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I glanced at him, biting the inside of my cheek.
I guess he just learned a valuable lesson about fucking with a redhead.
Spoiler: You don’t fuck with a redhead.
CHAPTER EIGHT – POPPY
Redheads and Devilheads
I always wondered what I’d look like as a Funkopop. Random, I know, but I wondered if they’d ever accurately capture my boobs. I wasn’t exactly a Pamela Anderson, but if anything ever needed immortalizing, it was my boobs.
God only knew nobody wanted my attitude to be infinite.
Not even I wanted that.
However, my attitude was what was going to get me through this damn wedding. My grandpa had landed and was, at my dad’s last phone call, yelling at the airport workers to find out where his suitcase was.
Fifty bucks said it was on the baggage carousel.
In fact, I’d wager a hundred. I was just that sure. Mostly because I knew the drill. Last Christmas, I’d been the one tasked with getting him from the airport and delivering him safely to my parents’ house.
Guess what? He’d yelled at the airport people, and I’d found his baggage exactly where it should have been. On the carousel, making its way around.
Now, I sighed and brushed my curls around to one side, over my shoulder, and stared into the mirror. To braid or not to braid? That really was the question. To topknot or not to topknot? That was the other one.
Did I risk them getting uber frizzy at the hottest part of the day or did I get proactive and knot them up before my hair could decide for me?
I blew out another breath and flipped my head forward, then gathered my thick hair up. Straightening my back, I teased my bangs out of the mass and tied my hair up loosely. Another hair tie swept the ponytail into a topknot that was beautifully messy.
Huh.
I bet I couldn’t do that again if I tried.
“Ready?” Adam strolled out of the bedroom, playing with the button on his shorts.
“For lunch with my mother?” I turned and stared at him, expressionless. “I’m thrilled.”
He laughed and adjusted the short sleeve of his white shirt. “It’s what—an hour? Then she’ll be back snapping at your sister’s ankles. Surely you can give Rosie a break for sixty whole minutes.”
“Oh no. I’ve done that guilt trip my entire life. I’m not getting it from my fake boyfriend, too.” I waggled my finger at him before turning back to the mirror to finish my makeup. “And yes, I can give her a break, but it doesn’t mean I need to be happy about it.”
“Do you ever get along?”
“Yes. When I’m in Orlando and she’s in Key West.”
“I mean when you’re together.”
“In the same room together, or having a conversation together?”
“Now you’re just being awkward, Red.”
I brushed a final stroke of mascara over each of my eyes, then stopped, wand in hand, and met his eyes in the reflection of the mirror. “Given how you ended up here, I would have thought you knew that awkward was my default mode.”
“That was cute-awkward. This is attitude-awkward.”
“How do you know there’s a difference?”
He pointed at himself. “Four sisters. I grew up with attitude-awkward. I could recognize it blindfolded with hands cuffed behind my back from two hundred miles away.”
“Wow. Someone’s cocky.”
“I thought we established that the night we met.”
My cheeks flushed. Damn it. Why did I have to blush like an idiot? Oh, that’s right. I was a redhead and so pale I was a distant relative of Casper the Friendly Ghost, which meant you could see my blushing a mile off.
“You’re adorable when you blush.” Adam grinned.
“Thank God,” I drawled. “That was my life goal. Be adorable. Now, I can get it in neon lights over my bed.”
“Will they be black to match your soul?”
“Red, actually.”
“To match your hair?”
“No. Red to match your blood when I murder you in your sleep.” I put the wand back in the tube and put it in my makeup bag.
“I’ll keep it in mind. And hide all the sharp objects.”
I turned, leaning against the sink. “Who said I needed a sharp object?”
“You’re right.” He walked over to me, trapping me against the counter with his body. His fingertips grazed my knuckles as his hands clamped onto the counter and gave me no means of escape. “Hockey pucks are deadly. I’ve seen them slam into people more times than you can imagine.”
“I always told my parents, sports are dangerous.”
“Is that why you don’t follow them?”
“No. I don’t follow them because I literally do not care about them.”
He blinked at me for a second before his lips curled and laughter burst from him. His forehead rested on my shoulder, and his entire body shook with his amusement at my words.
“Did I make a joke I don’t understand?” I asked, moving as if I could look at his face.
