Adrift Page 3

  “Yeah, it is. Thanks.” I loved the place more than anything. But I wouldn’t be here long. Mrs. Rittenhouse gave me a deal in exchange for a one-year lease. She liked having someone in her place and not dealing with multiple renters. But even with the deal, I couldn’t afford the rent. One day I’d have to leave. That knowledge may have made me love the two-story home even more. I took care of all her window boxes and the flower beds along the white picket fence. Even though I rented, I showered this place with the love of an owner.

  I opened the door and surveyed the place. Blankets and throws littered the sofa and armchairs. A few dirty dishes lined the counter near the sink. An old pizza box ready for recycling sat out on the counter. Shoes lined the floor near the stairs. Overall, not too bad. As long as he didn’t come upstairs. And he would not be coming upstairs. No need for that. Upstairs, my clotheshorse ways made the whole place look like a Cat 5 hurricane whipped through. Good. Extra incentive to keep him downstairs.

  “Make yourself at home. Remote’s on the coffee table. I have Netflix and Hulu. You can pick a movie.” I spun on the second stair. “Pick a funny one. None of that blood and gore.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He made his way back to my kitchen, and I headed up the stairs. I hung out my still damp dress and found my fuzzy socks in a tub of clean laundry. Then I located my softest pajama pants and a cozy sweater. I hovered in front of the full-length mirror to double-check my fave comfort outfit didn’t make me look like a heifer. With a big inhale to suck in my belly and a posture correction to shove out my girls it worked. Not at all photographable, but passable.

  Downstairs, Gabe had lit a small candle on my coffee table. Two glasses filled with red wine were also set out. He sat in the middle of the sofa and had this cocky-as-hell grin. The bastard thought he was gonna get lucky, even with me in full-on cozy apparel.

  I snapped my fingers and pointed to the far side of the sofa. “You. Over there.”

  “What?”

  There was something about him, his grin and dimples and thick, dark hair. Even though I knew his type and knew he’d be gone tomorrow, I couldn’t muster any of those helpful angry, annoyed emotions. That damn grin of his just fizzled them out and had me cracking up.

  He obediently moved to the corner, and I plopped down on the opposite corner and grabbed a fleece blanket and covered my entire lap, right up to my boobs. The warmth of the blankets and low orange flames of my electric fireplace soothed and wrapped me in the comfy I needed.

  “All right. So, funny.” He commandeered my remote and flicked away. “What are some of your favorites?”

  “Ah, I think I’ve memorized all the Pitch Perfects.”

  “I liked the first one. I’ll give you a point.”

  “Ah, it’s like that, is it? Judging. What about you? Let me guess. You’re a Will Ferrell kind of guy.”

  “Doesn’t get better than Blades of Glory.”

  “Give me that remote. I change my mind. You can’t pick.”

  He held his arm sky high, and I considered climbing him like a monkey gym to claim my remote, but I held back, fully aware of what I’d be risking if I planted my breasts in his face. “No Will Ferrell.”

  “All right. So, what else you got other than a pack of singing girls?”

  “Bridesmaids?” I offered.

  “Aren’t they like the same actresses? What about Office Space? It’s a classic.”

  “It’s one of my faves. Or 40-Year-Old Virgin. Or Booksmart.”

  “I have to say, I loved 40-Year-Old Virgin. Steve Carell, a master.”

  “Yes, I concur. But I’m not up for that one tonight. Maybe Juno?”

  “Another solid choice. Office Space?”

  “Fine. Click it. You want popcorn?”

  “I’ll eat my dinner.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Popcorn appealed more than my lettuce, but…

  “So, you live here full time?” He kicked off his shoes and dug into his fish. I watched him, then remembered to answer when he stopped mid-chew and raised an eyebrow.

  “Ah, yeah, I do. I used to live on the mainland and do the contractor ferry thing.” That eyebrow raised again. “People who work on the island take a cheaper ferry. For some of us, depending on where we work, it’s free. But it’s a hassle. Doesn’t run as often as the regular ferry.” His focus centered on the takeout container in his lap. “When I got a chance, I moved over full-time. Much easier.”

  “Don’t you get bored?”

