Page 46 of Keeper
Tanner pipes up next. “Over my dead body he’s coming to my wedding. I’ve finally stopped wishing dismemberment on the prat.”
“It was only a suggestion!” Vi peals, looking perplexed. “It’s just that I set him up with our cousin Alice and she loved him! Roan is a South African dreamboat.” She waggles her eyebrows at me and I can’t help but smile.
Suddenly, Booker stands, his stool screeching on the marble floor as he pushes it away. “Not Roan. Not any Bethnal players. None of them would work. You’re not their type.”
I hear Vi suck in a breath of air, and my cheeks heat with embarrassment. “Why not?” My jaw is tight with anger as my ice lolly drips, forgotten between my two fingers.
His fists clench on the counter. “Because I know you, Poppy. You’re not the kind of girl they’d go for.”
The way he’s acting gets right up my nose. I wanted to make him jealous, but that’s not what’s happening. He’s insinuating I’m not good enough for his mates, as if they’d never go for anyone like me. He doesn’t even know me as an adult. He’s pigeonholing me into the Poppy he thought he used to know. It’s complete and utter shit! “If you actually think I’m not good enough for your team—”
“They’re not good enough for you!” he shouts, interrupting me as he leans over the counter to get in my face. Booker eyes me hard, clearly not amused by my request. “No teammates, Pop. Not Roan. Not anyone. Got it?” His shoulders rise and fall as he pins me with the most aggressive face I’ve ever seen on him.
I can tell the moment he snaps out of it because his neck turns red and he looks around at his family, who are all staring at us with their mouths open. He shoves two hands through his hair as he turns on his heel and strides out the back door and into the garden.
It’s quiet in the kitchen as everyone sits there gobsmacked.
“Wrong button,” Tanner quips and Belle elbows him in the ribs. I turn my red face to look at her and she nods with reassurance.
“I hope you girls know what you’re doing,” Vi says. Then she wipes her hands off and tosses the tea towel in front of me as she scurries out after Booker.
The next morning, I wake to find Booker in the kitchen wearing nothing but his boxers as he brews a pot of coffee. Our ride home from Chigwell last night was quiet as he stewed over something he definitely wasn’t interested in sharing with me.
But in the warm early light of day, watching him stand here in nothing but plaid, saggy-butt boxers, my chest contracts. He’s my best friend right now. The boy whom I told all my secrets to. The one who held my hand during the scary parts of my favourite book. The one who told me he liked the mud on my dress.
The one who put a lamp in my room and toast and water at my door.
And for a moment, I want to be Booker and Poppy again.
I trudge out in my T-shirt and long socks. My strands of hair are strewn over my eyes, but I’m not awake enough to push them out of the way. He turns when I sidle up next to him at the counter.
“Is it done yet?” I croak, watching the droplets funnel down into the pot. As if on cue, the coffee pot hisses.
“Not quite,” he replies, his voice deep and throaty. I really love his morning voice.
“I’m shattered,” I say with a sigh and rest my head on his arm.
He tenses at first, but I feel him relax. Then he puts his arm around me, tucking me under him and pressing his lips to the top of my head. It’s not sexy. It’s not spine-shivering. It’s simply…Booker.
“You should go back to bed,” he drawls.
I groan. “I can’t. I have my first meeting with the school today.”
“For your German language job?”
I nod against his chest. “Just a standard meet-and-greet thing. I’m not used to getting up early like this.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Well, why don’t you go jump in the shower and I’ll bring a cup to you?”
I nod and then close my eyes and press my lips to his arm before shuffling away. I pause halfway to the loo and turn to say something.
It could simply be that I’m not fully awake, but I’m about ninety percent sure Booker was watching me leave. And I’m about ninety-five percent sure he’s pitching a tent in his boxers.
He realises a bit too late that I’ve caught him checking me out and shakes his head, the redness in his neck flaming as he turns to face the coffee pot again.
“Booker?” I croak.
He angles his head but keeps his hips facing the counter. He can barely meet my eyes. “Yeah?”
