Page 70 of Pucking Sweet

“I bet he has a saffron allergy,” Sully teases. He fakesa pretentious voice. “Yes, excuse me, waiter? Are these mussels steamed in saffron butter? Because I’m allergic.”

“He looks like he wears boat shoes without the boat!”

“I bet he tells people his dick is seven inches—”

“Hey, seven inches is perfectly respectable!”

“Try seven centimeters!”

The guys are howling as the phone gets tossed over Doc and Mars, landing on the seat next to me. I grab it and look down, too curious not to. I take in the first few images on this guy’s social media feed. Fuck me, hedoeslook like a douche. He’s got the confident swagger of a rich, entitled white boy who’s never had to work for a thing in his life.

I open my mouth to make a joke as Novy lunges across the aisle, snatching the phone from my hand. “I’m sorry, but guys named ‘Colton John Morrow III’ don’t get to play this game.”

I glare at him, but no one is glaring harder than Poppy. Her cheeks are pink, and she looks an inch from feral as she sticks out her hand. “Lukas Novikov, give me that phoneright now, or I will push you out the emergency exit.”

With one more smirk, he hands it over. The guys all cheer, the game finished.

“We love you, Pop,” Sully calls.

“Yeah, we tease ’cause we care,” Walsh assures her.

“And swipe left on that guy, seriously!”

She casts Novy one more loathing look before she takes off down the aisle, Claribel hot on her heels. I’m still glaring across the aisle at him as they pass.

He catches my eye and raises a brow. “What?”

“So, nothing happened last night? Is that still your story?”

He turns away, eyes locked on his phone.

Fuck.

The other guys all settle back to their music and games as we get our safety briefing and take off. As soon as I can get a stable Wi-Fi connection, I’m on my phone. I look up Anderson Montgomery. It doesn’t take me long to get a good picture of this guy—bachelor millionaire architect, well-educated and well-connected with clear political aspirations. He’s the goddamn golden ticket.

I pause in my scrolling when I pass a news article that looks like it only just posted this morning. It’s a wedding announcement. It includes a picture of Anderson with a gorgeous young blonde—a blonde who looks shockingly like Poppy. The headline reads: “M&H Construction heir, Anderson Montgomery, to wed Violet St. James, daughter of prominent political lobbyist Hank St. James.”

Wait, does this explain why Poppy was acting so odd yesterday? Does she have a problem with her sister’s fiancé?

“Holy fucking fuck,” Novy growls from across the aisle.

I turn to see he’s finally taken his stupid sunglasses off. His eyes are wide as he stares down at his phone. “What?”

He holds up his phone, flashing me the screen. “She was engaged to that fucking guy.”

My heart drops. “What?”

He unbuckles and hops across the aisle mid-takeoff. Dropping into the empty seat next to me, he shows me his phone. The article’s a few years old, but there they are in a photo together: Poppy St. James on the arm of the dashing Anderson Montgomery. Christ, they look like young Kennedys. She’s even wearing the pearls and the cocktail dress.

“Poppy was gonna marry this guy?” The words slip out, and I hear how defeated I sound. Is this the kind of guy she wants, rich and polished and pretty enough to impress her family? Of course he is. Why would Poppy St. James waste her time on rowdy, sweaty hockey players?

She doesn’t, comes the voice in my head. She said so herself. She said it to my goddamn face. She doesn’t date hockey players. She’s not interested in us. She’s looking for a kind of life none of us could ever give her.

But she didn’t marry him. So, what happened?

Novy glances over his shoulder, peering down the aisle of the plane. “Over-under, how long d’you think she’ll stay pissed at me for teasing her about this?”

I hand him back his phone. “I think it might be way worse than you think, bud.”