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“Wow,” I breathe, part impressed and part scared. This is similar to what I do when I’m planning a job, but I usually keep it in my head. It’s safer that way. This is . . . all out there in the open for anyone to see her crazy.
Poppy looks where I’m focused and rolls her eyes, but her laugh is tight, betraying her nerves. “I swear I’m not some weirdo conspiracy theorist. It’s my design board for my books. When I make a character, I create a picture that best fits how I picture them. The string is how I can remember their relationship with other characters at a glance. The whiteboard’s my written information.”
“That’s—”
I’m interrupted as twin yapping sounds fill the air, and suddenly, two furry balls of insanity are streaking around the room, dancing around everything before realizing that there’s a new human inside. Immediately, I’m swarmed with bouncing, sniffing, and yipping.
“Nut and Juice.” Poppy introduces them like I didn’t already figure that out.
They’re maniacs, but I know how to deal with that. I don’t bend down to pet them, but instead, I snap my fingers sharply to get their attention and then hold out a palm. They calm instantly, tongues hanging out and attention locked on me. “Good dogs.”
Poppy looks at me in wonder, “How’d you get them to do that? They never do that for me.”
I shrug. “I guess they recognize an alpha.”
She hums disbelievingly, taking it as a joke. I’m only half kidding.
“I wanna show you something,” she says, spinning and going into the kitchen. “Come here.”
I don’t take orders from many people, but I’m curious to see what she’s got up her sleeve. If she even knows, I think wryly. Seriously, the more time I spend with Poppy, the more I think she lives her entire life fifteen seconds at a time.
In the kitchen, she kicks out a chair, gesturing for me to sit. I scan the room quickly, noting that the layout is similar to my own place and actually a lot cleaner than her dining area, then lower to the wooden chair.
Poppy digs around in a drawer and pulls out a little bag that looks like a travel toiletry kit before coming over to sit beside me. “Hand?” she says, holding hers out.
I lift a brow in question, not moving a muscle. She growls, cute as can be, and reaches for my hand. I have plenty of time to move away from her, but I don’t. I’m too curious about what’s she’s doing.
It’s not until she lifts the hand up and looks at the heel of my hand and starts peering at my fingers that I realize what she’s doing. She’s checking me for injuries, and her bag is her first aid kit . . . in a blue and yellow vinyl shaving kit bag.
Because Poppy.
“It’s fine,” I tell her, but I don’t move away. Not when I’m enjoying the feel of her fingers dancing over mine, testing and teasing as she searches for any signs of trauma. I’m not used to people taking care of me. It’s . . . nice, though warning bells are sounding in my head telling me not to get used to it.
“I’m sure it is, tough guy. But that guy’s nose has probably seen more snow than a Colorado mountaintop, and the last thing I want is for you to get some weird infection from his snot and blood splashing into a hangnail or torn cuticle on your hand.”
I blink, processing what she said. “That’s . . . very specific.”
Her lips tilt down, not quite a frown but definitely taking that as an insult. “I told you, I create entire scenarios in my head, taking notes on real ones and pretend ones, adding details and drama at every turn. It’s what keeps my life—and my stories—interesting.”
“Here,” she says, opening her kit and taking out a little bottle of hand sanitizer and grabbing a napkin from the table. She uncaps the bottle and puts a dab on the single tiny cut she’s found, letting it ooze in and start to sting before she wipes it away. “And now . . . Neo.”
Out comes the Neosporin, and then a Band-Aid to top it all off. When she’s done, I flex my hand, nodding. “I think I’ll live.”
“Very funny,” Poppy says, not letting go of my hand. “Connor, what you did with Derrick . . .”
Her voice trails off, and she looks up at me with questions in her eyes. Wordlessly, she takes my uninjured hand and pulls it in closer, laying it on her damp T-shirt over her heart. I can feel the pounding thrum racing beneath my palm, and she’s leaned in so closely, I can hear the jaggedness of her breath.
“I didn’t mean to scare you,” I rasp, trying to focus on calming her nerves after seeing me that way. I shouldn’t care, but fuck knows, I do. She already knows I’m an asshole, but I don’t want her to think I’m a monster too.
