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Her affirmation is for herself, not me, but I nod along anyway, taking it to heart. Maybe I can do it all too—get Poppy’s laptop, do the job for Mr. Big, and not break Poppy’s heart in the process.
Fantasy? Sure. But stranger things have happened, like someone like her accepting someone like me, just as I am.
But no matter how good Poppy feels about her chances, I’m not feeling as good about mine.
Chapter 17
Poppy
It’s past sunset by the time we get back to Diana Nichols’s apartment building, and the streetlights are on as Connor parks his truck on the street. I notice that he visibly hits the lock tab on his key fob when he gets out, making sure the double beep and flashing lights tell anyone who might be watching that the car’s locked.
It’s that kind of neighborhood.
But the same guy as yesterday is still sitting on the steps wearing a green T-shirt instead of yesterday’s black tank top. He’s also got a friend with him, or at least I assume they are by the way they’re talking.
“You must be out of your got-damned mind! Ain’t no way in hell Lebron’s better than MJ!”
“Look at the point totals, man. Lebron’s bigger, taller, more points, more rebounds—”
“Championships! That’s all that matters!”
As I get closer, the guy from yesterday nods to me and says, “Welcome back,” lifting his chin toward the door before going back to his conversation. “Man, you gonna run my blood pressure up trying to tell me MJ ain’t the greatest.”
I’m not sure if he’s giving us permission to go inside or telling us that Diana is home, but Connor tries to shuffle me in with his hand on my lower back.
“Wait,” I tell him, spinning out of his reach. I dig around in the bag of food I packed and turn back to the steps-guy to hold out a baggie of cookies. “I made these today. Thanks for your help.”
He holds his palm toward me, shaking his hand in a warding off gesture. “Nah, I didn’t help with nothing.”
The other guy interrupts to ask curiously, “Hey, those some sort of special cookies?”
I smile at his interest. “Yes, my grandmother’s recipe.”
“Your grandmama made special cookies?”
“Of course! Doesn’t everyone’s grandma? These are chocolate chip, my favorite. I sprinkled in a little extra love and chocolate too,” I confide with a wink, rubbing my fingers through the air like I’m sprinkling magical fairy dust over the cookies.
The two guys’ eyes light up. “Okay, okay,” he says, taking the bag of cookies. “One for you, one for me,” he tells his friend.
They dig in, munching and moaning in delight as their eyes close. “Fuck, man, I gotta call my momma after this.”
“Enjoy!” I tell them and then go back to Connor, whose lips are twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. At what, I don’t know.
He guides me inside, and we go up the two flights of stairs to Diana Nichols’s floor. We find her apartment by following the info from the pawn shop, pausing outside the worn but solid looking door. Right before Connor knocks, I place a hand on his chest. “Wait. This time, let me handle this.”
“Excuse me?” Connor asks, and I can see he wants to argue and to protect me.
“You said to let you lead at the pawn shop,” I reply quietly, “but this is different. This calls for a gentler touch.”
“You almost went berserk with a golf club at the pawn shop. Is that what you call a gentler touch?” he growls. “Besides, I can be gentle.”
“Yes, you can, fair point. But she’s not going to open the door if she puts her eye to the peephole and sees you looking all tall, dark, and dangerous in her hallway. And it’ll be easier to get her to listen to us if you’re not looking like John Wick with better hair.” I point at his head with finger guns, firing them like pew-pew-pew to show how intimidating he appears to be, especially to a woman alone at home. “Let me do my thing, and if it doesn’t work . . . well, we won’t have to worry about it because it will.”
I straighten out my ponytail and do my best to put on a friendly look to show him how it’s done.
He sighs, knowing he can’t compete with my smile and giving in to the fact that he’s beat, hands down, with no need for a recount. “Fine. No golf clubs, though.”
I crinkle my brow, giving him an airheaded ‘duh’ look. “Of course not. I left Gary at home.”
“Gary?”
“The golf club.”
I think I hear him mutter something about crazy chicks under his breath as he steps off to the side, out of peephole view, to lean against the wall. But in a flash, he softens his features, unclenching his jaw and smoothing his brow. The difference is dramatic, turning him from intimidating to handsome. I’m not sure which look I prefer.
