But Poppy just laughs. “I don’t know about that.”
“So, are you going to Denver for work or pleasure?” he asks.
My nostrils flare. He’s mid-30s, wearing a suit. I bet he’s got two kids … in addition to the wife he’s hiding from Poppy.
“Actually, I’m on the connecting flight to Rochester,” she says.
“Funny, I go to Rochester for work a lot.”
“Oh, that is funny,” she says.
His eyes are all over her face, like he’s hungry. “Are you meeting up with family?” he asks. “Or friends?”
Every alarm goes off in my head. His questions are coming too fast, like he’s ticking off boxes on his “predator-preparationlist.” I lean so far into Poppy’s space, I catch a hint of coconut on her hair. “Family. What about you?”
The man’s eyes flicker with surprise. “Uh, sorry, what?”
“You asked if we’re meeting up with family or friends,” I say. “So I answered.” Poppy’s head is on a swivel. It whips to mine, and pure annoyance flashes across her face.
“Oh, I didn’t realize you two were together,” the man says, his body language changing immediately.
“We’re not,” Poppy says.
“We’re just going the same direction. Together.” I purposefully sound irritated, trying to make it sound like we’re a quarreling couple.
“What are you doing?” Poppy hisses.
“If he’s a psychopath, you’ll thank me later,” I say through my teeth.
“Yeah? And what ifyou’rethe psychopath?” she shoots back.
“Psychopaths are charming. Is anything about me charming?” I’m trying to be self-deprecating, but I sound too annoyed. I’m trying to help the woman!
“Not all serial killers are psychopaths,” she mutters.
“Yeah, and they’re not all men, either,” I grumble.
In the whole time that we’ve been squabbling like angry exes, the man on the other side has put on his headphones and is already watching a movie.
When Poppy sees this, she glares.
I suppress a groan.
She’s fuming as she cracks her root beer and downs half of it. Frustrated, I take a sip of my Dr Pepper. And then the plane seems to jump, and a wave of soda spills down my chin and hoodie.
A snort of laughter sounds next to me. “I’m sorry,” Poppy says, still laughing.
She dabs her napkin against my chest, and I flex instinctively at her touch. And then I kick myself mentally, because I see the corner of her mouth curl.
I use my napkin next. “No you’re not.” I dab the small square against my hoodie, and it’s quickly soaked without having done almost anything.
“I am,” she insists. “I mean, you had it coming, but I’m sorry the universe made you pay for what you did.”
On Poppy’s other side, the man is now firmly engrossed in his movie. I’m 99% sure it’sBoiler Room.
“What I did was keep you safe fromthat guy,” I say.
“Safe?” She sounds bewildered.
