Page 12 of The Ex Project (The Heartwood #3)

HUDSON

The bell above the door of Thistle + Thorne makes a delicate tinkling sound as I open it and step inside. I remove my aviator sunglasses and pop them in the collar of my shirt as my eyes adjust from the brightness outside, and I scan the café for a head of blonde hair.

I spot Emma over by the window, sitting in a velvet wingback armchair.

She’s casually scrolling on her phone while she waits.

I recognize her from the picture of herself she sent me last night.

Nothing scandalous, just a photo of her standing on a hiking trail with her dog.

Something, so I would know who to look for. And here she is.

My immediate thought when I saw the photo last night, when we texted back and forth and set the details for today, was that she was cute. She has an immediately likeable sweetness to her.

“Hey, Emma?” I ask, even though I know it’s her. She looks up from her phone, and her already wide blue eyes open further. I hold my hand out to shake hers, but she pops up out of the chair and throws her arms around me in a friendly hug.

“Hudson! It’s so nice to finally meet you.

” Her bright pink lips widen into a warm smile as she pulls away from me.

She’s petite in height, but she’s got a curvy build, the hourglass shape of her waist accentuating the width of her hips.

She’s dressed in athletic wear, figure-hugging leggings and a pale blue jacket, with long blonde hair that falls almost to her waist. Alma was not kidding when she said Emma has a bangin’ bod.

“Likewise,” I say, taking her in for a moment. From the bubbly way she’s greeted me to the open expression on her face, I can’t help but notice that Emma is the polar opposite of Wren. Where Wren is closed off and icy, this woman feels like standing in the sunlight.

I tell myself that’s a good thing; a woman like Emma is what I need.

Not someone who is determined to shut me out based on something that happened ten years ago.

Jett is right, I need to get over Wren, and maybe Emma is the woman I can do that with.

“Can I get you something to drink?” I say, pointing over my shoulder towards the counter.

“Sure, thanks. I would love a London Fog.”

“Comin’ right up, wait here.” I turn to approach the counter, and I startle slightly when I’m immediately met with Poppy’s glare, where she’s waiting for me at the till.

“Hey Pops.” She doesn’t answer. “Can I get a medium London Fog, and a medium café misto with almond milk?” I say, almost hesitantly, because the way Poppy’s eyes are boring through me right to my soul is unnerving.

She only breaks eye contact with me to punch in my order, but I swear her finger nearly goes through the screen.

Her mouth is scrunched, and she doesn’t speak a word when she points at the credit machine, motioning for me to pay.

“Everything okay?” I ask. It’s unlike her to treat any customer with this level of contempt, and she and I have known each other for years. We practically grew up together.

“Fine.” Her voice comes out several octaves higher than usual.

But instead of elaborating, she whirls around on her heel and moves over to the espresso machine to start working on our order.

Steam hisses, temporarily obscuring her from view.

Once the loud hissing stops, she calls over to where I’m hovering by the counter. “I’ll bring it to your table.”

Okay. Whatever Poppy’s deal is, it probably has nothing to do with me. And if she’s not willing to divulge, then I can’t do anything for her. With that acceptance, I return to where Emma is sitting and flop down on the armchair across from her.

“So, how has your morning been?” Emma asks me, and I tell her it was uneventful.

I explain that I’m living with my brother and that he drives me crazy sometimes, but overall, I like having him around.

We fill the silence with small talk—I ask about her dog, how long she’s had him, and how she likes being in Heartwood so far.

The conversation is good, nice. I enjoy talking to Emma.

She’s easy to carry on a conversation with, and she’s non-intimidating.

When I ask her questions, she doesn’t look at me like she’s trying to figure out if I have an ulterior motive.

When she asks me questions, I don’t feel like I’m walking into a trap.

It’s nothing like the way Wren asked me what I was doing in her backyard yesterday morning.

She stood at the doorway, arms crossed and hip popped, waiting for my answer like I was under interrogation.

And I have a habit of laughing in serious moments, so I struggled to school my features as she barked at me for intruding on her doing whatever it was she was doing.

Singing into a spatula from the looks of it.

Yet, I can’t stop thinking about the way she looked in that skimpy pajama set and the cow slippers she wore on her feet.

The way she stood in the doorway, I couldn’t help but notice the way the loose leg of her short shorts fluttered, revealing the soft part of her thigh.

It sparked a memory of me trailing my lips there, nipping at the delicate flesh while she moaned my name and tugged at my hair.

My attention is jerked back to reality when Poppy approaches our table with our drinks. I silently scold myself for letting my mind wander back to Wren when I should be focused on Emma.

“One London Fog, and one café misto,” Poppy says, the cheerful lilt of her voice has returned now, and something in me sags with relief. She sets the mugs down on the coffee table between Emma and I and wipes her hands on her apron as she straightens. “You must be new in town. I’m Poppy.”

