by Melody Grace
Cooper grumbled beside her. “C’mon. Now you’re just being desperate.”
“I like to think of it more as ‘charming’ and ‘irresistible,’ ” Riley corrected him, and Poppy couldn’t help but laugh.
“Thanks for the offer, but I’ll be sleeping in my own bed,” she said firmly. “For the foreseeable future.”
“Our loss,” Riley said, unruffled, and headed back towards the kitchen and—Poppy hoped—her food.
“Interesting,” Cooper drawled. “The Queen of Hearts hasn’t found her perfect soulmate yet.” His words were light enough, but there was a sarcastic note in his voice that made Poppy feel like he was mocking her.
“Not yet, no,” she replied, cooler this time.
“Yet you figure it’s your job to lecture everyone else on true love,” he said, and took a swig of his beer. “Huh. Don’t you think that’s kind of hypocritical?”
“I’m not lecturing anyone.” Poppy frowned, wondering how the conversation had suddenly taken a turn. “People are free to read whatever they want. I just write my stories.”
“Full of happy endings and lightning strikes,” Cooper challenged. “You ever think you’re setting them all up to fail? Chasing after some big happy ending that’s never going to come their way?”
Poppy paused. His words hit a nerve deep inside her, the same whispered doubts that kept her up at night, taunting her with the questions she wished she had an answer for.
He was wrong. He had to be. Otherwise everything she’d spent her life believing was a lie.
“What’s it to you?” she challenged him, trying to keep her cool. She felt weirdly vulnerable, her raw wounds open for everyone to see. “Have you even read one of my books?”
“I don’t need to,” Cooper shrugged. “It’s all the same. Building up some fantasyland of love and forever so people can’t help but be let down with the real world. You know, I feel sorry for the suckers who believe it, they don’t even realize what a scam they’re buying into. No offense,” he added, like an afterthought.
He had to be kidding. Poppy clenched her fists and got down from the stool.
“Where are you going?” Cooper asked, sounding confused.
“Well, you’ve just insulted me, my life’s work, and every woman who’s ever bought one of my books, so I figure I better get out of your hair. Unless you want to start in on my mom?” Poppy demanded. “My pastor? No? Good.”
She turned on her heel and stalked across the bar. She would have walked out altogether if she hadn’t been so hungry, but as she sat down at a corner table, she was fuming. What the hell was his problem? She didn’t even know the guy, and he thought he could just dismiss her career as some kind of elaborate con on the readers of America. Poppy was used to dealing with snobbery—you didn’t get to write romance without people looking down their noses at you—but usually that was easy to brush off. Literary elites scoffing at happy endings, like a book had to be five hundred pages of misery to be worth a read (but funnily enough, didn’t have a bad word to say about all those trashy crime books for men). She’d stopped paying attention to those kinds of comments years ago, since she figured nothing would convince them that they were the ones missing out. Sure, she wasn’t going to win any literary prizes, but that wasn’t the point. Her readers didn’t come to her looking for the real world, they wanted an escape from it. A place to disappear in between school pick-up runs and double shifts at the hospital; a place where fate wasn’t cruel, hope won out, and love was never in vain.
A place to believe.
So Poppy built that world for them—and for herself, too. No matter what else was happening in her life, she could guarantee that everything would work out in the end. At least, it did between the pages of her books. And this year in particular, her writing had been her main escape, as the juggernaut of her wedding barreled on towards “I do.”
Until the day she looked at her own words and realized if she married Owen—if she settled for their life together—she would be giving up on everything she’d told her readers to fight for all these years.
“What did he do this time?”
Riley’s voice cut through her thoughts, and Poppy looked up to find him setting a plate of delicious-looking food in front of her. “Sorry, what?” she asked, her mouth already watering.
“Cooper,” he explained. “I just saw him go storming out with a face like thunder, although, that’s just a normal Sunday for him.”
