Page 95 of Wicked Love

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

NUMBER ONE FAN

POPPY

When Bowie opens his door, I think three things:

He looks incredible.

He looks stressed.

What smells so good?

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He tugs me inside and my senses blink and then erupt as they seem to always do whenhe touches me.

“I almost called to see if I could take you out instead because?—”

I hear it then. Raised voices spilling from the kitchen, both fiery.

“I’m telling you, you have to brown the meat first,” Mrs. McGregor’s Scottish brogue carries clear as a bell. “No shortcuts, just a proper sear!”

We walk back and peer in the doorway. Bowie’s mom is lifting a ladle as if it’s a royal scepter.

“No, you should always cook the mirepoix slowly first, then the meat goes in. That’s the authentic way.”

“And you’re Italian?” Mrs. McGregor sniffs.

“And you are?” Bowie’s mom counters.

“I’ve made Bolognese for many years. It’s Bowie’s favorite. I know what I’m doing,” Mrs. McGregor says.

That seems to deflate his mom for a second and Bowie steps into the kitchen, looking back at me with an apologetic smile.

“Oh, you must be Poppy. I’m Paulina,” Bowie’s mom says. “I don’t believe we’ve officially met.”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” I tell her.

“You are gorgeous,” she says warmly.

“Oh…thank you! You are too,” I say sincerely. She really is. From the pictures I’ve seen, Bowie is tall and built like his dad was, but his features are similar to his mom’s.

She hugs me and I glance at Bowie over her shoulder. He looks a little calmer but still nervous.

“You’ll back me up on this, won’t you?” Paulina says, when she pulls away. She gestures to the stove, where a pot of sauce bubbles. “My family has been making Bolognese for generations.”

“Hello, Poppy,” Mrs. McGregor says, smiling wide. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

“You too.”

“Generations, ha,” Mrs. McGregor snorts, rolling her eyes at Paulina. “Next you’ll be saying you’ve been making Cullen Skink all your life.”

Paulina looks flustered for a second and then straightens, her nose lifted. “I’ve made Cullen Skink a time or two.”

“Right,” Mrs. McGregor mutters.

I try to keep a straight face. “I’m sure it’s going to be delicious,” I say diplomatically. “It smells heavenly.”

---