Page 5 of Poppy Kisses (Return to Coal Haven #3)

She flicked her tongue out to lick her bottom lip. A part of me I’d kept dormant for a long damn time roused, noticing how pink her tongue was, how plump her bottom lip. Damn.

“What about it?” she asked. “I don’t know anything about construction or cabinets.”

“I know Weston Duke taught you how to wield a hammer.” I’d known her dad by reputation mostly. Our tight group had talked about family as much as we had talked shit to each other.

A smile lifted both sides of her mouth, but then it was like a gate slammed down. She flattened her red lips. “If you’re looking for precision measurements, it’s not me.”

This was an uphill battle and I didn’t know the route to the top. I had no clue why the path had gotten treacherous. “Can we talk? For real?”

Her puffy lips stuck out as she considered my request. “Yeah, of course. Sorry.” She pushed the door open. “Come in. Alder and Daisy are at work, and Laila’s at school.”

“Laila’s a couple of grades behind Auggie.” I stepped into the house and stuffed my hands in my pockets.

The old farmhouse was familiar. The hardwood floor was the same, nicely polished, but the walls were painted a soft shade of off-white.

There weren’t more than a few pictures on one wall and a picture of a sunset on the other.

Poppy’s mom had adorned the walls when she’d lived here.

Pictures, sayings, and artwork had been like wallpaper.

I’d been here once for Poppy’s birthday party. One of her sisters, Clover, had tried to push her way into the festivities the whole day. I had tried to be Hassie’s shadow. A familiar burn of resentment branded the inside of my ribs. That me had long since learned a lesson.

“We can sit in the kitchen.” Poppy waved me after her.

My gaze dropped to her butt cheeks, which looked like they were fighting under her black athletic leggings. Firm and round, I bet they jiggled when they were slapped. My fingertips tingled.

I tore my attention off her ass and was caught in a cloud of sunshine and peaches. I suppressed a groan. She smelled like peaches with an ass like that?

Inhaling, I should regret cementing her scent to memory. Was I being creepy? I had no idea. Had she always smelled like a late summer day? Didn’t kids smell like wet, sweaty dogs on late summer days?

We weren’t kids anymore. Poppy was all woman, and I noticed every inch.

As she led me through the kitchen where my knotty alder cabinets were mounted, I admired my work. I didn’t often get back into a house to see the lived-in version of my efforts. I took pictures when I finished and that was it.

I ran my hand over the counter. Damn, I did good work.

“They really like them.” Her gaze was on me. She’d tucked her hands into the thin hoodie she was wearing. Just like her scent, the fabric was a soft peach color that brought out the color in her cheeks. Tendrils of hair stuck out around her head, escaping the hold of her ponytail like a rogue halo.

She lifted her brows and ducked her head. “Jensen?”

Shit. I was staring. She was angelic in a rumpled, athletic way. Like she’d played a couple games on the pitch and came to torment me about the bad decisions I had made. “Sorry. I don’t usually get to see them after they’ve been used.”

“They get abused with Alder too. He’s always in the kitchen.”

“He never used to be?”

“Nope.” She pulled out a high-back chair from the table and plopped down. She gestured to the seat on the end. “What’s up?”

I sat and blew out a breath. I couldn’t look at her. The conversation in the grocery store hadn’t been the first time it’d happened. It’d been the only time I’d gotten confirmation. “I lost a job because of my emails.”

“How?”

“I think I’m dyslexic.”

“It is hereditary.” There was no surprise in her tone.

I clenched my jaw as memories clashed in my brain. “Hassie said it couldn’t be her and pointed out I was the one who did poorly in school.”

A flash of sympathy ran through her gaze a moment before irritation set in. “She always liked rubbing it in how good she was at spelling.”

“She spelled d-i-v-o-r-c-e easily enough.”

Poppy let out a huff, then studied me, curiosity in her eyes. “You’ve never been told you have it?”

“No, my reading teacher told my mom she didn’t read enough with me and that’s why my fluency suffered.” Mom had tried to read to me for an hour a night after that. As a young boy with too much energy, that nightly hour had been sheer torture. And it hadn’t helped.

“Mrs. Groggins?” Poppy rolled her eyes. “I never liked her. How could she think that was true at all?”

“She didn’t like me, that was for sure. But wouldn’t she know? If I was dyslexic?”

Poppy shook her head. “I mean, if it’s something she’d been educated about.

