Page 13 of Her Age Gap Match

Poppy

The number of times I almost chickened out was truly absurd.

I changed my outfit about ten times…waffling between business casual to make it seem like a real meeting, or date cute to make it seem like a…well, like a date. I couldn't figure out if I wanted my hair up or down. If I should keep it professional. If I should wear sensible flats or the shoes that Stevie so eloquently described as “fuck-me heels.”

I came down on a weird combination of vibes that felt 100% inappropriate as I hopped on the train.

Then of course I started agonizing over what I was going to say. There was no real reason for this meeting. I could make it up in the email, yeah, but in real life I would have to be much more creative. Should I keep the pretense? Should I be straightforward and explain the situation?

Meet him at the door, yank him into the nearest bathroom, and ask him to have his way with me?

By the time I got to The Perch—fifteen minutes early—I had answers to none of those questions.

And the real kicker? Johnny was already here.

I saw his bike before I saw him, the Harley parked outside the coffee shop, helmet hung over one of the handles. Even the sight of his bike made my stomach do weird things. It kinda flipped over and then I thought I was going to vomit and then I thought I was getting horny, which was all very confusing.

I stood outside for a second longer than was strictly necessary, doing a final check of my reflection in the dark glass of the door.

The outfit had landed somewhere between professional curiosity and I definitely thought about this — dark jeans, a rust colored sweater that Stevie had pointed at and said that one without looking up from her cereal, ankle boots that were not the fuck-me heels but were not not trying either. Hair down. I'd almost put it up four times on the train and talked myself out of it every time for reasons I didn't examine too closely.

I pushed the door open.

The Perch was small and warm and smelled like good coffee and woodsmoke from a fireplace in the corner that had no business being as charming as it was. Big windows faced the lake, grey and choppy in the November cold. A handful of people with laptops. Soft music. The kind of place that felt like someone's living room if their living room had an espresso machine.

And there he was.

He was at a table by the window, already with a coffee, his jacket over the back of the chair. He was reading something on his phone and hadn't seen me yet, which gave me approximately three seconds to just — look at him.

Silver hair. The jaw. The way he sat like he was completely comfortable taking up space, not performing it, just genuinely at ease in his own body in a way that most men half his age weren't. He was wearing a dark henley pushed up at the forearms and I remembered what Stevie had said when I'd described him once, which was that's not a man, that's a problem.

She had not been wrong.

He looked up.

Smiled.

Seemed…a little confused.

Yeah, so was I.

I gave him an awkward wave then went to the counter to get a drink, feeling his eyes on me the whole time. Got myself a hot chocolate because I certainly didn't need more caffeine. Once the drink was made, I went to the table, taking a seat across from him, and it felt…

It felt good. It felt more right than talking to him over a desk. Like this was where we were supposed to end up from the very beginning.

“It's good to see you,” he said. He was drinking black coffee, maybe an Americano. “You take the train?”

“Yeah,” I nodded. “It was nice and roomy. Gave me some time to think.”

Damn it, Poppy, think about what?! Your decisions? I realized I didn't have to make it so obvious, but my mouth seemed to have other plans.

“I would've offered you a ride if I'd known you had to take the train.”

“Oh, it's no problem. And I've never been on a motorcycle before so⁠—”

He laughed softly. “I have a car too. Not gonna force you to do anything that scares you.”

Those words should not have had the effect on me that they did.