Page 39 of I'll Keep Her Safe

“You’re going to remove the outer leaves and trim the stem,” Poppy instructs, as if she’s done this hundreds of times before. “Then score a cross into the base of it. Got it?”

“Got it,” I echo, although I’m not sure how that’s going to make this hideous vegetable palatable. But I focus on my task, wanting to impress her, despite myself. I’m so focused that I don’t even notice when she puts the apron on again. It’s not until I’ve finished that I glance up and see the red and blue fabric hugging her curves.

Fuck.

“All done,” I choke out, studiously lining the sprouts up in a row for her to inspect. She laughs when she sees.

“These look great.”

It’s pathetic the way my chest puffs at her compliment. The way I watch her throw them into a dish with olive oil, then put them in the oven to roast. The way I wish I could cross the room and pull her close, press my mouth to that soft patch of skin below her ear.

“Can I get you anything for your back?” she asks, completely oblivious to my wandering mind.

“No, thanks.” I pat the stool beside me. “Sit down. You’ve been running around all morning.”

She slides onto the stool. “I loved the community garden, and Marty seems like such a nice guy.”

I smile. I shouldn’t be surprised those two got along.

“He is. He lost his wife Joyce late last year. They’d been together for seventy years, and it’s been difficult to see him go through that.”

“Oh.” Poppy puts a hand on her heart, her eyes swimming with compassion. “I can’t imagine how hard that must be.”

I nod my agreement.

“Imagine being with someone for that long,” she adds wistfully. Her eyes flick to mine, then away. “Do you ever think about getting married?”

The question takes me entirely by surprise, and I think for a moment before answering. “I did, once, but then Bailey came along.”

She looks perplexed. “So?”

“Well…” I shrug, not sure how to put it into words. “She became the most important person in my life. Between work and making up for lost time as her father, I didn’t make dating a priority.”

“What about now? She’s grown up and moved away.”

I chuff a laugh, looking away. What I don’t say is that it almost feels too late, for some reason. I know the thought isn’t rational, but it’s there all the same.

“What about you?” I deflect. “You want to get married?”

“Definitely.” The oven timer rings, and she pulls the tray from the oven, adding chunks of halloumi before sliding it back in. Turning to me, she wipes her hands on her apron. “I want a husband and kids. The white picket fence. All that.”

I look at her, standing in my kitchen in her apron, and can easily picture it. Considering how she’s cared for me since I hurt my back, the way she looks after Sugar, I can tell she’d be a great mom. No doubt about that. As for a wife…

Well, whoever ends up with her will be one lucky bastard.

I push the thought away, watching as she pulls a pomegranate from the fridge—when the hell did she get that?—and snips a few sprigs of mint off the plant on the windowsill. She’s clearly in her element, humming quietly to herself as she works, and I can’t help but marvel at how naturally this comes to her. I’m reminded of how excited she was to come to the community garden and select vegetables, and the utter delight on her face when she saw the eggplants, when Marty offered her the Brussels Sprouts. Why on earth isn’t she pursuing a career doing this? I bet she’d enjoy it a lot more than marketing.

“Have you thought any more about your business?” I ask tentatively. The minute the words leave my mouth, I regret it. I remember how she deflated the last time we spoke, and I hold my breath, waiting for her smile to fade.

But it widens. “I have, actually. I, uh, launched it yesterday.”

I’m taken aback by the way my lungs expand with pride. A few days ago, she looked utterly defeated at the prospect of launching her business, but she took control and made it happen for herself.

“That’s awesome,” I say, straightening on the stool despite the twinge in my back. “What did Bailey say?”

Poppy scrunches her nose as she takes the sprouts from the oven. “I don’t know. I tried to talk to her about it, but she was so busy with work…” She sprinkles the mint and pomegranate seeds over the dish. “I guess I got a little tired of waiting and decided to go ahead.” She glances at me guiltily, nibbling her lip. “Do you think she’ll mind?”

I picture my daughter on the other side of the country, busy at work, and shake my head. “No. I know she’s flat out at work right now, and she’d want you to do what you think is best. I think it’s great.”

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