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CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

NUMBER ONE FAN

POPPY

When Bowie opens his door, I think three things:

He looks incredible.

He looks stressed.

What smells so good?

“Are you okay?” I ask.

He tugs me inside and my senses blink and then erupt as they seem to always do when he touches me.

“I almost called to see if I could take you out instead because?—”

I hear it then. Raised voices spilling from the kitchen, both fiery.

“I’m telling you, you have to brown the meat first,” Mrs. McGregor’s Scottish brogue carries clear as a bell. “No shortcuts, just a proper sear!”

We walk back and peer in the doorway. Bowie’s mom is lifting a ladle as if it’s a royal scepter.

“No, you should always cook the mirepoix slowly first, then the meat goes in. That’s the authentic way.”

“And you’re Italian?” Mrs. McGregor sniffs.

“And you are?” Bowie’s mom counters.

“I’ve made Bolognese for many years. It’s Bowie’s favorite. I know what I’m doing,” Mrs. McGregor says.

That seems to deflate his mom for a second and Bowie steps into the kitchen, looking back at me with an apologetic smile.

“Oh, you must be Poppy. I’m Paulina,” Bowie’s mom says. “I don’t believe we’ve officially met.”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” I tell her.

“You are gorgeous,” she says warmly.

“Oh…thank you! You are too,” I say sincerely. She really is. From the pictures I’ve seen, Bowie is tall and built like his dad was, but his features are similar to his mom’s.

She hugs me and I glance at Bowie over her shoulder. He looks a little calmer but still nervous.

“You’ll back me up on this, won’t you?” Paulina says, when she pulls away. She gestures to the stove, where a pot of sauce bubbles. “My family has been making Bolognese for generations.”

“Hello, Poppy,” Mrs. McGregor says, smiling wide. “It’s lovely to see you again. ”

“You too.”

“Generations, ha,” Mrs. McGregor snorts, rolling her eyes at Paulina. “Next you’ll be saying you’ve been making Cullen Skink all your life.”

Paulina looks flustered for a second and then straightens, her nose lifted. “I’ve made Cullen Skink a time or two.”

“Right,” Mrs. McGregor mutters.

I try to keep a straight face. “I’m sure it’s going to be delicious,” I say diplomatically. “It smells heavenly.”

Bowie clears his throat. “Maybe the real secret ingredient is compromise?”

My lips twitch.

“Compromise?” Paulina echoes. “You mean cook the mirepoix first, then add the meat?—”

“And then let it all simmer together until the flavors marry,” Mrs. McGregor finishes, as if suddenly enlightened.

They both pause, eyeing each other warily, then simultaneously nod.

“I suppose that might result in a decent sauce,” Paulina concedes. “Mrs. McGregor, would you like to be the one to add the wine?”

“Very well,” she says. She gets the corkscrew out, tosses it in the air, catches it, and then grins at us.

I let out a loud laugh and Bowie starts laughing too. The women look at us in curiosity, like they have no idea the entertainment they’re putting out there.

“Dinner here is never dull, I see,” I whisper to Bowie.

“You have no idea.”

Once the wine is added, I lean closer to the stove. “Smells perfect to me,” I say softly.

Both women look pleased with the compliment.

“We’ll see, dear,” Paulina says, patting my arm. “Nothing wrong with a bit of spirited debate in the name of good Bolognese.”

“My Bolognese was fine without the debate, but I guess you’re right,” Mrs. McGregor says.

“Why settle with fine when you can have splendid?” Paulina tilts her head and Mrs. McGregor groans.

Bowie laughs. “Okay, ladies. Thank you.”

Becca bursts through the kitchen with Martha on her heels and freezes when she sees me. And then she’s rushing toward me. “Poppy!”

I love the way she always says my name with such joy.

“Hi, Becca!”

“Why are you here?” she asks happily.

“I’m…having dinner.” I look at Bowie, uncertain what to say.

“I love dinner!” Becca throws her fist in the air.

“Me too.” I laugh.

Bowie leans in to whisper. “Sorry, I thought this was going to be a quieter affair with maybe the three of us, but looks like there might be five or six.”

