Poppy

Scented candles perfumed the air and lit the dim interior with a warm, flattering glow. Steaming, hot water filled the oversized claw foot bathtub to the brim, lavender bubbles shimmered on the surface, and a bamboo bath tray stretched across the center. That's where I would put a jumbo glass of white wine, a fresh Happy Diner burger and fries, and my e-reader, loaded with the latest smutty novel from my favorite author. And if this book was as good as the rest of them, I might end the night with B.O.B.

I pushed unpacked boxes down the bathroom counter to make space for my pajamas and tried to ignore the dozen other boxes I glimpsed through the doorway as I shimmied out of grimy, moving clothes. Then, I twisted my long coppery hair on top of my head and pinned it in place with the single hair clip I'd managed to locate. It wasn't even in a bathroom box. No doubt, my ever helpful older sister, Cora, had found it and tossed it in the nearest open box rather than taking a few extra steps to put it where it belonged. But that was Cora...she'd dedicated her life to chaos the moment she drew her first breath.

Then again, maybe if I was a little bit more like my big sister, this night would look a lot different. Instead of soaking away the aches and pains a long day of moving—and being over the age of thirty—had caused, I would be on my honeymoon, recreating the scenes in the novel with my husband instead of imagining them behind closed eyes while I held my vibrator between my legs.

Okay, that wasn't entirely true. Philip would never have agreed to try out the spicy bits in my books. The one time I'd asked him to, he'd read it and laughed, telling me it wasn't physically possible. I never could figure out why he wouldn't try. Was it a lack of a sense of adventure? Or had I threatened his manhood by suggesting there was another type of sex besides basic missionary and doggy style.

A grim smile pulled at my lips as I tested the water with my toe. Even the poor woman I caught him fucking in the bed we shared had been forced to endure his lack of creativity, and I swore to this day, she'd appeared positively bored while he banged away. After the fallout of our breakup, that had been the one silver lining I clung to. Phil's lack of bedroom skills was someone else's problem to deal with now, and I could finally admit I only stayed with him because I was afraid I couldn't find someone better.

Sinking into the water, I released an exhale, expelling both physical and mental exhaustion from my body. Everything was fine. Fine. Fine.

It didn't matter that my thirty-third birthday was in two months, and I was starting the dating game over. I was always behind in the love department, not having sex until my mid-twenties or getting into a real relationship until just before turning thirty. On the bright side, it had saved me from going through multiple breakups, right?

Right?

Something between a laugh and a sob broke free. Brittle and a little unhinged. I reminded myself it had only been a month since the breakup, and whatever healing and peace I'd found along the way was bound to be put to the test by something as unsettling as a move. Not just out of the house I'd spent years perfecting and turning into a home but to an entirely new town. A quiet, hamlet nestled in the country that was about as opposite as I could get from the city life Philip had so adored and insisted upon.

Cora thought I was crazy moving so far away from family and strip malls, which amused me. Most people looked at her with her paint speckled hair and overalls and immediately dubbed her a millennial flower child, but she was a creature who liked the hustle and bustle of cities and the comforts they offered. Just another way we differed. Then again, I didn't really know what I liked anymore. All the bits and pieces that made me unique had been shoved aside or trimmed until they fit into Phil's vision. Moving to this little mountain town was the first step in rediscovering myself.

"Okay," I said aloud.

I had done that a lot this evening. Spoken to empty rooms. Given brilliant pep talks no one else was there to appreciate. Okay, perhaps the pep talks weren't all that great—certainly not therapist approved, but if telling myself I could drink an entire bottle of wine with no morning after shame pushed me to get the kitchen finished, then I called it a win.

Raising a soapy arm, I picked up the evening's first glass and took a long, satisfying swig. Fruity sweetness rolled over my tongue and down my throat. Yet another thing to put on my silver lining's list. I could drink whatever the hell I wanted to drink without out Philip's judgment. His choice in wine was as dry as his bedroom moves.

Twenty minutes later, the water was cold and my glass was empty. Like an idiot, I'd left the bottle in the kitchen, and I spent several long seconds contemplating whether I should get it or get in bed. That last chapter had hit just right, leaving an ache between my legs B.O.B. would only be able to half heartedly attend to. The rest of the wine would be required to console myself afterward.

Water sluiced over my curves and splashed onto the floor as I stepped out of the tub, and I left a damp handprint on the wall as I reached out to steady myself. One glass of wine normally wouldn't make me tipsy, but truthfully, I'd poured the equivalent of two glasses and couldn't remember the last time I ate anything.

"Shit," I shouted after scanning the room and discovering I hadn't put out a towel. Of course, not a single towel was to be found in any of the bathroom boxes. Two bras. A china place setting that should've been returned with the other wedding gifts. And a shoebox filled with Christmas socks. But not one towel.