They’re only just starting to get legislation in the state moving to get more dyslexic awareness and learning tracts in the schools.

Don’t get me started on screening that should happen much earlier.

It’s frustrating because dyslexia affects, like, twenty percent of the population.

One in five kids. Can you imagine? In small communities like ours, it could be more prevalent because of the hereditary factor.

Other locations’ ten percent incidence could be our thirty. ”

Her vehemence soothed the chastised kid inside of me. The boy who had never pleased his teachers. Who’d hated reading out loud so everyone could give me sideways looks when I stumbled through the passage.

It gave me the courage to tell her everything. I swallowed my humiliation. “I had some typos in an email, and I, uh, got my name wrong.”

A brow cocked up. “Did you switch a couple of letters around, but it looked right?”

Story of my life. “The punctuation was off too. Maybe I should make that my tagline.”

A chortle burst out of her. “Maybe. How do you know that cost you a job?”

“I heard the client tell a friend when I was at the store.” Sympathy welled in her eyes, making the yellow shine.

I looked away. “If I can’t spell my name right, then how can I build decent cabinets?

Even when I replied, I fucked up something.

” I rubbed the spot between my brows. “I triple-check my emails, but I get my promotional ads wrong. If someone doesn’t proofread for me, I’m screwed. ”

“You compensate.” She whirled her index finger by her head. “You’ve adapted. Your brain’s got your back, but in doing so, it’s also sabotaging you. Just a little.”

“How do you mean?”

She fluttered her hands around. There was that energy she’d been known for.

Maybe she’d just needed to warm up to me again.

“You had to strong-arm your way through an educational system that’s not set up for people who learn like you, so your brain adapted, but it’s hard. Does Auggie get cranky after school?”

I snorted. “When doesn’t he?” He could be quick with his temper and tears, and getting him to help with chores would become a meltdown.

“But it’s gotten better since he started tutoring?”

I thought for a moment. “He’s not zombified until he breaks down. Not as much.”

“His brain was working overtime. But tutoring is giving him rules to read by so it’s not so hard. Then he doesn’t come home with glassy eyes and meltdowns.”

“How do you know all this?” My relief at hearing her describe what we went through gave way to astonishment. “You’re not dyslexic, are you?”

She shook her head. “Parents tell me.”

Talking with her was fascinating. She’d only worked with Auggie once, yet it seemed like she knew him better than me. “He used to ask me to shut off the lights when we had dinner.”

Her smile was kind. “Some of my students say it gets better, but I work with teens who say they still want a dark place after a tough day in school. One of the moms said she can tell when her middle schooler with dyscalculia has a heavy math day as soon as he walks out of class.”

She tapped her fingers on the tabletop, her intelligent gaze on me.

Just like before, when she looked at me, I felt seen. Not exposed, just seen. For a guy who’d futilely dogged a girl who had shared little of her effort with him, the sensation was unique. And welcome. Like it was now.

“Do you use an extension or an app to proof your emails and texts?” she asked.

I clenched down, the corner of my jaw going rigid.

I rubbed a hand down my face before resting it on the table.

I came to her for superficial help, not realizing how deep my issues went.

Like Debbie had told Auggie, his brain worked differently.

And here I was, talking about apps and tutoring for myself. “So I guess I’m dyslexic.”

“Oh.” Dismay crossed her features. “I’m sorry. I work with it every day, and I didn’t think about the fact that it’s just been dropped on you.”

“No, it’s…” A relief. Something I’d really always known. “Don’t I have to get diagnosed or something?”

“You could try, but from what families have told me, it’s frustrating to get a diagnosis.

Debbie usually just meets with the kid and the family.

She can’t officially diagnose, you know, but if she says a kid ‘needs to be here,’ then that’s as good as gold.

Usually, families have all had similar experiences.

” She shrugged. “It’s bizarre. Generations struggle in school, get treated awful, and it never changes, yet we know all about dyslexia and we have tools for it.

Despite that, the cycle repeats. So infuriating.

” She inhaled and shook her head. “Sorry. I hear a lot of horror stories from the families. Debbie started a center based on her experiences with her three kids.”

“You really love what you do.” I’d always admired her passion. “And you like working with kids.”

“I never set out to, but I got used to working with kids when I coached soccer.”

I sat back, my arms crossed, grinning. “You ended up coaching?”