Page 12 of Whiskey & Wreckage

“She was at a bar last night. Alone. Wasted. Crying. I don’t know why I went over. I just… did.”

“She hot?” Kellan asks, always the tactful one.

I shoot him a look. “That’s not the point.”

“That’s a yes,” Maya says under her breath.

“I didn’t sleep with her,” I add, because I can already see where this is going. “She was in no state for that. I got her a hotel room. Made sure she was safe.”

“Wait,you?” Nash says, blinking like I’ve grown antlers. “Thomas ‘Mr. Ice Cold Boundaries’ Ashcroft tucked a random woman into a hotel room and walked away?”

“Yeah,” I mutter.

“You’re sure you didn’t hit your head?” He laughs.

“Shut up.”

Griff whistles low. “Didn’t realize we were in the business of charity cases now.”

I narrow my eyes. “She’s not a charity case.”

They all go silent again. This time, they look at me differently. Like maybe they’re starting to understand just how weird this is for me. For us. I don’t do kindness. I do results.

“Well damn,” Maya says after a beat. “That’s... surprisingly decent of you.”

“I’m not getting involved,” I say quickly, trying to convince myself as much as them. “She’s just… stuck in my head.”

Nash smirks. “You’ve got itbad, man.”

The meeting eventually wraps. Everyone filters out, still talking about potential client contracts and team assignments, but I stay behind a little longer. As soon as the room clears, I head to my office and shut the door behind me.

It’s quiet. Peaceful. Except for the chaos still buzzing in my skull.

I sit at my desk and pull out my phone. Still no response from Poppy.

I frown, staring at the screen for a beat before finally typing:

Me: You good, peanut warrior?

Nothing.

I wait. Tap the screen. Check the signal. Still nothing.

A weird pang goes through me. I’ve known herless than a day, and I’m already spiraling over her lack of response like some anxious teenager. This is ridiculous.

I call the hotel. The front desk answers with polished professionalism, and I ask if they’ve seen the guest in Room 506. They haven’t. She hasn’t ordered anything. No sign of her since check-in.

My stomach clenches, but I keep my voice steady. “Can you send up breakfast? Something solid. Waffles, bacon, juice, whatever. And keep it on my card.”

“Yes, sir,” the concierge says. “We’ll handle it.”

I end the call and lean back in my chair, still staring at my phone like I can will it to buzz.

And then, it does.

Poppy: Barely. Whiskey: 1, Poppy: 0.

I huff out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. My lips twitch into the first real smile I’ve had all damn day.

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