And I want to feel them again.
Our faces are inches apart, and her tired eyes are laser focused on my mouth. She wants this kiss as badly as I do … a fact I’m not too proud to take advantage of.
“Why don’t you ever take what you want?” I ask, my lips almost touching hers.
“Why don’t you tell your family how you feel?” she says. Her breath teases my lips, sending a wave of goosebumps over me that has nothing to do with my wet socks or hoodie.
“They know how I feel,” I say, my lips puffing out around hers.
“Then why don’t you take a stand?”
“Why don’t you let people take care of you?”
“Maybe I don’t know how,” she says. I can taste her breath, and the grazing of her lip against mine with every word is thrilling.
“Maybe you don’t think you deserve it,” I say, my nose rubbing against hers.
“Projecting much?”
Her eyes close, and mine follow. “I’ll stop if you do,” I say. Our lips are fully brushing against one another’s now—touching without kissing as we share space, share oxygen. I have a feeling she’s getting heady from breathing the same air.
Like me.
“Mmm,” she says.
“Mmm,” I agree, completely forgetting what we’re talking about.
I can’t take the teasing anymore, can’t handle another instant without my mouth on hers. I tilt my head?—
And a knock at the door makes our heads whip apart.
Poppy’s head falls against my shoulder. “Come in,” I say, cursing the timing.
Clara enters with a pot of soup and a small basket.
She smiles but looks away from us, putting the pot on the table. “Let me see your ankle,” she says, bringing the basket over. She sits on the small wooden table in front of the couch, stretching Poppy’s foot toward her. “That’s quite a bruise,” she says. “But Samuel and our kids are always getting banged up. I have just the things to help.”
In only a few minutes, Poppy’s drunk a willow bark tea for the pain and has her foot soaking in an Epsom salt bath. Clara leaves me with instructions for a salve to put on Poppy’s ankle as soon as her foot is done soaking, as well as a medical wrap and extra tea.
“I know how to tape an ankle,” I assure her.
“He’s a former playeranda baseball manager,” Poppy adds excitedly. “He took his team to the national championship this year—his first year as manager—andthey won!”
My eyes sting, and I have to look away. How does Poppy know about all of this? Has she … has she looked me up?
I’ve never had someone be proud of me for coaching before. Happy for me, sure—my team, owner, and friends in Mullet Ridge were all happy enough for me.
But proud?
Never.
“That sounds impressive,” Clara says kindly. “And like a lot of work.”
“It was nothing,” I say.
“It was, too,” Poppy says, heat in her voice. “He’s an incredible manager. His town loves him and his team loves him. You should see all the press coverage he got after the win.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” I say.
