Page 15 of Sunshine
“I think it’s a great idea.”
I freeze with my fork halfway to my mouth, and my thoughts circle her bedtime nerves and resistance to go to school today, as well as my earlier thought that perhaps I should have hired a nanny months ago.
“You do?” I ask carefully. “Why?”
She gives me a sweet, empathetic smile. “Because now you’ll have time to shave.”
Poppy snorts, then covers her mouth to hide her laughter, and Izzy glances at Poppy, clearly confused about what’s funny. Before I can think of something to say that’ll cover my embarrassment without making Izzy feel uncomfortable, Finn pokes his blond head and broad shoulders around the front door of the restaurant and waves to let me know he’s here to collect Izzy.
“Time for school, Little Bee,” I announce. I pluck the napkin from Izzy’s sweater and use it to wipe her face before helping her stand and slinging her backpack over her shoulders. “Poppy will pick you up this afternoon and take you to your music lesson, okay?”
“Will she have my new trumpet?” Izzy asks hopefully.
I lift her up to give her a kiss on the cheek, then set her down again. “She’ll have your new trumpet.”
Izzy pumps her fist. “Yes! Bye, Poppy!”
“See you later, kiddo,” Poppy replies.
I watch Izzy race across the restaurant and fly into Finn’s open arms with a warm glow of affection in my chest and a hard knot of unease in my gut.
five
Poppy
By the time Dylanwaves goodbye to Izzy, I’ve been at The Hill for at least twenty minutes, and my pulse is still racing over how hot Dylan looks in his chef’s whites. His jacket strains over his muscled shoulders. The sleeves are rolled to expose his hard, ridged forearms. And even the stiff collar around his neck is doing things to me. He wears black trousers that hug his ass, a white apron tied around his narrow waist, and clean black leather boots. Does the cliche about men in uniform apply to gorgeous, long-haired chef gods who can pull off a man bun in a purple scrunchie? Because it should.
And while I don’t have to hide the fact that I’m checking him out so long as his attention is somewhere else, the ogling stops when I notice the lines around his eyes. They’re pinched like something’s wrong, and the moment Izzy is clear through the door, his expression shifts from warmth to worry.
He runs a hand down his face as he joins me at the table. “So, we should probably talk about how this is going to work,” Dylan says, but he barely makes contact with his chair before he’s onhis feet again. “I’ve got everything written down, but I left it in the kitchen. Let me just—”
“Dylan?”
I set a hand on his wrist, and when his eyes drop to where my fingers rest on his bare skin, I look at them, too, both of us intent on the place where my skin meets his. My heart feels too loud and too big, like touching Dylan overrides my normal biology. When I pull away, and everything instantly feels quieter and smaller, I know this is one of those moments that’ll keep me up at night.
“I can tell something’s wrong,” I say. “Are you worried about Izzy?” I give him a false but hopefully sympathetic smile to hide my fear of rejection. “If you don’t want me to nanny for you, that’s okay. Don’t tell her I said so, but Daisy kind of bullied you into it.”
Dylan rolls his shoulders and pinches the thick muscle between his shoulder and his neck like he’s trying to knead away tension, then drops back into his seat. “The problem isn’t you. It’s not even Daisy.” He chuckles wryly under his breath. “First time I’ve ever said that.”
I laugh with him. “We drove you crazy, didn’t we?”
He shakes his head as his grin grows wider, and a sense of nostalgia brightens his blue eyes. “Keeping up with you two really kept me on my toes.”
Maybe I should be sorry about that, but I was a teenage girl with a crush. HavingtheDylan Davenport pick me up from parties, cover for me when I cut class, and scare off potential boyfriends was the highlight of my teenage years. The highlight of mylife. No way would I ever take it back.
“Well, in case I never said it before, thank you for looking out for us,” I tell him. “We were too young to appreciate it at the time, but I’m grateful you were someone I could rely on.”
Dylan’s chin dips and his eyebrows lift. “You’re welcome.”
A beat of something passes between us—a sense of shared history that sparks heat low in my belly and pulls at the corners of his full, soft mouth—before he looks away.
“So, if the problem isn’t me or Daisy or my working for you, what is it?”
Dylan picks up his fork and pokes at his breakfast. “How long have you got?”
“You tell me.”
Dylan sets down his fork again, but instead of talking, he takes a long, slow swallow of orange juice. He’s struggling with something—either a problem, the impulse to share it, or both—and I want to help. Dylan has always taken care of everyone else—me and Daisy, Charlie and the ranch after his parents died, now Izzy—and he’s always been Mr. Dependable. It’s not in his nature to lean on anyone, and it’s painful to watch him try to manage his worries on his own.
