“No, no,” he said. “Hello, my fine lady! I’d like a Bloody Mary, please!”
“He’ll have it without the Mary,” Mom said quickly. “Virgin. No alcohol.”
Grandpa rolled his eyes and looked at Adam. “You see this shit, boy? I raised her. Wiped her little ass when she was a baby.”
“Dad!”
“Didn’t say a thing when I put her bras in the laundry. Didn’t shoot any boyfriends in high school. I was the model father, and here I am, in my old age, and I can’t even get a Bloody Mary!”
“I’m not putting up with this today. I have to handle last minute things for dinner tonight. Poppy, you’ll have to deal with your grandfather.” Mom patted my shoulder and turned away.
I sputtered. “Wait. What? No, Mom!” I ran the few steps to her. “No, Mom. I’m not doing it. I’ve dealt with two meltdowns from Rosie, kept you out of the way at lunch, drugged Rosie, argued with a man about a lack of chicken, and driven all over the Key for fucking strawberries. I’m not babysitting, too!”
Sighing as if she knew all of that, she patted my hand and extracted it from her arm. “Honey, I have things to do.”
“So do I! If I’m late for dinner, Rosie’s going to kill me!”
“I simply have to be on time. I don’t have the time to make sure he controls himself.”
“Fine.” I jabbed my finger at her. “But when I’m not there at five-thirty, I’m blaming you.”
She said nothing. She turned, and in typical Mom fashion, disappeared out of the bar.
Of course, she did. I should have known that I’d be stuck babysitting at one point this weekend. Grandpa—God love his soul—was one hell of a man, but he was also at the age where he believed he could get away with anything.
Unfortunately for him, he still had a few too many of his faculties about him for that just yet. Maybe in five years, but for now… No.
“Okay?” Adam asked, looking at me with concern as I rejoined them at the bar.
“Fine.” I gave him a tight smile and turned to the girl behind the bar. “Can I have a vodka with cranberry juice, please?”
“Sure.” She turned to do that, and I sat down on the stool.
“Psst, Pop-pop,” Grandpa whispered, holding up his hand. “This is both Bloody and Mary.”
Awesome.
“And I still don’t believe your boyfriend plays hockey. He’s too skinny for that,” he continued. “Aren’t they big old bastards who tackle you down?”
I rubbed two fingers against my temple. “You’re thinking of football, Grandpa.”
He narrowed his eyes and looked away. “Nope. I’m thinking of hockey.”
“You’re thinking of football,” I repeated.
Not to mention there was nothing skinny about Adam. Not his arms. Not his legs. Not his waist. Not his cock. Nothing.
Not even his pinky finger.
Adam leaned into me and wrapped an arm around my waist. Warmth spread through me where his thumb slipped beneath the hem of my shirt and drew tiny circles on my skin.
“Are you sure?” Grandpa asked, a twinkle in his eye.
I took the vodka-cranberry from the bartender with a grateful smile. “I’m sure.” Then I wrapped my lips around the straw and I drink-drink-drinked.
Drank? Drunk?
You know, I didn’t care. I didn’t need to be grammatically correct inside my head.
I needed to be drunk, though. I knew that much.
“So, son. You play hockey. You ever won anything?” Grandpa asked Adam.
He glanced at me, hiding a smile. “Yes, sir. The Stanley Cup went to my team this year.”
“What’s that? The World Cup of hockey?”
Adam paused for a second. “I guess that’s one way of looking at it.”
“You won a gold medal?”
“Ah, no. May
be one day.”
“Then it ain’t the World Cup of hockey, is it?”
“Grandpa, hockey doesn’t have a World Cup. That’s soccer.” I put my glass down.
“Well,” Adam said slowly. “Technically, there is a Hockey World Cup, but it’s field hockey. Not ice hockey.”
I picked my glass back up and pinched the straw, looking at him. “There’s more than one type of hockey?”
“There’s more than one type of football, depending who you ask,” Grandpa offered.
“Yes. There’s American football where you use your hands, then soccer football where they use their feet,” I muttered, drinking again.
One of these wasn’t going to be enough, was it?
“Oh, enough. I know what hockey and football and soccer are,” Grandpa says. “I also know who your boyfriend is. He plays hockey for the Orlando Storms.”
“He told you that!”
“So? I still know!” He stuck his tongue out at me. “Adam, son, let me tell you about the time I was stationed in the Netherlands with the Army.”
Jesus, no.
No.
No.
Nobody needed these stories.
Grandpa clutched his glass of Bloody Mary and leaned toward him. “Are you familiar with the Red Light District?”
I waved to the barmaid and, ignoring the straw, swallowed the last of my vodka. “Can I get another? Please?”
“I have,” Adam said warily.
“Well, do I have a story for you. It was back in, oh, I don’t remember, but there was this lady. Hot as a heatwave in Florida,” Grandpa said. “And she came to us and she said, “Fellas, I’ve got a treat for you!” We were young and thought she meant a damn beer or something, so we followed her and—”
“Thank you!” I exclaimed to the girl who put the drink in front of me.
Adam squeezed my hip.
I drank.
And Grandpa?
He carried on telling the story of how he and his friends got lured to a brothel in Amsterdam.
I was done.
So. Done.
***
I stepped off the main stage into Adam’s waiting arms. I’d gotten away with any kind of speech, but I’d been forced to greet every single fucking guest to this damn pre-wedding dinner.
And I’d had more than two vodkas during Grandpa’s story time this afternoon.
