Page 6 of Whiskey & Wreckage

He nods, pulling up the info. “Of course. May I see some ID?”

I nudge Poppy gently. “Hey. Can you give them your ID?”

She fumbles in her purse, pulls out her wallet, and hands it over. The clerk scans it. I do too, with my phone. Just in case.

“Room 506,” the clerk says, handing over the keycard. “Everything’s taken care of.”

Poppy eyes me. “I’m paying you back for this.”

I shrug. “We’ll see.”

She huffs but doesn’t fight me. When we reach the room, I flick on the light and do a quick once-over. Clean. Plush. Exactly what she needs.

She drops onto the bed with a groan. “I’m officially a mess.”

“Maybe,” I say gently, scanning the room one more time. “But considering the circumstances? You’re holding it together.”

She looks up at me, and for a second, I just… take her in.

She’s curvy in a way that makes it real hard to look away. Full tits, small waist, hips and ass that were not designed for subtlety. A knockout wrapped in a rumpled white tank top and tight black leggings that hug every curve like they were tailored. Her dirty blonde hair’s a little wild, falling in soft waves past her shoulders and down her back, and her eyes,Jesus. Baby blue, even red-rimmed from crying and rimmed with smudged mascara. Wide and too honest for someone who’s clearly been hurt way too much.

She’s adorable. Beautiful. And totally wrecked.

Who the hell cheats on a woman likeher? Who the hell looks at this fierce, sharp, curvy little firecracker and decidesthat’sthe one to betray?

My jaw ticks before I catch myself.

She notices me watching and blinks slowly. “What?”

I shake my head and offer a small smirk. “Just wondering how anyone could be dumb enough to mess with you.”

She lets out a soft, bitter laugh. “Me too.”

“You didn’t have to do this,” she says softly.

“I know. Couldn’t leave you stranded.”

“You’re nicer than you pretend,” she says, already fading.

“Don’t go spreading rumors. I’ve got a rep.”

She’s halfway asleep when I call out, “Drink some water.”

A grunt is her only answer. I wait in the hallway until I hear the lock click, then head for home.

My home is a converted warehouse, steel, glass, wood. Cold and clean. Just the way I like it.

But Bear, my 140-pound security system disguised as a dog, has other ideas. He barrels toward me the second I walk in, tongue out, tail thumping like a bass drum.

“Miss me?” I mutter, patting his side.

He leans into me with a grunt and then lumbers off to flop dramatically on the couch.

I grab a beer from the fridge and sit at the island, opening my laptop. I pull up the scan of Poppy’s ID and let my software work its magic.

Poppy Renee Whitaker.

No arrests. No red flags. Just a trail of quiet excellence. Small-town girl. Full academic scholarship. Double major. MBA. Graduated early.

---