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“I’m a little early,” I call out as I walk up the sidewalk toward her.
She startles and drops her keys. Her fingers flutter to her throat.
The same fingers that are going to be touching me soon.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you. I figured you would’ve seen my car.” I thumb over my shoulder.
Poppy follows my gaze. “I must not have been paying very close attention.”
“I guess not.” I bend over to pick up her keys. Instead of dangling the chain, I hold them out in my hand.
Her fingertips graze my skin as she takes them. It’s too quick to really register. I’m nervous now that this massage won’t be the same as last time—actually enjoyable. What if that was a fluke?
I follow her up the stairs to her house. Her hair is in a ponytail again.
“Evening, Poppy.”
“Oh! Hi, Mr. Goldberg. How are you?”
A little old man dressed in track pants and a loose fitting T-shirt with a Nike symbol on it sits on the porch next door.
“I’m good. You?” He looks me over, like he’s assessing whether I should be allowed in her house.
Poppy smiles. “I’m good, too.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“Oh. This is Lance. He’s a client. I’m treating him here as a favor.”
“Ah.” He gives me another speculative look. “Not your Friday night date, then?”
“No, Mr. Goldberg. Not my date.”
“That’s good. Means I don’t need to worry about this one.”
Poppy laughs. It’s high and a little embarrassed. Her cheeks flush pink.
“I’ll be on my very best behavior, sir,” I say.
He raises a brow. “That’s what they all say right before they’re on their worst behavior, son.”CHAPTER 10NOT SO HIDDEN
EMOTIONS
POPPY
Lance laughs while my face sets itself on fire. Of course my neighbor has to be out tonight. Well, he’s out almost every night, but his timing and pith are unfortunate on this particular occasion.
Usually Friday night is April and me hanging out, and Mr. Goldberg knows that. I’ve probably had a handful of Friday night dates in the past year, and of course, my neighbor is usually around to witness me being picked up. Then on our Wednesday cookie-and-tea dates, he’ll give me his thoughts on whether said gentleman deserves to go out with me again. It’s rather sweet.
“I’ll see you later, Mr. Goldberg.” I manage to open the door, slap the light on, and usher Lance inside before he can say anything else.
Before I close the door, I poke my head back out and give him a look that tells him I’m not impressed. He just winks.
“Be safe, Miss Poppy. You know what they say about those redheads.”
I roll my eyes and shut the door. “Sorry about that. He’s a little…” I struggle to find the right word.
Lance rocks back on his heels. “Feisty? Protective?”
“Both. Definitely. He lost his wife last winter, and his kids live on the other side of the country. He’s pseudo-adopted me.”
“Can’t say I blame him. Pretty single woman living alone…makes sense he’d want to watch out for you.” Lance looks around. “You live alone, right?”
I cough as I drop my purse and keys on the little table by the front door. “I live alone.”
“No roommates?”
“That’s usually what alone means.”
“No boyfriend?”
I raise an eyebrow.
“What? It’s a legit question. I don’t want some dude walking in while you’re digging your elbow into my ass and I’m crying in pain.”
I laugh, because I can’t imagine Lance ever crying. He doesn’t seem the type. “I don’t have a boyfriend right now.”
My internet dating experiences have been lackluster at best, so meeting prospective dates can be a challenge.
“Good to know.”
I’d like to say I ignore the way his eyes move over me, but that would be a lie.
“Follow me.” I lead him down the hall to the living room. It’s the only space in my house open enough for a home massage. “I just need a few minutes to set up. Can I get you something to drink? Water? Juice? I don’t usually have pop in the house, but I can check.”
“I’m all right. Can I help with anything?” He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks around the room.
I’m suddenly self-conscious about him being in my personal space. I’ve been inside his massive home. It’s beautiful and polished, despite the things that happen there. He has expensive taste, and my place is middle-class normal. Most of my decorative touches are knickknacks from my parents’ trips around the US and pictures my sister painted when she went to college for art. She never managed to finish the degree, despite her talent. Since I’m not a developer, I haven’t upgraded to the latest and most fabulous furnishings, like most of the other houses on my block.
“Why don’t you have a seat while I set up?”
“Sure.” He crosses over and drops down on the couch, stretching his arm across the back.
