Meant to Be (Sweetbriar Cove Book 1)

by Melody Grace

  “Not tonight,” he replied, avoiding her gaze. “I need to catch up on my sleep now that we’re heading into the home stretch here on the job.”

  “OK.” Poppy sounded disappointed, and the guilt hit hard. See, there he was, screwing everything up again.

  He got down and went to open her door. Poppy climbed to the ground.

  “So, I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asked, the uncertainty clear on her face.

  He nodded, but before he could head back to work, she caught his hand and tugged him closer. “You know you can talk to me, right?” she said, her eyes searching his. “I know this is still early, and we haven’t said anything about . . . where this is going, or what it is. But I’m here. I want to be here.”

  She looked so open and compassionate, it cut him open. Then she reached up and brushed his lips in a kiss, and Cooper nearly gave up the fight. He kissed her back, deeper, and those sparks roared to life, bright and wild.

  One touch is all it took with her. From the start, she’d been undeniable. He wanted her. He wanted to be the man for her.

  But just like he’d teased her what seemed like a hundred years ago, you didn’t always get what you want. Cooper should have learned his lesson a long time ago, but he guessed it was just history repeating.

  Regretfully, he pulled away. “Sorry,” he said, meaning it with every bone in his body. “I really have to go.”

  Poppy stepped back. “OK, I won’t keep you,” she said with a smile. “But if you change your mind about tonight . . . call. I’ll sneak away, it’ll be just like breaking curfew.”

  She winked and headed up the porch steps, and Cooper let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. He wouldn’t be calling her, not tonight. Not until he figured out how to deal with this mess, and all the foolish hopes he had spinning in his chest when his head knew full well that only disappointment lay ahead.

  He turned and strode back to the construction site. His guys were still working, and he should be unloading supplies from the truck, but first, he went looking for a sledgehammer.

  He needed to break something, right now.

  20

  Poppy spent the rest of the week writing hard, trying to get as much of the book under her belt as possible before the Spring Fling Literary Festival. But as busy as she was, she couldn’t ignore one obvious fact: Cooper was pulling away.

  Oh, he wasn’t being obvious about it. He sent cute texts in response to her messages and gave her brief kisses as he stopped by en route to someplace else, and even called apologetically to cancel their plans at the last minute, promising it was just a rain-check until things calmed down with work, but Poppy knew the truth. You judged a man by his actions, not his words, and Cooper’s actions couldn’t have been clearer. Aunt June had been right, this was the honeymoon period, and they were supposed to be stealing every moment possible together, but instead, Poppy found herself sitting up nights watching Miss Fisher’s Mysteries on Netflix with her aunt, trying to ignore the fact she wasn’t making passionate love to Cooper in his bed instead.

  “Typical men,” Aunt June sighed, when she noticed Cooper wasn’t coming around every morning for coffee and a kiss. “Getting skittish at the first sign of commitment.”

  But Poppy hadn’t mentioned commitment, and Cooper didn’t seem the type of man to just let her down with a bump.

  “I don’t know . . .” She toyed with her mug. She didn’t understand it. She had just been thinking that they could have a future together, but it was like he’d flipped a switch, and everything they’d shared suddenly evaporated into thin air. “He’s been acting strangely ever since we went for lunch in Provincetown last week. No.” She paused, thinking back. “Lunch was great, it was after . . .”

  She remembered him coming to pick her up at the library, acting so harsh and rude when she was talking to—

  “Laura,” Poppy exhaled. How could she have missed it? And sure enough, June looked over.

  “Laura Perkins? Well, that would explain it.”

  “Did they date?” Poppy winced, hoping it was a long-gone platonic ex, from a relationship that ended perfectly nicely, with zero acrimony or heartbreak on either side. But somehow, judging by how quickly he’d bolted, she doubted it.

  June nodded. “Nice girl. They were pretty serious for a while back there, but it wasn’t exactly smooth sailing. I don’t know what happened in the end, but Cooper seemed real broken up about it.”

