Poppy

It turned out being pissed off was the key to unpacking a house. Not that I would ever tell Noah Hayes thank you for riling me up, but as I leaned against the kitchen counter and surveyed the progress I'd made, I figured acknowledging his influence in the privacy of my home couldn't hurt anything. Every dish and pot and pan was put away, and the living room looked cozy and complete, like I'd lived here for years instead of two days. But best of all, heavy white curtains covered the windows. Noah Hayes would have to find other windows to peer through.

Which, all things considered, was kind of a shame. If the man never opened his mouth, he'd be catnip to a newly single gal like myself. Hell, who was I kidding? Single. Married. Breathing. People who wanted men wanted Noah. Sadly for me and my lady bits, there would be no chance of anything happening between the two of us.

"Okay." I rubbed the back of my neck and pushed away from the counter. I couldn't lose momentum now.

Three sharp knocks sounded on the front door. Freezing mid-step, I considered ignoring it. I knew a grand total of three people in this town, and a visit from two of the three would mean nothing good. The visitor knocked again. This time, more persistent.

"I know you're home. Your car is in the driveway!"

"Lydia," I said, yanking open the door. Better than a police officer or a grumpy neighbor, for sure. "Did I leave something at the diner?"

"No, no," she said, pushing past me to come inside. She flicked her long, straight black hair over her shoulder as she peered about the house with obvious curiosity.

"Um, okay. Then what brings you over here so late?"

In the city, eight o'clock wasn't exactly late, especially for a Saturday night, but out here with the sky stained deep purple by the dusk and acres between houses, it felt like the world should be winding down. And Lydia's attire of tight skirt, ripped tights, and a denim jacket over a sparkly black tank top was definitely designed for winding things up.

"You've done a lot already," she said and gestured at me. "But you're gonna have to shower and change before we leave."

"Leave? I can't leave. I've barely started in my bedroom."

"None of it's going anywhere, Poppy. What's the rush?"

The rush? Boxes stacked three and four high in the bedroom made it hard to reach the bed, and if I didn't want a repeat of today's outfit, I needed to unpack all my clothes. That was the rush.

"Look, Lydia. You're really sweet—"

Her finger hovered just above my lips. "Shh. You're coming out. See, people are already talking about you. The longer you wait to show up in public, the bigger the buzz will become. You'll either become a pariah or a disappointment. If you go out tonight, you might be able to capitalize on your newbie status. Maybe even a very attractive police officer who happens to like hanging out at Angie's after his shift."

Officer Greyson? The man was easy on the eyes and had a far more pleasant personality than his friend. "I thought you liked Luke."

She raised a shoulder. "Been there. Done that in high school. You'd be doing me a favor if you took him off the market. He has this terrible tendency where he..."

"Where he what?" I asked when she trailed off and scowled.

"Not going there tonight. Besides, there are a dozen men just as fine at Angies, and sometimes, the rich tourists come down and slum with the locals. They're all assholes in the end, but they know how to spend some money."

Lydia hollered all of this over her shoulder as she went into the bedroom and rifled through boxes, leaving me standing in the middle of the living room with my mouth hanging open. I shuddered to think what would happen if Cora and Lydia ever met or spent more than a few minutes alone together. They would either bully the world into shape or burn it down.

Forty-five minutes later, I climbed into Lydia's blue hatchback and held on tight as she sped into town. I really wasn't sure how I'd ended up here. One minute I was preparing a speech to let her down, and the next I was showered and undergoing a vigorous hair and makeup routine. The skin around my eyebrows was tender from plucking, and if I breathed too deeply, my breasts threatened to fall out of the pale green corset Lydia swore worked as a top.

Lacey and sheer, I'd forgotten I owned it and nearly refused to wear it when I recalled it was lingerie purchased for my honeymoon. Then I flipped Phil a mental middle finger and put it on. Something this beautiful shouldn't be discarded because he was a cheating asshat.

"Stop fidgeting," Lydia instructed. We idled at a red light, and she drummed her yellow nails on the steering wheel while bouncing her head to the beat of the music on the radio. "You look gorgeous."

