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“Well, Poppy, if you’ll excuse me, I have to give these rug rats some breakfast. Sorry I couldn’t help you with Punky.”
“You know our brother? I love him soooooo much,” Hannah says, jumping on the spot. “He’s sleepin’.”
Looking up at Amber, I slowly come to stand at full height.
She’s just been caught out in a lie, but instead of apologizing, she simply stares, challenging me to call her out on it. She’s definitely into him. The green-eyed monster returns.
“He doesn’t live in here. He lives out back.”
“Ethan, that’s enough!” Amber scolds, gently ruffling his hair. “Come on, your eggs are going to get cold.”
“Bye!” the kids cheerfully holler, pushing past Amber and skipping down the hallway.
“Bye,” I reply, knowing what I’m going to do. “It was nice meeting y’all.”
Amber makes it clear she’s not closing the door until I get off her front lawn, so I smile and wave goodbye. I hear the door slam shut seconds later.
This should be an omen, that I should continue walking down this driveway and not go in search of Punky, who lives out back. But my feet disagree because when I think Amber has stopped manning the fort, I turn around and make a mad dash in the opposite direction of where I should be going.
I half expect the hounds to be unleashed, biting at my heels, or better still, Amber to come charging out, shotgun in hand. But none of that happens.
I keep running, and when I see a stable yard buildingin the distance, I realize what “out back” means. Punky lives out here as he clearly has no interest residing in the main residence. I have an inkling that’s because he doesn’t get along with his dad.
Last night, they barely said three words to one another, and when Connor did speak, I noticed the way Punky would either shift uncomfortably or clench his fist around whatever was in reach. I don’t see a Mrs. Kelly, which has me assuming she’s passed, and this brooch once belonged to her.
Tears well in my eyes, but I quickly wipe them away.
Once I’m close to the stable yard building, I come to a stop and catch my breath. I haven’t given much thought to what I’m going to say because I didn’t think I’d have the balls to actually come here. But I am here, and nerves suddenly overtake me.
I don’t know what it is about Punky, but he makes me nervous. But underneath those nerves, I can’t deny that there is an exhilaration I haven’t felt before. When he touches me—like last night when he ran his thumb along my lip—the noise, the chaos, it all fades into the background, and I feel…alive.
It doesn’t make sense. It shouldn’t. I barely know him, but I can’t deny Punky intrigues me.
He doesn’t realize how attractive he is, which, in itself, is a complete turn-on. He’s arrogant, yes, but that arrogance isn’t in the way he looks, but rather, the way he composes himself and the control he wields in everyday activities.
He’s tall, and his body is lean, muscular, like a fighter’s physique. I use this term because his face was bruised, but he was still standing, which has me believing he knows how to throw a punch. His eyes are the bluest in color, and he styles his tousled dirty blond hair in a way that accents his bad-boy look.
His piercings, tattoos, and bad attitude should all be a warning to keep away, but they just interest me all the more.
I stop overthinking and walk to the glass front door. I’m about to knock, but I notice the door is slightly ajar. I should not—absolutely should not—enter, but I softly push open the door before my brain has a say. I freeze because I’m suddenly hit with a delectable rich, sexy, and sensual fragrance—Punky.
Being in his private domain feels utterly sinful, and I like it. I want more.
Tiptoeing through his home, I take a look around, immersed in history with a modern-day feel. The exterior is brick, matching the main house, but the interior has been outfitted with modern white walls. There is wooden furniture and modern appliances, but what catches my eye are the beautifully sketched artworks adorning the walls.
One in particular fascinates me; it’s just a white canvas with charcoal lines, but the way in which those lines are sketched, I find myself lost in the silence while also deafened by the noise. I wonder who the artist is.
The furnishings and appliances are what you’d expect to find in most homes, but considering Punky shares these grounds with a castle, it’s modest in comparison, and I like it. He doesn’t show off his wealth. Everything in here has a place.
The mystery of Puck Kelly just continues to grow.
There is a beautiful chandelier hanging in the middle of the room, and I peer up at it, mesmerized by the sunlight streaming in from the windows and catching the low-hanging jewels. They send mini rainbows across the carpet, giving off the illusion that everything isn’t fucked up beyond repair.
Digging into my handbag, I run a finger over the rose brooch, not missing the similarities of it and the one tattooed on the back of Punky’s right hand. I can’t read what is written across his knuckles, and I have a feeling this was done with intent.
His tattoos are for him and not for the world to see. And I like that.
I’m about to leave the brooch on the kitchen counter as this was a bad idea and I’m clearly insane for even being here, but suddenly, it’s too late. The world is about to eat me whole.
