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I straighten my back and knock on Diana Nichols’s door.
Nothing happens for a long minute.
“I thought she’d be home.”
“Maybe you look too intimidating?” Connor deadpans.
I scowl his way but then fix a charming, friendly smile on my face as I knock again. A few seconds later, I hear footsteps, and then a tired, wary voice from the other side says, “What do you want?”
“Hi, Ms. Nichols. My name is Poppy Woodstock. I’m here because—”
There’s a harsh laugh from the other side of the peephole. “Woman, you aren’t Poppy Woodstock, so get to stepping away from my door.”
“Uh . . .” I look at Connor, not for a rescue but because I wasn’t expecting her to tell me I’m not . . . me. “I assure you, I am Poppy Woodstock.” A light dings in my head. “I can prove it!”
I dig in my purse, the tiny wallet clutch I carry, and pull out my driver’s license. “See, I’m . . . me.” I hold up the card to the peep hole and then move it down so she can see me.
Smile. Look non-threatening, I remind myself.
“Oh, my God,” I hear her hiss, and then I hear a thud, almost as if she bonked her head on the door. Before I can start to ask if I need to call for a paramedic, as ironic as that’d be, the locks begin to disengage. Still careful, she cracks the door. “Are you the Poppy Woodstock?”
“Yeah?” I say as I slip my driver’s license back in my wallet, a little unsure why she asked it like that. “In the flesh.”
“The author?” she clarifies.
My eyes pop open in surprise. “Wait . . . you know my book?”
“Love in Great Falls? Doesn’t everyone?” she gushes.
“You’d be surprised,” I say wryly.
“Oh, my God, I devoured it in like one quiet shift and then read it again the next to make sure I got it all. I can’t wait for book two!” She’s totally fangirling, eyes bright, smile wide, and hands clasped below her chin.
“Funny story . . . but that’s actually why I’m here.” Just like in a book, I throw out the hook, hoping she wants more. “I need your help.”
“What?” she asks, her brows dipping together. “My help? What, are you writing about a paramedic?”
“It’s kind of a long story.” I tug, tug, tug on the fishing line carefully, hoping she’ll bite. “Can we come in for a second?”
“We?”
I tilt my head down the hall. “This is Connor, my fiancé.”
I see his eyes narrow sharply at the label, but I know what I’m doing. If I introduce him as ‘the guy I’m with’, he’s threatening. As my fiancé, though . . .
“Your fiancé!” Diana squeals.
Connor pushes off the wall and steps forward. Diana’s eyes trace over him from head to toe, her jaw dropping open and her eyes getting wider and wider. I swear she measures the width of his shoulders at least three times. “Holy shit, Poppy. Now I see where you get your inspiration from.”
She’s only complimenting Connor’s good looks, not flirting with him, but possessiveness shoots through me anyway. I cuddle into his side, placing my hand on his chest to flash my ruby ring.
“Ooh, you lucky ducky,” Diana sings enthusiastically through a huge, happy grin. “Got yourself one of the good ones.”
At first, I think she’s talking to me, but she’s looking directly at Connor. He seems to catch her meaning too and pulls me in tighter with his free hand. “Quack, quack,” he deadpans. “Hi.”
I look at him in shock. “Did you just make a joke?”
He doesn’t smile, but his eyes bore into mine before they flick to Diana. Oh, he’s playing a part . . . the part of the dutiful fiancé to apparently famous author Poppy Woodstock.
Wait, when the hell did I become famous?
I shake my head, falling back into character. The character of . . . me. “I swear I’ll explain everything if we can come in for a minute? Please?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Diana says, moving back from the door in welcome. “Excuse the mess. I came home from work and crashed.”
I look to where she indicates, seeing the couch pillows arranged in a cozy corner of the couch, a blanket haphazardly thrown aside, and a very full glass of red wine on the table. At the foot of the couch is a pile of what looks like fresh but unfolded laundry, but other than that, I’ve seen a lot worse.
I live in worse. At least her couch isn’t covered in Pomeranian hair.
“Speaking of, I made you dinner.” I take the brown bag of goodies from Connor and hold it out to Diana. She takes it curiously, peering inside.
“You made me dinner? Why?” Suspicion enters her tone.
“We came by before, and the guy downstairs said you were working a long shift.” I shrug. “I know how that is, working so hard that you don’t stop to eat. I figured you’d be hungry.”