Poppy pressed her lips together. “Just a small disagreement,” she said lightly, and Riley snorted.
“Why am I not surprised? Don’t take it personally,” he added with a sympathetic smile. “I love the guy like a brother, but he can be a grumpy asshole when he sets his mind to it.”
“I’ll remember that. Thanks, and for the food,” she said.
“My pleasure.” Riley turned to go, but then Poppy remembered something.
“Wait. Did I put my foot in it earlier? We were catching up earlier, and I asked Cooper if he was married.”
Riley looked uneasy. “You’ll have to talk to him about that,” he said, as some new customers came in. “I better go. Let me know if you need anything.”
Poppy watched him walk away. It sounded like she had touched a nerve with Cooper without even meaning to, but even so, it didn’t give him the right to tear her down like that. Maybe it wasn’t personal for him, but it sure felt that way.
Enough letting Cooper Nicholson get under her skin, she decided, and reached for a crisp, thick-cut fry. For some reason, he’d been in her face since the moment she’d arrived, but that didn’t mean she had to let him ruin her day. She was here for a reason, after all.
No drama. No conflict. Just the happily-ever-after her readers were waiting for.
Simple.
Right?
4
Any hope that Cooper had been joking, saying his crew usually started at six a.m., was shattered the next morning when Poppy woke to what sounded like a pneumatic drill boring straight through her skull. A peek out the window confirmed it: the construction site was a hive of activity. Even those earplugs weren’t going to help her now.
Time for Plan B.
She took a shower, dressed in jeans and a pretty peasant blouse, and turned on the radio loud to try and drown out the racket next door. “One way, or another . . .” she sang along, as she unpacked the rest of her things in the antique bureau. Aunt June always had eclectic taste, and the old house was filled with trinkets and souvenirs from her travels—from the tribal masks in the staircase to the Australian didgeridoo leaning up against the hall. Downstairs, the beachy living room opened up to a big butter-yellow kitchen with windows out to the back porch. Poppy scavenged in the cupboards and found some instant coffee, which she poured into a polka-dot mug and took outside to sit on the back steps in the morning sun.
She breathed deeply, the sea air whipping her wet hair around her face. It really was beautiful out here: the ocean was glinting, blue and wide across the horizon, and the early-morning fog was already clearing to bright skies. Aunt June’s garden was full of climbing roses, lavender, and grass, with a winding path all the way to the sand. If it weren’t for the yells and banging breaking the calm, it would be a picture-perfect scene.
Almost pretty enough to make her forget everything she’d left behind in New York.
Poppy’s heart sank. The guilt was still digging away, hard behind her ribcage. She could only imagine what Owen and his family were saying about her now, and she didn’t blame them. Walking out on a wedding with only a few weeks to spare was unforgiveable, but what was she supposed to do?
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.
They’d met online two years ago, after such a long, lonely spell of bad first dates and lackluster fix-ups that Poppy had almost given up hope she would find someone. She was twenty-seven, spending every day writing great love affairs for her characters, and her weekends at new baby showers or engagement parties, watching those love stor
ies come to life right in front of her. But at the end of the night, she always went home alone.
To the apartment she loved, in the life that she was proud of, sure—but it still filled her with that lonely ache when she looked around and wished she had someone there to share it with her. To snuggle up in bed with on a Saturday morning, and bicker with over the TV remote at night. She wanted holiday traditions, and pet names, and, one day, a family of her own. So when Owen sent a message through the latest online dating site—with actual punctuation, and no lewd photos attached—she was ready. True love might take a little effort, but she was willing to try.
And it worked. He was sweet and steady, and sure, he preferred to read thick military histories, and his eyes glazed over a little when she tried to talk to him about the chapters she’d written that day, but it wasn’t the end of the world. She didn’t really understand his work, either (something to do with cyber-security and systems administration, she thought), but not every couple had to share each other’s passions. They had fun together, the relaxed, easy kind of conversation that made it feel like she’d known him for years, and slowly, Poppy wondered if maybe this could be the forever she’d been looking for.