  And clearly, he still was.

  Poppy tried to ignore the painful flicker of insecurity coming to life in her chest. Everyone had a past, and hers had shown up on her doorstep just the other week. Maybe Cooper just needed to process some things, or perhaps she was reading too much into it, and he really was just busy.

  Or maybe he was still in love with Laura, and the past month had been just a fun distraction for him, and not the start of something real.

  She found herself reaching for her phone again, and dialing this time.

  “Hey,” she said, when he answered. “How’s it going over there? The house is looking great.”

  “Liar,” Cooper chuckled, and the sound of his laughter warmed her from the inside out. “It’s still a mess, but, it’s getting there. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy,” he added, “it’s been one thing after another. I haven’t had a moment to slip away.”

  The sincere apology in his voice made her pause. Had she been over-thinking this? He was busy. It happened. It didn’t have to mean anything.

  “That’s OK,” she lied. “Will you be free this weekend? It’s the literary festival, and I have a couple of events. I’d love for you to be there.”

  Cooper paused. “I’ll do my best,” he said, and her heart sank a couple of inches. “We really are slammed,” he added. “I’ve already got my crew working through the weekend, but I’ll try to get away.”

  “OK,” Poppy said quietly. She didn’t even suggest she drop by after work; she already knew he’d have a reason not to. Unless he chose to talk to her about whatever was going on, there wasn’t anything she could do.

  Except write. And hope. And try to ignore the rejection weighing heavier in her chest with ever day Cooper breezed by with quick smile, or cut their night short after one drink at the pub to go catch up on his sleep.

  How much sleep did one man need? Especially when there was a willing woman ready to bear the burden of insomnia right alongside him. And under him. All night long.

  But Poppy didn’t want to push. Cooper, as everyone had been telling her, was stubborn, and maybe he just needed some space to figure things out for himself. So, she bit her tongue, and accepted enough rain-checks to float a life raft, and before she knew it, it was the weekend, and she was just a few chapters away from finishing her novel. Her agent, Quinn, was overjoyed, and insisted on driving down from New York to accompany her for the day.

  “Every bestseller needs her entourage,” she’d declared, and Poppy was glad to take her up on her invitation.

  “Look at this place!” Quinn announced as she stepped out of the car: sunglasses on, red lipstick, and a massive thermos in one hand that Poppy knew contained pure espresso. She looked around at June’s cottage and the beach like an explorer surveying a foreign land. “I love it. So small-town, Hallmark movie . . . I just want to slap a ‘now a major TV series’ label on the cover and call it a bestseller.”

  “It’s good to see you too, Quinn.” Poppy went to greet her, accepting Quinn’s trademark air kisses on both cheeks.

  “I mean it. I swear I’ve seen this place before. Are you sure they didn’t shoot the last Nicholas Sparks movie here?” she asked, peering over the rim of her designer shades. “The one where someone dies in the end?”

  “That doesn’t exactly narrow it down.” Poppy grinned and Quinn snorted with laughter.

  “You should try that in your next book. People love a tragic ending, they weep bucketloads, then go tell all their friends.”

  “I prefer happily-ever-after, than
ks all the same.”

  Quinn shrugged, unconcerned. She helped Poppy load her bag into the car, stuffed with bookmarks, postcards, and other fun freebies she always had shipped out to sign for her readers. They got in, and Quinn gave her a grin. “So, are you ready to rock this thing? I had your publisher send someone down to take care of us, full VIP treatment.”

  “I don’t need that!” Poppy protested. “This is just a local thing.”

  “Are you kidding? You’re a headline act, babe.” Quinn started the engine. “And with your new contract negotiations coming up, I won’t let them forget it.”

  Poppy sighed, but she couldn’t deny she was glad to have Quinn fighting in her corner. The business side of her career had always made her feel slightly uncomfortable. She loved writing and would do it for free if she had no other choice, but love didn’t pay the mortgage, or buy her the freedom to drop everything and come spend a month on Cape Cod when she needed, so she knew not to argue when her agent got dollar signs flashing in her laser-corrected eyes. As much as a shark Quinn was, she was Poppy’s shark, and that was a blessing. At least, it was most of the time.

