Page 116 of Pucking Sweet

Olivia Rodrigo plays on my wireless speaker as I stuff tissue paper into glittery pink gift bags. Violet’s bachelorette party is this weekend, and I’m not finished prepping the gifts. Little piles of cosmetics and face masks and silky pajama sets surround me on the floor as I rush to assemble a bag for each girl.

There are some naughty gifts too. Everyone is going home with a new vibrator. And I picked up some sample packets of fruity lube and some penis candy necklaces. There’s also a handful of rainbow penis confetti in each bag.

Is this all still weird and awkward and painful? Yes.

But I’m Poppy St. James, and these party favors are going to be fabulous.

I planned the bachelorette party as an overnight trip to St. Augustine. It’ll be twenty-four hours stuck with my little sister and six of her brattiest friends talking about how wonderful it is that she’s marrying my awful ex. The only silver lining is that Tina is coming. I know because I invited her. I don’t think I’ll survive this weekend without her. She texted me last week with a screenshot of the invite saying, “You fucking kidding me, bitch?” I sent back a string of twenty begging GIFs until she finally relented with, “Fine. But you’re paying for my flight.”

Fastest two hundred bucks I ever spent.

I have a few special gifts for her bag. Instead of a vibrator, I got her a dildo shaped like a rainbow unicorn horn. And a ball gag. And her lube is cinnamon bun flavored. I smile as I collect her little pile of gifts off to the side, away from the others.

A knock at my door has me turning. Who the heck would be here at eleven o’clock on a Thursday night? Getting to my feet, I trot overto the door and bounce up on my toes, peeking through the peephole. I gasp, pushing away from the door with both hands.

Colton is outside my door.

Oh god, what is he doing here? It’s been two weeks since the beach, and things between us are still so tense. That night, he told me I was his endgame. Then he demanded I shut off all my feelings for Lukas like I’m a freaking faucet.Thenhe didn’t show up to my charity event, even though he signed up to attend. He sent me a text later saying his mom had a fall. Something about a concussion?

Since he got back from Pittsburgh, I’ve been bumping into him everywhere—the practice rink, the coffee cart, even twice at the grocery store. He smiles, he engages me in conversation, he listens with his whole body, and then he walks away as if the beach never happened.

He said it, right? He told me he wanted to love me and marry me and follow me to the ends of the earth. That happened?

Oh god. I don’t know if I have the strength to deal with this right now.

But I’m also too dang curious not to open the door.

My curiosity wins.

“Colton, hi.”

His dark eyes widen, almost as if he’s surprised I answered. He looks as good as ever, relaxed and comfortable in some Rays workout gear. He’s got a five o’clock shadow that looks delicious on him. Is he growing his beard out?

“Hey, Poppy,” he replies, his gaze trailing me up and down.

That’s the one thing thathasn’tchanged. He can’t help but look at me. It makes me shiver every time. I wish I was wearing something cuter than these kitty cat pajama shorts and my faded, slouchy “Mrs. Darcy” sweatshirt. “Need to borrow a cup of sugar?”

He smiles. “Nah, I’m good.”

I wait, holding onto the door. Inviting him in feels like a colossal mistake that will just end with me naked.

“I didn’t know how to do this without sending you all the wrong signals again,” he finally says. “But I feel like I really need to clarify something.”

Oh heavens, he wants to have a relationship talk now? Keeping asmile on my face, I crack the door open a little bit. “Do you want to come in?”

A hint of panic flashes across his face. “Uhh…no. I think it’s best if I stay out here.”

“You don’t want to come in?”

He groans, stepping back to grab the handrail with both hands. “Poppy, I want to come into that apartment more than I want fucking air. But maybe you could just come out here instead. Would that be cool?”

So, this is about mutual restraint? A test of wills? “Sure.” I step out, shutting the door with a soft click. “Better?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, not letting go of the handrail.

I wait for him to speak, arms folded over my chest, hugging myself inside my sweatshirt.

“I just wanted to let you know that I’m sorry for what happened at the beach,” he says. “I was spun up, maybe even a little drunk, and I said some shit I didn’t mean. Actually, alotof shit I didn’t mean. If you’ll let me, I’d like to take it back.”