Page 48 of Double Puck

It's unsettling.

I'm used to people reacting to me. Laughing, groaning, throwing hockey gloves at my head to get me to shut up. But Poppy Sinclair reacts to me the way the ocean reacts to a pebble being lobbed into its endless depths.

"So how does this work?" I ask, spreading my arms across the chair. "Do I lie down while you hypnotize me? Or is this the part where you swing a pocket watch and make me cluck like a chicken? Because, full disclosure, I can already cluck on command."

Again, Poppy is calm as hell.

"We just talk." That tiny smile appears again.

What's with this woman?

"That's it?"

"That's it."

"Huh." I drum my fingers on the armrest. "Talking. Alright… lucky for you, talking is my specialty. This is going to be the easiest hour of your career, doc. You should've brought a book."

"Noted." She tilts her head and grabs a notepad from the table sitting between us. "So how are you feeling today?"

That's her opening question? Shit. This is going to be a breeze.

"Great, actually." And I'm not even lying. "My sister, Zoey, flies in from Chilmore today. She's staying the whole weekend. Josie set the whole thing up. Big sibling reunion, beach house, Diego working his magic in the kitchen. The works."

"You're close with your sister?"

"Oh yeah. Zoey basically raised us. She's the only person alive who can look at me mid-sentence and know exactly which parts are bullshit." I grin. "It's a terrifying superpower."

"So you're excited to see her."

"I guess," I shrug, rolling my shoulders. "I mean, she's going to insult my hair within ninety seconds of landing, but I've missed that kind of love."

Poppy nods slowly, scratching at her notepad with a Bears branded pen. "And what about the rest of the family? They'll all be there this weekend?"

"The Beachside branch, yeah. Declan, Mason, me. The full Morrison circus, minus the ringmaster and the—" I stop to recalibrate. "Minus the parents."

"Minus the parents," she repeats, gently, watching me carefully. "Why aren't they coming, Beck?"

"Well, they're kind of tied up at the moment," I say. "Divorcing. Splitting up the lifetime collection of stuff they didn’t even notice they owned until now. You know, the usual parental bullshit."

Poppy’s expression doesn’t move. Her eyebrows stay right where they are, unimpressed. Seriously, this is like trying to charm a goddamn Buddha statue.

"And how do you feel about that?" she asks softly, lowering her pen.

"How do I feel?" I laugh, sharp and humorless. "I feel like Dad's shopping for a convertible while my mom is buying enough Chardonnay to keep her therapist employed through Christmas. You know how it goes."

The pen’s back in her hand now, tapping against the notepad like she’s waiting for the bullshit to run out.

The worst part? Sitting in this room, in this chair with her looking at me with all the patience in the world, it might.

Fuck me.

All I wanted to do when I woke up this morning, was work out a plan how I was going to find a way to kiss Darcy Madden again. Maybe plan an accidental hallway collision. Or a casual “Hey, come help me with my stats—oh, crap, now we’re kissing again” maneuver.

But nope. I’m here.

Under verbal assault from Dr. Peaceful, who within minutes of our first session, somehow has me unpacking childhood trauma.

Not exactly the post-kiss glow I was aiming for.