Page 10 of Keeper
“See, Book? Who needs to go out when we have all the fun we need right here?” She downs her drink and throws her hands above her head as she drops into a low squat. Her curves are accentuated with every move she makes. Curves that she had to have spent a lot of hours in the gym to achieve. She’s completely lost her little girl features. Now she’s powerful, like she could go all night.
Shaking my head, I slide off the counter and jiggle the martini shaker at her. “Show me how to make these so I can make the next round.”
She shimmies over to the counter playfully, rubbing her butt on my hip as she makes quick work of explaining how much to measure out of each component. We’re standing shoulder-to-shoulder. Or I should say shoulder-to-elbow. Poppy’s maybe five-seven on a good day. Barefoot in the kitchen, she’s lucky if she’s hitting five-five.
“I think I can handle this,” I say, but her smirk is saying otherwise. “You don’t think I can?”
She takes a drink and draws closer to me, a challenging curve to her lips. The glossiness of her eyes sparkles in the dim blue lighting as she husks, “You never were much use in the kitchen, Booker.”
I place my hands on my hips as she refills my drink. “Bartending isn’t exactly high-level chef work.”
“True, but it does require some math skills.” She giggles as if she knows she’s poking the bear.
“I was always great at numbers!” I exclaim, reaching out and giving her a cheeky squeeze on her side. “You were the one who was crap at them!”
“I’ve been cured,” she says, laughing and squirming out of my reach. I want to tickle her more, but I hold back. “Two years of slinging drinks and flirting with customers for tips earned me an education in all things number-erical.”
She slurs the last word. I’m not even sure it was a word. “Good Lord, you’re going to be teaching English?”
“Numerical!” she bellows. “I know the word. It was simply a silly slip of the tongue.” She leans into me and whispers, “Haven’t you ever had a slip of the tongue, Booker?”
The way she says it makes my body react surprisingly. A rude thought involving my tongue on Poppy invades my mind. I quickly shake my head and say, “We should order some food.”
“That we should,” she says before she downs another drink. How many have we drunk now? I’ve lost track. “You can use my mobile. Go ahead and order for us. You know what I like.”
She turns to head to the loo, and I momentarily realise I like the way she said “us.” I like having a flatmate. Why would anybody ever want to live alone? Having a flatmate is loads more fun than eating by yourself over the kitchen counter. I think if I lived alone, I’d be like Vi and have a dog. Maybe not a big slobbering mutt like her dog, Bruce, but something small that I could talk to when I’m lonely.
The pizza takes forever to arrive. We’ve been on straight whiskey and water for the past hour, both becoming too impatient for the sweet tea concoction. I’m impressed that Poppy is keeping up with me drink for drink, but I’m a lightweight during the season.
When the food finally arrives, it’s nearing ten o’clock, and we devour it like starved animals. I realise a bit too late that we could have used sustenance a while ago, but the hunger hasn’t stopped our humourous walk down memory lane.
“I’m stuffed,” I say, shoving the pizza box to the side of the coffee table and stretching out on the centre of the sectional sofa.
“Well, you ate six slices,” Poppy jabs.
I frown. “Did I? I lost count.” I quirk a brow at her. “I don’t think I like your tone.”
“No judgement! I lost count with these drinks.” She shakes her tumbler and then sets it by the pizza box. Dropping down beside me on the couch, she rotates and presses her back to my shoulder. She kicks her muscular legs out and mirrors my position as she extends toward the other end of the sofa. She sighs, “This was fun. I much prefer this than going out on the town.”
“Did you go out a lot in Frankfurt?” I ask because I’m still curious to hear more about her time over there. “Did those German blokes you flirted with for tips show you a nice time?”
She twists her head to frown up at me, puzzling her brows at my random question. “Are we really going to talk about this?”
I shrug because, well, now that I’ve opened the can, I don’t really want to stuff it all back in. “Did you leave anyone behind broken hearted?”
“No,” she murmurs and a tense silence stretches out before us. “What about you? You have a girlfriend I should know about?”
I roll my eyes. “I wouldn’t have invited you to stay if I had a girlfriend.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because…look at you,” I scoff.
That tense silence returns, but this time I can hear her breathing. I can feel the rise and fall of her shoulders as she leans against me.
Her voice is soft when she asks, “What do you mean,look at you?”
I tug on my earlobe, feeling a stirring in my stomach that doesn’t have anything to do with the massive amounts of whiskey I consumed tonight. “I think it’s quite obvious, Poppy. You’re not merely a girl anymore. You’re…a woman. And that haircut. I don’t know. It just…suits you.”
