Page 40 of I'll Keep Her Safe

Poppy exhales. “I hope you’re right.” She serves up the dish, which, admittedly, smells pretty damn good, and places a bowl in front of me. “Okay. Try this.”

I pick up my fork with great reluctance and prod a steaming sprout. Its leaves are curly and crunchy-looking, the halloumi soft and gooey, its edges browned. I love halloumi, and I really hope this dish doesn’t ruin it for me.

I have no reason to worry, though, because the moment I raise a forkful of the dish to my mouth, I know I’ll never look at Brussels Sprouts the same way. Instead of the soft, mushy balls my mom used to serve me, these are crispy and flavorful, the salty halloumi and fresh mint, with the hint of sweetness from the pomegranate, a perfect complement.

“Holy shit,” I mutter as I swallow, looking at Poppy. She laughs happily. “I can’t believe you made them taste so good.”

“I know, right?”

I shake my head, devouring another mouthful, then check there’s more left in the dish because I will absolutely be going back for seconds. She’s wasting her talents as a barista, even if she has finally taken steps with her marketing business. As I chew, I think about what she told me when we discussed her switch from culinary school to marketing—my ex talked me into it. I suspect she didn’t change careers because she wanted to. She did it because that scumbag convinced her to do it.

Still, it’s really not my business. She’s got her marketing degree, so she may as well use it. And maybe cooking at home will be enough for her.

A huge part of me doubts that.

I sneak a glance at Poppy, but her eyes are on something behind me in the living room. When I turn to follow her gaze, I spy Sugar, still batting the sprout around the rug.

Crap.

“What the…” Poppy rises from her stool and crosses the room, bending to snatch the sprout from Sugar’s paws. She holds it up to me, her mouth opening with a disbelieving laugh as she walks back into the kitchen. “Are you serious?”

My shoulders rise innocently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She shakes her head in mock outrage while I bite my lip to hold in a laugh. And then she does something completely unexpected—she throws the sprout at my head.

A laugh rushes up my throat as I narrowly dodge it, my back twitching in the process. “You’re lucky I have a bad back, young lady, or you’d be in trouble right now.”

Her eyes flash. I’m not sure if it’s the “young lady” or the promise of trouble, but her breath hitches as she stares at me. She’s still wearing that damn apron, and for a brief moment I imagine bending her over the kitchen counter and pressing myself to her soft curves. She seems to know exactly what I’m thinking, because she swallows hard, heat sparking in her gaze.

Shit. What the hell am I doing?

I look away, sucking in a breath. Of course she doesn’t know what I’m thinking—and thank fuck for that. There’s no way she’d feel safe here if she did.

And I’d fucking hate myself for it.

After a beat, she slides back onto the stool beside me, then tosses the sprout back to Sugar.

And I stuff my mouth full with her delicious food, counting the minutes until the weekend is over.

16

Poppy

For the first time in ages, life feels good. I have a job I don’t hate, I live with a super hot man (who, okay, is completely off-limits, but I won’t dwell on that part), and best of all, I landed my first marketing client.

My first client!

I don’t know what I was expecting when I launched our business, but it wasn’t, you know, clients. They found me through my Instagram account. I’m offering a reduced rate while I build my client list, and they were pleased I could devote most of my time to them since I have so few (I mean, no) other clients.

So, that’s exactly what I’ve done. Every night, after work and after whipping up a quick meal for Wyatt, I’ve gone to my room to work on the digital marketing package I’ve been putting together for this client. I battled impostor syndrome—and the urge to call Bailey to beg for her help—every step of the way, but I did it.

And I can’t quite believe it, but the client was thrilled. When their payment came through, I stared at my PayPal account in shock. I never knew how it would feel to earn money on your own—without a boss deciding your worth, the hours you’ll work, or the hideous uniform you’ll wear—and it’s different, that’s for sure.

The only downside is that I haven’t heard a word from Bailey. I feel like I’m hiding a dirty secret from her, and that’s before we even get to the inappropriate crush I’m harboring on her dad. We were supposed to run this business together, and while I’m happy for my friend and her new life in San Francisco, it’s not the same doing it without her. When the money came through, my elation was tinged with guilt. And even though I did all the work, I had this feeling like I didn’t quite deserve the money. Like it shouldn’t be mine.

Anyway. It’s my first free night since completing the project, and I want to celebrate, but as I wander home from my shift at the coffee shop, I feel the familiar monthly cramps begin in my abdomen.

Goddammit. If ever there’s a way to ruin my good mood, this is it.

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