It wasn’t supposed to be like this. One little run-in at a fancy dinner and a ripped bag have somehow sent both of our lives veering diametrically off-course.
More than that, she’s going to get hurt, and it’ll be all my fault.
I warned her, but it doesn’t make it any less wrong.
By the time late afternoon rolls around, I’ve got myself half convinced that I have to break this off. I have to tell her that we can’t do this anymore, even though it hurts somewhere deep in my chest to decide that. Not my heart, I sold that to the devil long ago, but maybe to the hollow void where it used to reside.
We need to get her laptop back tonight, and then I have to stop this insanity. Whether I want to or not. For her sake.
My resolve is echoed in my firm knock on her door, and I tell myself again . . . laptop and done. But when the door opens, she sends me stumbling backward as she leaps at me and kisses me hard, hanging onto my neck and waist with her arms and legs.
“Hey,” she says when I can finally be sure I’m not going to fall down, crushing Nut or Juice underneath me since they’re dancing around my ankles and yapping. “I missed you.”
“I can see that,” I reply, holding her up to feel the press of her body against mine for as long as possible. Her intensity is a powerful drug I could easily get addicted to.
Maybe I already am.
“You’ve become part spider monkey.”
“I prefer tree sloth, but that’s because you’ve got a thick piece of wood for me to hold onto,” she teases, wiggling against me and said piece of ‘wood’. “I made dinner for us before we go.”
Stunned into silence, I let her slide down my body and then follow her into the kitchen. She’s cleaned up a bit, and while her whiteboard and corkboard are still in their familiar places, the table itself has been totally cleared. The papers are gone, stashed away someplace, and instead of the mess, she’s set up two place settings. A candle burns warmly in the center of the table.
It looks like a romantic dinner date at home.
“You shouldn’t have done this,” I whisper in shock. “What about your work?”
“I wanted to, and work was fine. I got a lot done. Besides, we’re engaged, remember?” She does little finger quotes around ‘engaged’, but it feels a bit too real with the scene before me. She pulls two plates from the cabinet and sets them down, gesturing for me to sit before she pulls a casserole dish out of the oven. I watch as she serves up two portions of something that smells delicious.
“I made Diana a dinner too,” Poppy says when she sets the plate of what looks like a homely but delicious shepherd’s pie in front of me. “I figure she’ll be hungry after her shift and more likely to be helpful if she’s fed.”
“Good thinking.”
“I cook when I’m nervous, or excited, or both.” Poppy sits down, nearly bouncing in her seat.
“Are you?” I ask. “Excited? Nervous?”
Poppy nods enthusiastically, and I notice that her usual messy bun of hair is in a ponytail today. It bounces around on the back of her head, making me want to wrap it around my fist to pull her hair back and thrust deep and hard into her body, making her scream my name. But I keep that to myself, doing my best to remind myself of tonight’s goals . . . laptop and done.
As we eat, Poppy tells me about the progress she made on her book today. Her smile is easy, her excitement contagious. Both alleviate some of my earlier guilt for fucking up her life by stealing her laptop.
“So yeah, I was able to get some great action scenes written out,” she says between forkfuls of meat and potatoes. “And I created a separate doc that I’m storing the plotted sex scenes in. I gotta admit, I cranked out two of those today like it was nothing. I haven’t had such an easy time doing scenes like that in . . . well, ever.”
“Glad I could inspire you,” I joke. “Your writer’s block problem is solved,” I summarize, taking a bite of my own shepherd’s pie. It’s damn good, and while it’s a little early for dinner by my normal schedule, it’s a great dish regardless.
“Totally!” she says happily. “Once I get my laptop back and merge all of these files, I’ll be in decent shape, I think. Hilda would disagree, of course. She won’t be happy until she’s got a manuscript sitting in her inbox.” She tilts her head, her smile twisting into something less joyful. But quickly, she smiles again. “I can do it. I will do it.”