  “It’s not that hard to get over on the mainland. I’m not really a party girl. More of a shy girl at heart, I think.”

  I expected the eyebrow, but instead he tilted his head and bit down on the corner of his lip. Amusement and curiosity, if I were to guess, played across his features. And my heart, oh, lord, those eyes.

  “No.” He shook his head.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You, Ms. Poppy, are not shy.” He waved that index finger in my direction in a small circle. “You’ve got energy. You’re outgoing. You, little Ms. Poppy, are no wallflower.”

  “I never called myself a wallflower. I said…I’m more comfortable in small groups or one-on-one situations. I’ve taken Myers-Briggs—”

  “There’s no way that said you were an introvert.”

  “No, but I think it was just a few trick questions. I was very close to introvert.”

  “And am I to believe you have how many followers and you’re shy?”

  “But that’s so different. You’ve got to understand. It’s like, there are studies on this. Even shy, demure people can be total bad asses in an email where they aren’t face to face. And teenagers, they get meaner online. There’s an anonymity in the online world that’s different in the person-to-person world.”

  “You mean the real world?”

  “Yes.” I flittered my fingers about because it suddenly seemed urgent that he understand. That he got me. “The online world, I’ll never run into those people in the grocery store. Especially on this small nothing island. It’s literally like another world, a different stratosphere, if you will. Completely disconnected from my day-to-day life. No one knows I’m that other person.”

  “Because you don’t tell them?”

  “No. I don’t. I mean, I kind of came out to Luna by accident. She came in one morning when I was working upstairs, and the truth was better than what I could see she was concocting in her head.”

  “She came up, and what were you doing? What were you wearing?” His voice went all sexy deep, and teasy and flirty. I stood, ready to change the conversation.

  I picked up my barely touched salad and pointed to his dinner. “You done?”

  “I got it.” He gathered the used forks and napkins and his dinner, then lifted mine from my hands and turned toward the kitchen. I followed him, a little lost and unsure why he was cleaning up. I pulled out the garbage for him, and his shoulder brushed mine as he bent to drop the containers into the trash. A flurry of nerves and heat shuddered through me, and I jerked back against the refrigerator.

  He opened the dishwasher and slipped the forks in. We’d missed the first part of the movie, but it didn’t matter for a movie we’d both seen a hundred times.

  I resumed my place in the corner, and the sofa pillows sank down as they absorbed his weight, not really in his corner, more in the middle.

  “So, Poppy, are you ashamed of what you do? Is that why you don’t tell anyone?”

  “No. I’m not ashamed. A woman should never be embarrassed of her body. I can be whatever I want to be. I can do whatever I want to do. I don’t have to live by someone else’s moral code. I live by my moral code. I do what I believe is right.” His eyes widened, and I breathed in deeply, to calm down the rant. “No. I am not ashamed. But it’s my business, and I don’t want everybody to know it. I don’t want to deal with people like your friend Tate and his judgmental bullshit.”

  “I hear you.”

  But do you? The words were on the tip of my tongu
e, but I squelched my inner bitch and settled into the pillow.

  “Hey, it seems to me you’ve got quite a business going. That’s nothing to knock. Hard to build.”

  The bad boss on the screen asked in his annoying way, “If you could do that for me, that’d be great.”

  I laughed, because I always laughed at that scene. And I breathed in again, snuggling down on my pillow, happy. Happy because I didn’t have a boss like that. I didn’t have to sit in a cubicle and live a miserable existence. I found my own path. And yeah, it was a journey. My journey. My way.

  “Do you think you can slide up? Make room for me beside you? That way we can both lie down?” My eyes must have bulged or something, based on his immediate backtracking. “To watch the movie.”

  “You can lay your head down on that end.”

  “That’ll put my feet near your head.”

  “Put ’em behind my back.” I scoffed at him, as if I was born yesterday. I knew better than to let his hands roam. With a bit of shifting back and forth, we both got comfortable. His body, lying behind mine, generated a comfortable warmth, and I settled in, waiting for the fire scene.

  Red wine, fuzzy socks, thick blanket, and the rain pattered on the windows outside. Bliss. Ultimately, the warm candle glow combined with a familiar movie did me in. I blinked open my eyes as sun rays lit the room.

