Page 30 of Pucking Sweet

“Colton, it’s okay,” she says, slipping off the counter to the floor. “We just—we got caught up. It’s late, we’re both tired, and you’re grieving. It happens.”

Her list stops there. That’s why she kissed me? Because it’s late and she’s tired and she thinks I need sympathy? I brush my fingers over my lips. That sure as fuck didn’t feel like a sympathy kiss. “Well, it won’t happen again,” I hear myself say. “You’re safe with me, Poppy.”

She inches closer. “Colton.”

I drop my hand back to my side. “I need to go.”

She swallows and nods. “Okay.”

“The plant.” I gesture to where it sits over by the sink. “Don’t overwater it. The guy said that’s the big mistake most people make. Only water it once a week.”

“Okay,” she says again.

“And it doesn’t need much sunlight, but definitely more than what you have in your office at work.”

She smiles weakly. “I’ll take care of it, Colton. Thank you. It was thoughtful and lovely.”

Thoughtful and lovely.Two words I want to add to the list of real things I know about Poppy. St. James.

“Can you text me the numbers for those realtors?” I say, backing toward the front door.

She nods again. “Yeah, I’ll do it tonight before I go to bed.”

She doesn’t try to follow me. Whether it’s me she doesn’t trust, or herself, I can’t be sure. But I can’t stay here, not when I still have her taste on my tongue and the scent of her clouding all my senses. “Goodnight, Poppy,” I manage to say.

“Goodnight.”

I turn away, breaking the static charge between us. I’m in such a rush to leave, I forget to put on my damn slides. I don’t notice until I’m back in my own unit with the door shut.

Whatever. Fuck it. She can keep them.

10

My phone buzzes on the dresser, and I know it has to be Claribel. We’ve been doing a social media strategy session for the last hour via text message because Little Miss Too Busy can’t just call me back. Well,I’vebeen texting. She’s been sending one-word responses and inappropriate GIFs. I swipe my phone off the dresser and read her text with narrowed eyes.

CLARIBEL: Boss, it’s Sunday night. Clock out *wine emoji**peace sign emoji*

I huff, tossing the phone on the end of the bed. Of course I know it’s Sunday night. I’ve only been counting down the hours and minutes for months. Tomorrow, the NHL season officially starts. At 8 a.m., this rocket is blasting off. Then all we can do is fix problems as they arise—and hope we don’t come crashing back to earth.

No pressure, Poppy.

It may be Sunday night, but the work still has to get done. In the last two hours, I’ve been on the phone with five other department heads. All the while, I’ve been whirling around my apartment like a tornado, feverishly packing. I’m about to spend two weeks traveling up and down the East Coast with a professional hockey team. It’s less than ideal to do so much travel at once, but necessary.

For all the money and influence Mark Talbot has in this city, he’s not actually god, and he can’t change the fundamental laws of concrete pouring. Which means construction at the brand-new arena isn’t finished. As a result, the first six games the Rays play will all be away. Three this week. Three next week. That’s six cities with six different climates. Six different social and professional atmospheres.

All this to say, Poppy is bringing the big bag.

My largest piece of luggage is currently flipped open on the bed. Inside, I’ve stuffed everything from business separates to formal wear, to club wear, to running gear. Because, while the team has six hockey games, I have six games, eight dinners, five lunches, four charity events, and eight sponsorship meetings. Yeah, my PR team is perhaps a littletooefficient when it comes to time management. We’ve stacked practically every minute of the next two weeks.

There’s only one little break in my schedule for the day we’re in DC. I close my eyes, clutching a pair of beige Yves Saint Laurent platform sandals.Lunch with family. That’s what will occupy the only blessed break in my grueling schedule. At my mother’s insistence, I’ll be attending family lunch at The Hay-Adams.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my parents. I am eternally grateful for the life they’ve afforded me—the first-rate education, the travel and business opportunities. They set out a shining golden path for me, and all they ever asked was that I walk it without question.

Mother knows best.

And, god help me, I tried. For years, I only ever did what she wanted. I went to the schools she liked and studied the subjects she deemed appropriate for me. I dated only the boys from her approved list. I wore the clothes she wanted me to wear and made friends with the “right set” of girls. But at some point, children have to be free to live their own lives, right?

Three years ago, I did just that. I looked my St. James destiny in the face, and I said no. I walked away. Now, I’m Poppy the disappointment. Poppy the wayward lamb. My mother has a lot of euphemisms to describe the gaping hole I left in her heart. It seems like no amount of success I achieve on my own can ever erase her disappointment over the destiny I denied, the hope I squandered.