I debated putting on my pajamas, but satin on damp skin did not appeal to me. Then, I decided it didn't matter. I lived alone on a dead end road with the closest neighbor more than half a mile away. If I wanted to strut around here naked from sun up to sun down, I could. No one would stop me.

Shoulders back, breasts forward, I marched through my bedroom, into the living room, and across the kitchen without a single stitch of clothing. Not once did I think about how the bright lighting might showcase the cellulite on my thighs or the roll in my back that settled over my bra after a long day. I snatched up the bottle, tipped it back and downed several ounces in a long draw. When I lowered it, I burped before wiping my hand over my mouth and mentally high fiving myself.

Turning slowly, I stepped down into the recessed living room, already lifting the bottle for another drink. Only, this time, I looked toward the bay window at the front of the house—the one as exposed as I was—and saw the unmistakable shape of a man standing on the other side. It was too dark outside and too bright inside for me to make out much more than his outline, but I felt the moment we locked eyes on each other. A heartbeat passed, and I screamed.

Naked bits jiggling in my haste, I scrambled back to the bedroom and found my phone. Pounding shook the front door, and the muffled shouts of a man made their way back to me. It took three attempts to dial the police, and I spent the ten minutes until their arrival huddled in my closet, downing what was left of the wine and cursing my stupidity for moving to the country. Alone.

My front yard lit up blue and red. Car doors slammed and several people shouted. I counted to thirty, and when I didn't hear gunfire or scuffling, I crawled out of hiding and slipped into the bathroom to get dressed. The last thing I needed in this small town was a reputation for being eccentric—not that I'd ever managed to avoid that label entirely before—but if they were going to think I was odd, I'd rather it be for something other than greeting the local police force sans clothing.

It wasn't until I opened the door for the knocking police officer that I considered the fact that my pajamas were hardly appropriate for greeting guests—well, guests that weren't going to my bedroom later—but it was too late now. The officer's professionally arranged expression faltered as his eyes skated over my scantily clad figure, but he recovered well enough, only clearing his throat once before launching into a greeting.

"I'm Officer Greyson. Are you Ms. Harper? The one who made the call?"

"I am," I said, rising up on my tiptoes to see over Officer Greyson's shoulder.

He was a big man with broad shoulders and impressive height. It wasn't often that I felt small next to someone, being rather tall myself, and if I wasn't trying to capture a glimpse of my would be assailant, I might have taken more time to appreciate these qualities. Phil had been on the shorter side of average, forcing me to give up my favorite heels, and there was nothing broad about him. Especially, not his—

"Ms. Harper?"

"Oh, yes. Sorry. I was trying to see if you'd caught someone." Two patrol cars pulled away, leaving one behind. A female officer leaned against the passenger door, a cell phone pressed against her ear as she watched us.

"We did, but I think it's an honest misunderstanding."

"Did the perpetrator misunderstand that it's wrong to peep into windows?" My normally low, almost husky voice cracked around the question. "He was staring inside my home while I—while I—He was staring in my house!"

Officer Greyson scratched the back of his head and looked upward as if praying. When his eyes swung down, they went a few inches too far, and it took him a second to drag them away from my chest. "The man we caught out here was your neighbor, Noah Hayes, and he was very cooperative. Apparently, he was out here looking for a chicken that hitched a ride."

"A chicken," I squawked. Then laughed. "You bought that?"

His professionalism turned patronizing. "Ms. Harper... Look, I don't mean to come across the wrong way when I say this, but you're new in town, right?"

I crossed my arms. "I don't know what that has to do with anything."

"It has to do with a lot. It's cliche, but everyone knows everyone. I went to school with Noah. Not only is he a good man, but well, he's never had to resort to window peeping to get any action. Now, before you go thinking we're completely backwards, I do understand the scare he gave you. We told him we would give you his number, and if you found the chicken, you'd call him, but he's not to show up on your property again unless invited."

He held out a slip of paper with a phone number scrawled across it. In one or two places, the writer had pushed so hard the paper tore, but it was legible—not that I would be calling Noah Hayes. No way in hell did I believe someone was wandering around a single woman's yard at ten o'clock at night looking for a damn chicken. I had to give him credit for originality, though. He could have gone with a dog or cat. I might have believed that.

"Sure. I'll keep an eye out," I said, snatching the paper and stepping back into my house and the cooler air.

The officer tipped his hat. "We're just a phone call away if you need us. Welcome to Birch Cove."

Then they were gone, and I was left alone with my vivid imagination. One that no longer cared anything about sexy book boyfriends or B.O.B. and everything about monsters in the dark. I turned on every light in the house and checked every door and window to make sure they were locked before swapping out my cute pjs for a college sweatshirt and pants. Let Mr. Chicken come back. There was absolutely nothing to see here.