  I rolled back and froze. Mr. Hottie slept behind me. His front aligned against my back, only his feet were near my head. His button-down shirt hung on the back of a kitchen chair.

  The curves of his bicep indicated he was no stranger to the gym. His bare chest looked damn fine. The blanket draped over his waist, leaving a lean middle exposed. The phrase “washboard abs” came to mind. I’d never seen anything like him, not in person. He shifted. I froze. Satisfied he had settled back into a deep sleep, I escaped. With the stealth of a large ninja, I dropped onto the floor and crawled on hands and knees until I reached the stairs.

  The candle had been blown out. The TV turned off. When I fell asleep, he must have made himself at home and then returned to his place on the sofa. Christ on a cracker, Mr. Hottie slept over.

  Upstairs, I brushed my teeth, washed my face, then cracked open my laptop and groaned at the long list of messages I needed to work my way through. Most were paid messages. We called that income, I reminded myself. I’d need to respond this morning. Then get a shower, fix this rat’s nest on my head, and create new content.

  Brain off to the races, I headed downstairs for coffee.

  “You by chance have a toothbrush I can borrow?” He stood on the landing in only his boxers. Damn.

  “Poppy?”

  “Toothbrush.” I snapped my fingers. “Well, I won’t want it back. But, here, let me get you one from the guest room. Stay down here.” I ran up the stairs, pulling my hair into a top bun as I climbed.

  He called up after me, “What have you got up there that you don’t want me to see?”

  “Stay!” I repeated, grabbed one of the free toothbrushes from my last dentist visit, and smacked into him on my way out. I thrust the toothbrush against his hard muscle. “Here you go. Guest room and bathroom are that way.” I pointed down the hall. He glanced at the open den area between the two bedrooms. The back wall and most of the room comprised my studio. I could slip out the background as needed when I used my green screen.

  My pride hadn’t wanted him to see my inner slob on full display, but I shrugged it off. It wasn’t like I could wave my editing wand and have him un-see the mounds of clothes. I jogged down the stairs, leaving him to explore. It is what it is.

  Minutes ticked by as my coffee pot slowly filled with the life-saving dark liquid. I envisioned him nosing through my stuff. But even if he did, it didn’t matter. Mr. Hottie lived in New York and would be long gone soon.

  When His Hotness joined me in the kitchen, instead of questioning his dedication to dental hygiene, I simply offered him a mug of steaming joe. He took the coffee from me and leaned against the counter. Those gorgeous eyes rustled up my nerves. I flipped through junk mail on my phone.

  We sipped our coffee, silent. My skin tingled as his gaze wandered over me. Maybe I should’ve put on make-up. I patted all around my head, feeling for loose strands of hair. I sucked my stomach in. I tried to focus on the rich, hot liquid in the mug. Heat rose along my chest and neck and up across my face—a twenty-something version of a hot flash.

  He stepped closer, and I sipped my coffee, both hands gripping the ceramic mug for protection. His bare toes pressed against the tips of my fluffy socks.

  “Thank you for last night.”

  I lowered my mug, confused. Did I get drunk and black out?

  His lips fell to mine, and my entire body tingled. Soft, warm intense. His kiss whirled through my senses, and my chest tightened and my heart, it kickstarted into an erratic tempo. The whole kitchen faded to black. I was on the verge of shouting out ‘take me now’ when he ended the kiss, dropped his forehead to mine, then rubbed the tip of my nose with his.

  “When can I see you again?”

  I inhaled, gasping for air like a guppy out of water.

  “Poppy?”

  “What are you doing, Gabe? Come on, let me get you back to Tate’s. I’ve got a full day of work.”

  “It’s Sunday.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s a busy day for me, my friend.”

  Those eyes remained calm, intent, and heart-racing sexy. He shook his head once, then twice. “Poppy?”

  “Huh?” I asked as I tugged off my fuzzy socks so I could slip on some shoes and usher him out the door.

  “There’s no way I’m letting you friend zone me.”

