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She took more of me with her than she’ll ever really understand. Maybe more than I’ll ever understand. And even after all the shit I’ve pulled, all the ways I’ve fucked up, she’s still willing to give me a shot. So handing control over to my dick isn’t an option. But man, the last thing I want in this moment is to get back in my car and go sit in a restaurant to be civilized and have conversations that might mean talking about myself.
Poppy runs her palms over her hips self-consciously. “Lance?”
“Huh?”
She clasps her hands in front of her. Her grip is tight, like maybe she’s trying not to fidget. “Do you want to come in?”
Yes. And then I want to get you naked and screw you on the closest surface. I stuff my hands in my pockets so I don’t do something I shouldn’t with them. “I can wait here if you want to grab your purse.”
Her pretty pink tongue touches her plush, glossed lips. I wonder if they taste like strawberries, or maybe something sweeter, like vanilla.
A small furrow appears between her brows. “I thought dinner reservations weren’t until seven thirty.”
“They’re not.”
“It’s not even seven. You could come in for a drink before we go.”
“I thought you didn’t drink.”
“Not usually, but I have a bottle of wine someone gave me as a gift.”
It will only take twenty minutes to get to the restaurant. There are a lot of things I could do between stepping through her doorway and the time we have to leave, a lot of ways I could fuck this up. “Sometimes it takes a while to get parking. We can have a drink at the bar if we’re too early.”
She drops her eyes, and her cheeks flush pink. “Oh. Okay, just give me a minute.”
She leaves the door open, allowing me to watch her legs as she disappears up the stairs. Her bedroom is probably up there. I wonder if I’ll ever get to see it. I fucking hope so.
I glance to the right, at the closet where I kissed her the last time I was here. I try not to think about how good she felt pressed up against me. How much I liked her hands on me. How much I want them on me again.
I back up and turn away, looking at the street instead. It seems to take forever before Poppy comes back down the stairs. She’s wearing a thin, pale sweater thing that doesn’t button, but covers her shoulders and arms. Her purse is a muted gold, as are her shoes. She locks her door and turns to me, her smile strained. I worry something I’ve done is the reason for that.
I slip my arm through hers and walk her down the stairs. Shit. The flowers and candy I bought for her are on the counter in my kitchen. I suck at this. I can drop them off at her work tomorrow and do better next time—if there is a next time.
“Wow. This is nice,” Poppy says as I open the car door for her and help her in.
“Thanks. I figured it’s a little classier than the Hummer, and maybe easier for you to get into.” I wink.
If I’d driven the Hummer I would’ve had to pick her up to put her in it.
I close the door and round the hood, sliding into the driver’s seat. I’m right about the trip not taking long. Poppy asks me questions, but I’m distracted, trying not to focus on how good she smells, or how much I want to put my hand on her bare thigh.
There’s a line at the valet, so we have to wait while the cars filter through. I tap on the steering wheel, impatient.
“We don’t have to do this,” Poppy says quietly.
I stop staring at the taillights of the Porsche in front of me to look at her. “What?”
“I don’t want you to feel obligated to take me out for dinner.”
“Obligated?”
She looks down at her lap. “If you’ve changed your mind, or you’re not interested anymore.”
The car in front of me moves up. “Whoa. Hold up. Why would you think this is a pity date? Or that I’m not interested anymore.”
She fidgets with the strap of her purse. Her hair is in her face, so I can’t see her expression.
“Poppy?” I tuck her hair back, and she shies away. I drop my hand. I won’t touch her if she doesn’t want me to. “Why would you think this is a pity date?”
She lifts one shoulder. “Because of what I told you. You didn’t want to come in for a drink, and now it seems like you can’t wait to get out of this car. You’ve hardly said a thing since you picked me up. I’m not stupid, Lance. I don’t want to sit through two hours of strained conversation because you feel some sense of duty to follow through.”