"I look like I should be on a street corner," I muttered, wiping my hands over the sliver of denim covering my thighs. Cora must have sneaked in another pair of cutoffs, these far more indecent than this morning's pair with the pockets extending beyond the hem.

Teenage Poppy had loved reckless outfits like this. Pairing different textures and styles together until they made a weird kind of sense. But with every move we made over the years, I shifted my clothes to match the crowd, and after so long wearing conservative dresses and heels with Phil, I felt exposed and out of place.

But the makeup was perfection. I flipped the visor down and peered into the mirror. Lydia had attacked my face with so many products I expected to see a clownish caricature of myself when she finished; instead, I saw a woman with a smoothed out complexion, does eyes smudged with brown shadow resting above cheeks with a peachy glow, and plump, round lips deepened to a raspberry color. The best part of it all, though, was that she hadn't hidden my freckles.

I touched the cluster on my nose, then the one just above the left corner of my lip. Phil hated them. For my last birthday, he gave me concealer and sunscreen with SPF 100. For the first time in years, I could see a hint of the woman I wanted to be staring back at me.

Angie's parking lot was nearly full, and twangy music drifted out every time someone entered or exited. Several sets of eyes tracked our movement when we entered the establishment, all of them bright with interest, but after an initial rush of excitement, I determined they were likely admiring Lydia with her deep olive skin, slim hips, and heart-shaped face. A plump red head with freckles from head to toe certainly didn't elicit that response.

Our first stop was at the bar. I ordered a vodka tonic with lime while Lydia ordered a drink with a name that made me blush and the bartender grin. They flirted between blender bursts. I stirred my drink with a small pink straw and observed the bar.

Bigger than expected, it was much less polished than the clubs Phil preferred, and a lot more like the ones I frequented in college. Tables and chairs were scattered haphazardly along the walls, and on the opposite side of where we stood was another bar. Like this one, it was made of scarred wood, polished to a golden gleam beneath the neon and pendant lights. A few patrons—mostly men—nursed their drinks on red vinyl barstools, unbothered by the crush of the crowd as they pushed forward to get the bartender's attention. One or two might actually be there to drink alone, but I'd bet good money that the others were sizing up the women like deer through a rifle scope. Before the night was over, they'd take their shot.

In the middle of the room, ringed by wooden railing, a dance floor beckoned. The song had shifted to something slow, which cleared out a good portion of dancers, but it would fill up again the moment the DJ played something with anything that resembled a beat. Two or three more of these drinks, and I'd be out there, too. Few things made me let loose as much as dancing did.

"I see some folks over in the back booth," Lydia shouted at me. She raised her hands and revealed a drink in each one. "I also ordered some shots to be delivered."

"Shots?" I stopped doing shots after my twenty-fifth birthday. People in their thirties shouldn't even get close enough to smell them. "If I do shots, I won't be good for anything for a week. How old are you, by the way?"

"I'll be thirty next month. Why?"

Following her, I shook my head and chose not to answer. She would find out soon enough.

"Hey boys!" Lydia called out to someone I couldn't see. "Hi Jenny."

"Excuse me," I said to a girl who nearly fell into me. When we untangled, I hurried to catch up, and then came to a dead stop when I saw who was sitting at the booth.

Lydia was already deep in conversation with a petite blonde with the best set of boobs I'd ever seen. Luke Greyson's lips turned up in a slow grin, and his eyes... well, they turned bright with the same light I'd seen on the men's faces when we entered the bar. That look did something funny to me, heating my core and making me squeeze my legs together.

But whatever fire Luke intended to start with that smolder was immediately doused when I locked eyes with the other person at the table. Noah. Fucking. Hayes. He glowered so hard I glanced down to make sure I hadn't ripped my top or spilled something on myself, but there was nothing that should have elicited that level of ire.

The song changed. A popular song with a lot of bass and perfect for grinding against a partner on the dance floor. I had two choices here. Let Noah and his poor attitude ruin this night, or dig up the old Poppy and let loose.

I threw out my hand. "Want to dance?"