  I rolled my eyes. He full-on smirked. With eyes like his and not one dimple but multiples, yeah, no, there was no way I was gonna bite. I learned my lessons.

  I rushed him right out the door, and when we arrived at Tate’s, almost pushed him off the cart.

  The cocky son of a bitch just gave me his slow, sexy grin, pressed his thumb to his lips, then to mine. His hot, steamy gaze made me feel as if he could see right through my sweater, to the white jumbo bra I slept in last night, and right to my completely out of line nipples that might possibly have turned into pointed headlights. As I pressed the accelerator, he somehow turned it up a notch, and the sexy grin transitioned to panty-melting. My fat, sappy heart whimpered.

  Chapter 3

  Gabe

  * * *

  Tate’s door squeaked as I slowly edged it open with the sneakiness of an errant teenager, twisting the knob with an ultra-slow motion, aiming for silence. A memory of returning home at seven, long after curfew, surfaced, and my facial muscles ached from the grin I couldn’t hold back. Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d smiled this much.

  Yeah, those big blue eyes were stunning, as was that mouthwatering cleavage. And yes, I’d spent seconds here and there, or minutes, fantasizing fondling those luscious tatas. After all, at heart, I’m a breast man. But…the girl made me laugh. Those fuzzy socks and loose flamingo pajama pants. My ex-girlfriend wouldn’t have been caught dead in that outfit, but Poppy had no shame.

  I glanced outside before closing the door. Poppy’s cart had stopped on the street, and she had swiveled in the front seat, toward the house, watching me. The moment I turned, she zoomed off. Busted. Yeah, one thing was absolutely certain—she and I would pop that friend’s seal.

  With optimum stealth, I pressed the latch in smoothly. Silently. Movement in the perimeter startled me, and I fell back against the door.

  “Have a good night?” Tate asked. He sat at the kitchen bar, sipping his coffee, reading something on his phone. I kicked off my loafers and let them slap the floor with a loud tap, since the sleuth game was up.

  I poured myself a cup of steaming black coffee and inhaled the rich aroma before answering, “It was good.”

  “Awesome.” He tapped the counter with his fist then headed back out to the porch, leaving me alone in the kitchen.
What the hell?

  I located sweetener and milk then followed him out.

  “Poppy is something else—”

  “Don’t want to hear about it.”

  I side-eyed him as I settled into the Adirondack chair. He seemed miffed.

  “Why’d you tear out of there last night?”

  He dropped his phone onto his lap and stared at me. I stared right back. I had no idea what his problem was. He and I were way past curfew age. Hell, we were pushing thirty-five.

  “What is she? A porn star?”

  My coffee spewed all the way across the porch, filling a few screen holes with light brown liquid. “Shit. That’s what you thought you saw? No, she’s not…she doesn’t do porn.” I opened my mouth and stretched those sore facial muscles. Ah fuck, he must’ve seen the photo of her lacy bra. Sexy as fuck, by the way. “That’s what you thought? A porn star? That’s funny.”

  “No. It’s not.”

  “Have you ever heard of OnlyFans?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it’s like, you can see nudie pics and stuff like that. You can also sext. It kind of took off during the pandemic, when bars were shut down and social distancing was in effect.”

  “And she does that?”

  “Yep. I’d actually seen her ads before. Never clicked. She’s kind of, you know, more of a plus size model.”

  “Are you going to date her?”

  “Date? Like girlfriend? Nah. I live in New York. She’s here. But I like her. She’s…” I trailed off, resting my head on the back of the chair and closing my eyes, thinking of her full-on belly laugh and snort fest during the movie last night. The girl had the best laugh. Unencumbered. And she put me in my place.

  “Man, if you are gonna sit there and replay last night, go in another room.”

  I opened my eyes and studied my moody old friend. “Last night was fantastic. But we didn’t do what you’re thinking.”

  “Are you trying to tell me the two of you didn’t have sex?” He sounded incredulous.

  “She said she doesn’t do one-night stands. Can you believe that? A girl who makes a living selling nudies.” Seemed pretty unbelievable to me, too. I’d kind of expected she’d cave, that maybe she was playing hard to get, but then she fell asleep. She’d washed her face, and without the make-up she almost appeared innocent.