She and Emma shake hands.

“I’m Emma. I’m here for the summer to help my grandmother out with her store. It’s getting hard for her to manage on her own,” Emma explains.

“So, just in town for a couple of months then, no plans to stay?” I don’t recognize the unfamiliar pitch in Poppy’s voice. Not as pronounced as before, but still, different than her usual tone.

“Not yet.” Emma’s eyes flick over to me as she says it, as if I might give her a reason to. I shift nervously in my seat and glance down at the coffee in my hand. “But my grandmother wants me to take over her store one day. So, we’ll see.”

Something like relief floods my chest. Emma may have another reason to stay, not because of me.

It takes some pressure off whatever this is, and I tell myself that’s the reason I felt panicky initially.

It’s not because I don’t like Emma, I do like her.

I just want to take things slow, not rush into anything.

Emma and I finish up our coffee date once Poppy leaves us to it, even though I still feel her gaze on us occasionally. I never knew Poppy to be so nosey, but I can tell she’s eavesdropping.

There’s nothing to eavesdrop on anyway, our conversation stays pleasant, surface level. Everything you would expect on a first date, especially a casual coffee date on a Saturday morning. It’s all very G-rated.

I learn that Emma grew up as an only child of a single mother.

Her mother left Heartwood when she was young and she’s hardly ever been back, which is why in all my years of living here, I’ve never met her.

I also learn that despite not returning to visit much, she’s maintained a close relationship with her grandmother, Alma.

Emma asks me what it was like to grow up in a small town, and I explain that this town is like my family and how much we rely on each other here.

The date is comfortable, and I leave feeling more at ease, understanding Emma a little better. As we exit the café and step out onto the sidewalk, she shields her eyes from the sun as she looks up at me .

“When can I see you again?” She’s direct, but not in a pushy way. I think for a moment. The public forum is at the end of the week, which means I’ll be busy finalizing my design for the arts centre. Tuesday night is fire drill. Monday, I have a busy day on a job site …

“Tomorrow?” I say, trying not to sound too eager. But Emma is sweet, and I had a good time today. I do want to spend more time with her, but my schedule is tight.

“Tomorrow sounds great. I’ll text you later to make a plan.” Emma gives me another hug before she gets into her car parked right in front of the café and pulls away from the curb. I walk in the opposite direction, back towards my apartment.

I only get about fifty paces away when I hear my name being shouted from behind me. I whirl around, and I’m surprised to see Poppy gunning for me like a fucking bull. She practically has steam coming out of her nose. The gold hoop in the centre of it only makes the image more accurate.

“What are you thinking, Landry,” she barks out as she gets close and extends a small hand to shove my shoulder. I’m not used to seeing Poppy like this. She’s usually more soft-spoken, more reserved.

“Slow down, Ferdinand,” I joke, but her nostrils flare at the reference.

“I can’t believe you. That was a really shitty thing to do.” The comment stings. I actively try to avoid doing shitty things. Unlike my brother, Mason, who needed Ally to break through his gruff exterior, I at least make a solid effort to be likeable.

“You’re gonna have to back up and explain, because as far as I’m aware, I did nothing to make you so angry at me, Pops. You’ve been shooting daggers at me with your eyes all morning.”

“Emma?” Her chocolate brown eyes widen as she waves her hands, as if it should be obvious what she’s talking about. I glance over Poppy’s shoulder to make sure Emma isn’t somehow still within earshot.

“What the hell are you talking about?” I snap, growing more and more defensive by the second.

“You think, as Wren’s best friend, I’m not going to say anything while you, Hudson Landry, who has been infamously and perpetually single since she left, date someone the one summer she comes back?

” I reel for a moment at what Poppy has said, and that she managed to spew it all out at me in one, vengeful breath.

When I don’t say anything, too stunned for words, Poppy drives the knife in a little deeper. “It’s not enough for you to destroy her, break her heart, you have the audacity to date someone else right in front of her face?”

I scoff. As if Wren is jealous of anyone I date, as if she’d be hurt from me moving on ten years later.

“She hates me , Poppy. I don’t think she would be upset if I died a slow and painful death at this point. I’m not doing anything wrong by going out with Emma.”

“You need to get your head on straight.” Poppy shakes her head, throwing her hands up in defeat and starts to back away. “If you think Wren hating you means she’s over you, then there is no hope for you at all.”

Poppy pivots on her heel and strides back to the café, leaving me standing on the sidewalk of Main Street, dumbfounded.

Her words echo in my head the whole walk home, and by the time I reach my apartment, I’m no closer to figuring out what they mean. Even if I did, what am I supposed to do with the information?

Wren has put up so many walls at this point, closed herself off from even spending time with me. Even if Poppy was right, and there was still a part of her that cared for me, I doubt I could even reach it.