  “Susie Atwood just left Atria.” Quinn launched into her updates of all the big publishing and romance world gossip. “She got lured away when her editor switched houses. And sales on the new Kate Munroe book are terrible, it sank like a stone.”

  “Poor Kate!” Poppy shuddered. It was every author’s nightmare to have readers suddenly stop showing up.

  “Oh, she’s fine.” Quinn waved away Poppy’s concern. “She already banked her advance check. No, it’s a great opportunity. I hear her editor is looking for a new big release for 2020, something with series potential. Have you given any more through to your next book?” she seamlessly asked. “I wouldn’t need a full manuscript, just a few chapters and an outline will do.”

  “I told you, I’m not thinking about it until I’m finished writing this one.” Poppy said firmly. “Who knows, maybe I’ll take some time off after, wait a while before signing something new.” She’d been through the emotional wringer these past few months, and as much as a month in Sweetbriar Cove had restored her, she knew she’d need a real vacation after this book was done.

  Especially if she was going to be nursing a broken heart.

  But for Quinn’s ear-splitting screech of a reply, you’d think Poppy had suggested throwing in the towel and never writing again.

  “What?!”

  “Not long! A month or two. I’m not a machine,” she reminded Quinn, “and I do have to think up an idea before you can sell it.”

  The other woman sighed. “I know. I just want to make sure we take every opportunity, that’s all. People love your books, they really strike a chord.”

  Poppy smiled. “Thank you, that’s sweet of you to say.”

  “That’s my job.”

  “So you flatter every client?” Poppy laughed.

  “Yes, but with you I really mean it.” Quinn winked, then pushed her sunglasses up her nose. “Now, let’s go sell you some books!”

  The literary festival had taken over Provincetown. The pier was full of booths and snack vendors, the main cobbled street was decked out with ticker tape and flags, and the sedate town hall had been transformed, with talks and panels bursting out of every room, and brightly-colored author signing tents lined up in the cooling shadow of the old Colonial building. It was a gorgeous day, and the crowds were out in force, enjoying saltwater taffy and clutching paperbacks as they went in search of their favorite authors.

  Poppy loved the sight of readers in the morning.

  “Now, let’s see, you have ‘writing the romantic hero’ at eleven, then a group signing, then another panel at two . . .” Quinn consulted the schedule of events as Poppy signed in at the main stage. “And don’t forget the dinner tonight. All the big publishers will be there, and you’re a guest of honor.”

  “I am?” Poppy beamed, taking her badge. She still got a kick out of seeing her name, printed there on the schedule alongside authors she’d loved for years.

  “Of course you are. Do you need a plus-one for the green room?” Quinn asked, turning. “You need a special wristband to get in.”

  Poppy paused. She hadn’t heard from Cooper yet. “Let me check,” she said, and typed out a quick text.

  Do you think you’ll make it today? Would love to see you.

  The little ellipses appeared on screen for a moment, showing he’d seen her message and was typing a response. Then it stopped. No reply.

  Poppy bit back her disappointment.

  “I’ll take one, just in case,” she said, turning back to Quinn. “My aunt is around here somewhere, she said she was hunting down James Patterson. I don’t know if that was a promise or a threat.”

  Quinn smirked. “It’s OK, he travels with security now. Oh, Fiona! Over here!” she waved over a bright-eyed girl who couldn’t have been more than twenty, laden down under a massive bag of books. “This is Fiona, from your publisher. She’s been running your social media campaigns.”

  “It’s great to meet you!” Poppy pushed her emotions aside and shook the girl’s hand. “Thanks so much for all your hard work.”

  “It’s my pleasure.” Fiona beamed from under her blunt-cut bangs. “I love your writing. We all can’t wait for the last book in the series.”