Still, it took her by surprise when he proposed—getting down on one knee during his parents’ anniversary picnic. It seemed to come out of nowhere, and for a split second, she’d almost turned him down, but looking at his excited expression, and hearing the gasps and whispers all around them, she couldn’t help but tell him yes. After all, it made sense: they’d been together a year already, and it was all going fine. Great, even. This is what you did next—got married, moved in, built a life together—and it would have been foolish to throw it all away just because her stomach didn’t flip when Owen walked into the room or slid into bed with her at night.
But as the months passed and the wedding plans reached fever pitch, her doubts became impossible to ignore. The whispers in the back of her mind became shouts, and she found herself sitting in front of the TV at night beside him, trying to imagine if this was her forever. If this was it, the rest of their lives just like this, would it be enough for her?
Or would her heart still ache, imagining a great love that was out there for her, somewhere?
Owen deserved more than that. They both did. And as much as she felt guilty now, practically stranding him at the altar, Poppy knew that it would have been even worse if she’d said “I do” when her heart wasn’t in it. She’d saved them both from heartache. She just had to hope that one day, Owen believed it too.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket, and Poppy pulled it out, glad of the distraction.
Or not.
“Quinn,” she greeted her literary agent. “How’s it going?”
“What do you mean, ‘how’s it going’?” Quinn’s voice demanded. “I log on to look at photos of the happy couple, and find a bunch of people bitching about how you walked out on him. How do I not know this?!”
“You were at that conference in Germany,” Poppy protested weakly. “I was going to tell you when you got back.”
“They have wifi in Germany!” Quinn exclaimed, then calmed herself. “What happened? Are you OK? Did you walk in and find him in bed with that bridesmaid—you know, the step-cousin who was giving you attitude about the shoes? Bastard!”
“Whoa, it’s not his fault,” Poppy interrupted quickly. “I promise. I just realized he wasn’t the one for me.”
“Oh.” Quinn paused, then changed tacks. “Then you did the right thing. You’re so much better off without him. Plenty more fish in the sea!”
“Oh, yes?” Poppy couldn’t help replying. “How’s that working out for you?”
Quinn groaned. “Don’t ask. What’s Owen’s number? Maybe I’ll give him a call. Kidding,” she added, but Poppy wouldn’t put it past her. Quinn was a force of nature who let nothing stand in her way. It made her a great agent, but her love life was more like a crime scene: full of bad accidents and tape reading “do not pass.”
“Anyway,” Quinn moved on quickly, like she had another ten calls to make that morning. “Does this mean I can tell your publisher they’ll be getting a manuscript soon? Since you’ll be writing now, instead of feeding him chocolate-covered strawberries on honeymoon in Bora-Bora?”
“I hope so,” Poppy said. “I’m at my aunt’s place for a few weeks, trying to get it finished.”
“Hallelujah,” Quinn cheered. “I didn’t want to say anything, but I’ve been fielding angry calls all month. I’ve held them off as best I can, but even I can’t work miracles. Are you sure I can’t send them any pages?” she added, her voice taking on a pleading note. “I know you hate showing your manuscripts until they’re finished, but even just a few chapters would go a long way to buying us some time.”
Poppy gulped. “Sorry,” she said, trying to keep her voice even. “The first chapters need some major rewrites. It took me a while to settle into the voice, I don’t want anyone seeing it like that.”
Quinn sighed. “OK, whatever you need. Just remember, they’ve pushed your deadline twice already. Any longer, and they’ll have to move your release date back next year.”
“I promise, I’ll have something for you in a few weeks,” Poppy vowed. “I’m actually in the middle of a scene right now, so I should get back to it.”
“Don’t let me keep you. Laters, babe!”
Quinn rang off, and Poppy lowered her phone. Lying to her agent? Just add it to her growing list of crimes. Everyone at her publisher thought she was already halfway through the book, but the truth was, she hadn’t written a single word.
