And whatever it is, she shouldn’t have to face it alone.
Chapter Seventeen
Trouble in a Three-Piece Suit
Poppy
“Okay, but like—” I’m three glasses deep at some dive bar that smells like peanuts and bad decisions. “—his forearms are basically criminal.”
CeCe screams. “I KNEW IT. I knew you were hot for lawyer boy!”
“I’m not hot for—”
“You literally just said his forearms are criminal,” Ivy interrupts, sliding another shot across the sticky table. “That’s textbook horny behavior.”
We’ve commandeered a booth in the back corner. Mason and his groomsmen are destroying each other at darts, being loud and stupid and twenty-something. Dean went with them to “supervise,” which probably means he’s nursing a beer and cataloging everyone’s poor decisions.
Gloria flags down the bartender for another round. “Sweetie, just admit you want to climb him like a tree.”
“I don’t want to—”
“Yesterday you froze mid-sentence when he looked your way,” Ivy says. “Just stopped. Like someone unplugged you.”
“There was a bee.”
“Where?” CeCe demands.
“Near his… arms.”
They all cackle. Even through the dim lighting, I can see CeCe’s face turning red.
“Fine.” I knock back the shot. It burns going down. “He’s attractive. In an uptight, probably-color-codes-his-closet way.”
“And?” Ivy prods.
“And he made me pasta. At midnight. Because I forgot to eat.”
“MIDNIGHT PASTA?” CeCe shouts so loud I flinch. “That’s basically a proposal!”
“It was leftovers—”
“He fed you. At midnight. In his kitchen.” Gloria’s using her therapist voice. I hate when she does that. “How did that make you feel?”
“Annoyed.”
“Try again.”
“Confused?”
“Getting warmer.”
I thunk my head on the table. It’s sticky. Everything here is sticky. “I don’t know, okay? He’s just… ugh.”
“Ugh?” Ivy’s grinning. “That’s not an adjective.”
“He does this thing. Where he looks at me. Like really looks. Like he’s trying to solve me.”
“And?”
