Page 16 of I'll Keep Her Safe

“Ah, the infamous ex,” I say without thinking, then grimace. “Bailey mentioned him.”

Poppy lifts her gaze to the ceiling. “She’s worried about him, but really, it’s not an issue. I’m fine.”

“That’s what I told her.”

Poppy’s gaze meets mine, and something passes between us. An understanding that while Bailey is well-intentioned, she’s also overprotective. That’s what she’s like with the people she cares about, but I sense that’s also why both Poppy and I love her. Her fierce loyalty.

“Do you wish you’d stayed?” I ask, and Poppy looks momentarily confused. “At culinary school. Do you wish you’d stuck with that, instead?”

Her mouth opens and closes as she debates her answer. Eventually, she shakes her head. “Marketing is a more stable career. It’s hard to make good money in hospitality.”

I frown. I’m not entirely sure that’s true, but I bite my tongue. It’s not my place to lecture the woman on her life choices when she’s recently graduated.

“And Bailey and I are starting a digital marketing business,” Poppy adds, but there’s a line of worry along her brow as she says it. Bailey told me all about their business, though I got the sense she wasn’t going to proceed with it after taking the job in San Francisco. I wonder if Poppy is aware of that.

The oven timer beeps and she rises to take the crumble from the oven. The aroma wafts over me as she sets it on the counter, and I retrieve some vanilla ice cream from the freezer.

“It will be even better with this,” I say, and Poppy looks delighted.

I lean against the counter beside her, watching as she serves the steaming dessert into bowls, as she scoops vanilla ice cream and it melts into the hot crumble. I tell myself it’s because I’m eager for dessert, but that doesn’t explain why my gaze is on the smooth, creamy skin below her earlobe, why I can’t look away from the way she bites her lip as she adds a pinch of mint to our dessert from the plant on my windowsill. She still has that smear of flour on her forehead, and my fingers itch with the urge to reach out and wipe it away. To sink into her hair and stroke the soft skin of her neck.

Fuck. Stop.

With a cough, I return to the breakfast bar, putting some distance between us. What does it say about me, that I’m attracted to my daughter’s best friend? Sure, she’s a few years older than Bailey, but she’s still seventeen years younger than me. Technically young enough to be my daughter, if I’d been irresponsible a few years earlier than I was with Bailey’s mom.

Thank God I wasn’t.

As Poppy sets dessert in front of me, I vow not to so much as even look in her direction for the rest of the evening. But when the rhubarb crumble melts onto my tongue, I shoot her a look of appreciation, surprised to find she’s already watching me, her espresso-brown eyes dark as I lick my lips.

“So good,” I say, shoveling another steaming spoonful into my mouth. If my mouth is full, I can’t say anything stupid. I can’t tell her how much the satisfied smile on her face affects me, how the fire in her gaze makes me feel restless in my seat.

We eat in silence for a while, but the clink of cutlery against bowls grows louder and louder in the quiet, until it becomes almost unbearable. Poppy must sense it too, because she blurts out a question.

“Is that your motorcycle out front?”

I nod, forcing myself not to lick the bowl clean as I finish my dessert. That was so freaking good. I’ll have to ask her for the recipe.

“How long have you had it?” Poppy asks, pushing her own empty bowl away.

I look down at my hands, absently circling a finger over the compass that stretches from my right wrist to my knuckles. The bike is a Triumph Bonneville, bought when I was twenty-two, when I had my whole life ahead of me and all the freedom in the world.

“A while,” I murmur.

I feel more than see Poppy’s nod beside me, keeping my gaze fastened to the kitchen window, where I can see the partially covered wheels of my bike in the courtyard above out front, lit by the streetlight. When did it get dark?

“Bailey never mentioned you have a bike,” she says as she rises to clear the dishes. I should help her, but I’m still sitting at the counter, rubbing my hand and thinking about her words. “Do you ride much?”

The truth is, I don’t ride at all. Not lately. I used to take my bike out all the time, enjoying the scenery of the far reaches of Long Island or Upstate New York on long weekend drives. I loved the freedom to weave through the landscape and explore new places, the feeling of all that power underneath me as I flew along the highway. In the first few months after learning I was a father—after learning everything I’d missed—long rides on my bike were the only thing that kept me sane.

Until one afternoon, while out for ice cream with Bailey, when I was hit with the force of realization. I’ve always known riding a motorcycle is dangerous, but when it’s only you that you have to worry about, it doesn’t seem to matter so much. When it truly hit me that I was a father, that I’d been absent from so much of Bailey’s life, the thought of getting back on the bike scared me. I couldn’t bring myself to do something so risky knowing I had a daughter who was starting to count on me, starting to need me.

Even if I loved it nearly as much as I loved her.

Poppy glances over her shoulder from where she’s filling the sink, and it occurs to me that I haven’t answered. I push up from my stool and wander to the sink, motioning for her to step aside so I can do the dishes myself. I’m glad she hasn’t used the dishwasher; it’s been on the fritz for months and I haven’t gotten around to fixing it.

“No.” I squirt dish liquid into the water. “I don’t ride anymore.”

Her brow creases as she picks up a dish towel. “Why not?”

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