Coke nearly goes up my nose. “Are you—no way. Ki would have mentioned if you were dating. Hell, you’d have led with it when you came into the restaurant. Gotten matching T-shirts.”
Blush doesn’t show as easily on him, given his complexion, but by the way he hangs his head, I know he’s feeling it. I wonder if he asked her out and she shot him down, or if he’s truly been content to moon from afar.
“We’re better off as friends,” he says.
“Sounds like a weak excuse to me. Have you even tried being more?”
He flips me the bird. “We’re talking about you, not me.”
“Hey, you don’t know that I don’t already have a girlfriend.”
“You don’t.” Chester laughs. “At least you better not, with the way you look at Blondie.”
Now it’s my turn to redden. “Remember when you tried to ask out that college girl?”
“Oh, the one with the huge ass catamaran.” Chester looks suitably embarrassed. He thought he had all the charisma in the world at seventeen. “Yeah, that was a fucking mistake.”
“I had a thing with a girl whose dad owned a yacht. Trust me, it wasn’t worth it.”
“Yeah?”
“It was a disaster, actually.” I drag my hand down my face. When I came back to Florida, I didn’t think about how I’d be reminded of Jessica. Her family was from New York, same as Poppy, but I only ever knew her here. I wonder if the boat is still docked down in Fort Lauderdale. I could ask Owen. If he’d pick up the phone for me.“Ever been with a woman and realize she was just using you to make someone else jealous?”
“Shit.”
“I was the chef on the yacht. Working for her dad.”
I hated that job. Hated cooking in a cramped kitchen that rocked with the waves. Hated the way Jessica would walk in like she owned the place while I was in the middle of prepping for yet another dinner party, begging me to drop everything to make her a green smoothie. Hated how I’d do it without fail, then make out with her against the refrigerator, licking the taste of ginger and kale out of her mouth. I didn’t know it then, but all those pictures she took of us went straight to her ex.
“Was she blonde?”
“Is that relevant?”
“Extremely.”
I roll my eyes. “Fine, yes.”
Jessica wasn’t blonde like Poppy, though. Poppy’s hair is like sunshine. Egg yolks. Lemon zest. Corn after it’s been roasted, all sweet and summery. It holds hundreds of shades, same as her jeweled eyes. I bet it’s silky, like softened butter.
Chester hoots, loudly enough to draw stares. “Dude. What a fucking type to have.”
“I don’t have a type,” I mutter half-heartedly.
“I wonder what psychological issues go into having a thing for blondes with rich da—”
“Chesie, I’ve kicked your ass before, and I’ll do it again.”
Chester wipes his eyes, managing to quell his amusement. “Okay, okay. Damn.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Once, twice, a third time. I pull it out, heart clenching when I see it’s a string of texts from Douglas.
Douglas Winfield:Posted a few minutes ago.
Underneath, he sent screenshots of a few Instagram stories. Ryan McCabe out at a club in Los Angeles, according to the geotag, cozying up to a brunette woman with legs for miles. In one, he justhas his arm around her, but in another, they’re making out. Something about her is vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.
Douglas Winfield:Is she with you right now? Has she seen these?
Douglas Winfield:Don’t let her do anything reckless.