  “It’s got ‘bestseller’ written all over it,” Quinn agreed. “At least, it will once we talk about your promotion budget.”

  Poppy gave her a look. “Let’s not talk about that today. Was your flight down OK, Fiona?”

  The girl grimaced. “A little bumpy.”

  “Oh, me too! I hate to fly.” Poppy carefully steered her on before Quinn could corner her to demand a national book tour and full court press.

  Her first panel was a fun discussion about how to write compelling heroes, with a group signing after. It was always a little nerve-wracking being in front of an audience, but she got to chat back and forth with the other authors, and pass the microphone along when she didn’t know quite what to say. There was always safety in numbers, but when Poppy arrived after lunch at her second event, she found a stage with just two chairs, and a sign proclaiming Poppy Somerville in Conversation.”

  “Wait, it’s just me?” Poppy’s nerves rose. “I thought there was a whole group.”

  “Sorry, didn’t they tell you.” Fiona frowned and scrambled to find the paper. “A couple of the authors had to drop out at the last minute, so they shifted things around.”

  “This is excellent.” Quinn surveyed the room, which was filling fast. “You’re the star attraction. Just look at all these customers.”

  “Readers,” Poppy corrected her automatically. She looked around, her stomach churning. It was one thing to talk about her work as part of a group, but alone on stage? She felt a flicker of nerves, but Quinn gave her arm a squeeze.

  “You’ve had crowds like this before at signings. You’ll be fine,” she said with a surprisingly supportive smile.

  Poppy took a deep breath. “OK.” She nodded. But as she scanned the crowd full of expectant faces, she realized something that set her heart sinking in her chest with more than just nerves.

  Cooper wasn’t here.

  She knew he had work, but she’d hoped he would have found a moment to slip away to come support her. This was her last event of the day, and even though she’d forced herself to focus on meeting the readers and giving her all to the event, she’d still been holding out a hope that he would come. Because if he didn’t, if he chose not to support her when she was just a few miles up the highway, well . . . whatever was making him pull away from her wouldn’t just be solved with a little space.

  Could this be over before they’d even begun?

  Poppy’s heart ached, but she didn’t have time to think about it. The interviewer, a local journalist named Eliza, welcomed her with an enthusiastic handshake.

  “Don’t worry, this will be fun,” Eliza reassured her.

  “
Oh God,” Poppy laughed, “do I look that nervous?”

  “Maybe a little.” Eliza grinned. She had auburn red hair caught back in a flyaway bun, and tortoiseshell glasses. “But I’ll go easy, I promise. My first question is just about the social impact of the romance genre and the sociological implications of the fantasy of gender norms.”

  Poppy gulped.

  “Kidding!” Eliza grinned, and Poppy let out her breath in a whoosh. “Seriously, just relax. We’ll chat about your writing, and your path to publication, and then open things up to questions. But, beware,” she added, guiding Poppy towards the stage. “There’s usually one person lurking in every audience who wants to pitch you their unpublished manuscript, so get ready to hear about their alien abduction romance story!”

  Luckily, Eliza was right—about the easy and fun part, at least. She was a skilled interviewer, and gently guided Poppy through the panel, peppering her with enthusiastic questions about her characters and experience until Poppy could actually relax and enjoy the conversation. When the time came to open it up to questions, she was surprised to find just how many of the audience were fans of her books and had thoughtful questions about how she’d written her series.

  “We have time for just a couple more questions . . .” Eliza said, and Poppy realized that the hour had flown by. “How about you, in the red?”

  She pointed to a woman in the front row with her hand waving high in the air. The woman bounced out of her seat and gripped the mic. “Hi, first of all, I’m a big fan,” she gushed. “I’ve read all your books.”

  “Thank you.” Poppy smiled. “I like this question so far.”

  Everyone laughed. “I was wondering,” the woman continued, “the love stories you write are so . . . amazing. They’re passionate and loving and everything you could want. Are they based on real relationships you’ve had? Is that where you get your inspiration? Is there someone special in your life?”