“I’m afraid I won’t be able to do that, but I’m happy for you,” Clara says. She hands us both bowls of soup with bread. “Eat up. You’ll need your strength after such a difficult night. I’ll check on you in the morning.”
We thank her and say good night. The air between us feels charged after our interrupted kiss. Every time Poppy leans forward to eat her soup, I catch myself watching the movement of her throat when she swallows.
“I’m gonna go change,” I tell her after I finish eating. “Will you be okay?”
“Soaking my foot and eating soup?” she says with a tired smile. “Yeah, I’ll be okay.”
I change out of my wet clothes while Poppy’s foot finishes soaking, hyperaware that she’s just on the other side of a thin wall. When I return in dry clothes, she’s fast asleep on the couch.
I head into the bedroom and return with several quilts. After I drape one over her, I remove her foot from the Epsom salt bath, rest it on my lap, and pat it dry, all without waking her. I rub Clara’s arnica salve around her ankle, wait for it to dry, and then wrap it the way I’ve done on myself dozens of times. Her skin is impossibly soft, and when she shifts in her sleep, something low in my stomach tightens. I stretch both of her feet over my lap and tuck the quilts around her.
Once I’m done, I lean back against the couch and watch Poppy. Yes, she’s beautiful, but I’ve known beautiful women before. None of them have had a hold on me like Poppy does, especially after such a short time.
In some ways, she’s a mystery, yet she feels familiar, too. The way she argues, not to win, but to understand. The way she’s proud of me for coaching when my own family sees it as a failure, yet can still mourn the loss of my ideal with me.
Yes.
That’s it, that’s what feels so familiar: she can hold two opposing ideas at once and find value in both without making me feel like there’s something wrong with my opinion.
I’ve only ever known one other person who could do that.
The fact that Poppy can …
It’s like a dream made flesh.
Between the crackling of the fire, the sound of Poppy breathing, and the light pressure of her legs across my lap, I don’t remember the last time my mind felt so quiet. Soon, my eyes close and I fall fast asleep.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
POPPY
Icould get used to waking up next to Oliver Fletcher.
I have no idea what time it is, but I know two things: my ankle feels much better than it did last night, and I’m going to pee my pants if I don’t get to the restroom, pronto.
Unfortunately, Oliver’s arms are draped across my legs on the couch, and we’re covered by three quilts.
I try to lift his arm gently, but a soft noise issues from his throat, and he shifts even closer. I attempt a slow-motion wiggle—inching my legs off his lap a millimeter at a time, but Oliver’s grip tightens.
After what feels like an eternity of careful maneuvering, I manage to slide one leg out from under his arm. Progress. I pause, holding my breath as he shifts slightly, his face relaxing back into peaceful sleep. Encouraged, I begin the delicate process of extracting my other leg. Just as I’m almost free,Oliver’s hand slides down and catches my ankle—the injured one.
I bite back a yelp and freeze completely. His thumb traces gently over my ankle, but there’s something between his skin and mine.
Tape. He must have taped my ankle when I fell asleep on the couch last night. After everything I told him. After I cried into his hoodie and admitted I can’t be a drain on people, he stayed. He took care of me anyway.
My heart does something completely unwelcome given my current bladder situation.
“Stay,” he mumbles, still asleep, his voice rough yet vulnerable.
For a moment, I almost do, almost settle back into the warmth of his arms and pretend we have all the time in the world. But nature calls, and I very carefully lift his hand, place it on the couch cushion, and finally—finally—escape my gorgeous captor.
I hobble down the hallway to the bathroom Clara pointed out last night. My ankle manages better than I hoped, given how bad it felt last night. Clara is a miracle worker.
After a quick potty break, I limp back out to the main room, grab my bag, and quietly roll it back into the bathroom. I’ve never stayed in an Amish guest house before, but Clara and Samuel’s is lovely. Every feature looks sturdy and hand crafted. My apartment is decent enough, but after years of crappy housing growing up, I’m still pleasantly surprised by cabinet doors that are made of actual wood instead of particle board that falls apart if you sneeze near it.
I shower and get ready more quickly than I’d like, but with how late it is already, we need to get on the road?—
We don’t have a car.
