Page 6 of Man of the Month Club: May
“Dead bug in my swimming pool!”
“Chunks in my milk!”
“Weed in my flower garden!”
Leaning in close and gazing directly into my eyes, Cooper asks, “Are you as turned on as I am right now?”
I surprise us both by answering, “More.”
6
Cooper
We quickly decide that I’ll drive Poppy to my place, then deliver her back to her car in the morning. It’s the first thing we’ve agreed on all evening.
I take her hand as we wait for the elevator in the parking garage. Her skin is startlingly cold, so I lift it to my mouth, engulf it with both of my palms and blow hot air on it before asking, “Do you need my jacket?”
“No, I’m fine,” she assures me, before adding, “My hands and feet are always icy cold. Poor circulation, I guess. But you know what they always say… cold hands, warm heart.”
“Hmm,” I murmur noncommittally as we step onto the elevator and I push the button for the correct floor.
If anyone had told me when Poppy swooped in to steal my parking spot that I would end the evening by taking her to my place, I would have laughed them out of town, but something about the bristly woman is absolutely intriguing.
She further proves that after climbing into my car and saying, “There is one thing I need to know before I spend the night with you…” At my raised brows, she asks, “Do you have coffee?”
I chuckle at the absurd question, before answering, “Absolutely. What kind of barbarian do you take me for?”
As I back out of the parking spot, she deadpans, “You never know these days. There are some crazies out there. Speaking of which, it’s not decaf, right?”
I give an exaggerated shiver before saying, “No, I’ve never understood the point of drinking decaf coffee.”
“I know, right?” she quickly agrees.
It’s quiet for a long moment as I drive us toward my home on Geist Reservoir. Revealing the first chink in her impressive armor, Poppy asks in a serious tone, “You don’t really hate me, do you, Cooper?”
Surprised that she has shown this vulnerability, I answer, “No more than you hate me.”
“Hmm.” The uncertain sound emits from her closed lips as she ponders my answer. Evidently deciding that works, she says, “Okay, then.”
When I pull into the driveway of my sprawling, brick home, she says, “Nice pad. What do you do for a living?”
Wishing I had a more impressive-sounding job, I answer, “I’m an investment broker, so I spend the vast majority of my time handling other people’s money.”
“Looks like you’ve managed to handle some of your own, too,” she weighs in as she shifts in her seat.
It’s an odd statement. An awkward tension arises in the car as I park in my garage. I try to make light of it by saying, “It seems like we’re more comfortable together when we’re insulting each other.”
“Indeed,” she agrees as she reaches for her door handle.
“I’ll come around and get that for you,” I offer, trying to be a gentleman.
“No need,” she answers, as she opens her own door and climbs out of my car.
I mutter under my breath, “Stubborn woman.”
She evidently hears me because she says, “I’ve been called worse.”
As I turn to lead her into my home, I answer, “I’m sure you have.”
