She closes the menu after a quick scan and hands it to the server. “I’ll have the Monster burger with bacon, medium rare, no pickles or onions.” She smiles. “Oh, and could you add mustard?”
“Gross,” I mutter, earning a look from Poppy.
“And you?” the server asks.
“I’ll have the same,” I say. “But no mustard.”
When the server leaves, I rap my fingers on the knee of my jeans and study Poppy. She’s small enough that if she backed up in the booth, I’m not sure her feet would even touch the ground. Her short hair frames her face in a way I like a little too much, especially when she wrinkles her nose like that.
She’s so cute, it’s annoying.
And with that quirk of her lips?—
Those lips?—
Heat fills my abdomen, and I take a long drink of ice water to douse it.
Poppy grabs a napkin and wipes it over nose and mouth. “Do I have something on my face?”
“You got it,” I lie.
Her eyes go huge, and she covers her nose. “I did have something? What was it?”
Great. Now she thinks she had something gross hanging from her nose. “It was just a piece of fluff,” I lie again, because that’s what lying does—it makes you add more lies to cover the first lies, until you’ve buried yourself in them.
But since I’ve already started digging …
“Actually, it’s still there,” I say, my heart hammering. “Let me get it for you.”
I reach across the table, my fingers itching to be reunited with her face, my pulse loud enough to drown out the elevator music piping over the diner speakers.
I put my bottom two fingers on her soft cheek and then use my thumb and forefinger to swipe an imaginary piece of fuzz from the corner of her lips. Her breath catches, stoking the ashes in my belly back into a blazing fire.
My hands move slower than they should across her silky skin, but she’s not protesting. When my brain finally convinces my body to obey, I pull my hand away and make a show of dropping the imaginary lint.
“Got it.” My voice is too husky, and Poppy’s eyes are glued to mine … until they jump down to my mouth?—
“I’m gonna use the little girl’s room,” she says, springing from the booth.
We both just used the facilities, and I’m not sure if that knowledge should put a smirk on my face or make me feel guilty.
But why would I feel guilty?
A minute later, a message buzzes on my phone. It’s from Grace.
The guilt thickens until my heart feels like it’s pumping in Jell-O. I open the message, and the Jell-O holding my heart in place vanishes. It drops like a stone.
GracieLou
Hey, no pressure, but would you ever want to meet up IRL?
What the?—?
She’s online right now. She can seeI’monline right now. There’s no way for me to get around this.
What do I say? Do I tell her the truth? Whatisthe truth? I’m a train wreck wrapped in a snarky, cranky athlete’s body. I’m a dark cloud of gloom who’ll rain on every parade, ruining even the brightest day?
Online, it’s easy to dismiss. In person, not so much.