Poppy had writer’s block, and she had it bad.
But all that was going to change, starting today. She jumped up and headed back inside, retrieving her laptop then heading to the old study. It was a shady room lined with old bookcases, and it also happened to be the farthest room away from Cooper’s construction site. Still, the shouts and banging echoed through the windows as Poppy sat down at the desk, opened her screen, and started a new document.
5
The cursor blinked at her, taunting. This part should be easy. It was the final book in her series, the conclusion to a love story that had spanned a century and three continents. She knew these characters inside out—and knew exactly what her readers were expecting from her. Still, as Poppy stared at her notes, all the careful plot ideas and outlines, she still couldn’t find those first words.
What did she know about true love?
A whole lot of nothing.
The banging came again, louder. She slammed her screen shut. She was going about this the wrong way. Back home, she’d treated writing like a real job: getting up every morning, getting dressed, and going out to write at the library or coffee shops around the city. No wonder she couldn’t start writing—she was sitting there in her pajamas, messing up her usual routine!
Poppy headed back upstairs. She grabbed some towels from the linen closet, and stepped into the bathroom. June must have had it updated since she was there last, because the chipped sink had been replaced with a gorgeous expanse of blue tile, with a deep tub and a walk-in shower. Poppy turned on the water, feeling determined. A shower, some fresh clothes, and then she’d find somewhere to hunker down and write. The words would pour out of her, then.
They had to.
She stripped her clothes off, tied up her hair, and stepped under the hot water. Ahh, that was better. She would get back on track in no time, she just had to—
“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”
Cooper heard the screams clear from next door, even over the sound of construction. For a long, panicked moment, he thought something terrible had happened. Poppy had fallen down the stairs, or been attacked by a drifter, or cut off some vital limb . . .
He dropped his tools and raced across the yard. “Poppy?” he yelled. The back door was open, so he charged inside and up the stairs. “Poppy? Are you OK?”
“I’m going to kill you, Cooper Nicholson!”
M
aybe not.
He was at the top of the stairs when a door opened and Poppy came barreling out, straight into him. “Whoa,” he said, automatically putting his arms out to steady her. His hands closed around silky, wet skin, and he realized she was wearing nothing but a towel.
A very small towel.
Cooper stepped back. “Christ, woman, I thought you were getting murdered up here.” He cleared his throat. He didn’t know where to look. Her hair was pinned up, revealing the slim arch of her neck, glistening with water. The postage stamp of a towel was barely covering her long legs and the swell of her—
He dragged his eyes back up to her face. Her furious, shooting-daggers face.
“You wish,” Poppy looked as if she wanted to be inflicting bodily harm on him. “But I’ve half a mind to throw you down the stairs myself.”
“What did I do this time?” Cooper frowned. “I told you, my guys need to work. I’m sorry about the noise, but—”
“It’s not the noise!” Poppy exclaimed. “Here.” She grabbed his hand and yanked him into the bathroom before he could object. Poppy turned on the shower, and for a moment, a parade of X-rated images flashed in Cooper’s mind. Like what it would be like under the spray with her.
Without that towel.
“Well?” Poppy demanded. He tried to push those thoughts away. She was staring at him expectantly, like he was supposed to know what the hell she was going on about.
“You’re going to have to spell it out,” Cooper said, annoyed now.
“There’s no hot water!” Poppy cried. “You know anything about that?”
Cooper blinked, and then it all came rushing back. “Oh yeah. We had to shut off the gas this morning, we’re rerouting the main pipe.”
Poppy scowled. “And you didn’t think to warn me about it, or—I don’t know—ask if that was OK?”
Cooper knew he should apologize, but man, she was cute when she was spitting mad. Her brown eyes were flashing, and she’d completely forgotten about that towel, which was slipping lower with every angry gesture, revealing inches more of that pale, wet skin.