“It’s totally fine. I’m having fun,” I tell him.

He grins at me and puts his hand on my cheek. For a second, I think he might kiss me, but he doesn’t.

Becca looks at us and beams. “Poppy, you marry my dad like Tru and Henley?” she asks. “And Elle and Rhodes and Sadie and Weston?”

My mouth drops. “Uh. I?—”

“First things first, Becca,” Bowie says.

I expect him to be terrified by Becca trying to marry us off, but his look is teasing when he looks at me and scrunches up his face.

He leans in. “Well, we kind of already botched that, didn’t we,” he says, so only I can hear .

I nearly choke as I try to not burst out laughing.

“Yes, first you get Poppy a pretty ring,” Becca says.

“Well, I have to convince her to like me,” Bowie says.

I roll my eyes.

Becca’s face brightens with understanding as she holds her fingers up and starts counting. She holds up her first finger and says, “My dad is very nice.“ Moving on, she counts off more reasons Bowie is the best. “My dad is tall and SO strong.” She forgoes the counting to show me her big muscle pose.

I am so giddy with warm fuzzies that I can hardly contain it.

“He takes me to fun places,” she continues. She points animatedly at Bowie like she just remembered something else. “He gives me presents. I love presents!” She gets more excited as she goes. “He reads me stories and plays dress up. I have a pink dress. I love pink!”

“He’s a good dad, isn’t he?” I say.

She nods, smiling happily. “My daddy is the best.” Then she flings herself forward, wrapping her arms around my waist. “And my Poppy is the best. I am so happy,” Becca says. “Can we take pictures?”

She lets me go and looks around, spotting Bowie’s phone on the counter. She picks it up and hands it to him.

“We take pictures!”she says excitedly.

When he tries to take one of the two of us, she points at him.

“You too, Dad,” she says. “Because we like you.”

“Oh,” he says, surprised.

He moves next to us and holds out his arm, taking a few selfies of us.

She turns to look at me. “You like my dad? ”

“I do,” I say, smiling at her and not looking at Bowie while my cheeks are burning.

“Then we get married like Tru and Henley,” she says, nodding. “And Elle and Rhodes and Sadie and Weston.”

Bowie groans and gives me an apologetic look.

“I see the pictures,” Becca says.

Bowie shows her, and she claps her hands and says a loud, “Yes!” in approval.

“Join us for dinner, ladies?” Bowie says to his mom and Mrs. McGregor.

“Oh, we were just going to disappear.” Mrs. McGregor looks at Paulina pointedly.

“Um, yes…you enjoy,” Paulina says.

“You went to all this trouble,” I say. “Join us.” I look at Bowie and he looks amused but pleased.

“I’ll just go tell Mr. McGregor to join us too.” Mrs. McGregor goes off excitedly and we fill our plates before taking them to the table.

Later, after my stomach hurts from laughing and the delicious meal, Becca gets ready for bed. She comes out in her pajamas and looks at me, holding up a book. She hands it to me, looking shyer than usual.

“Would you like me to read you this story?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I stand up and she takes my hand, leading me to her room. She crawls into bed and I sit on the edge and start to read in my best animated voice. When the story ends, she smiles drowsily up at me.

“You live with us too,” she says.

“Uh,” I shake my head, “I live at my house.”

I hear something and turn back to see Bowie standing by the door, arms folded, and my heart twists in ways I can’t describe .

“You live with us,” Becca whispers.

“Night-night, sweet girl,” I say as I lean down and press a gentle kiss to her forehead.

Bowie’s eyes are heated as I walk past him. He goes over to tell Becca good night and then follows me out. When we’re out in the hall, he takes my hand and tugs me toward his room. Once we’re inside, he closes the door and then presses me against it.

“Poppy,” he says huskily. “What are you doing to me?”

“What do you mean?”

“How are you doing this? You’re burrowing into me like a persistent whisper I can’t stop hearing,” he breathes, his voice taut with emotion. “Your goodness is,” his forehead rests against mine, the warmth of his breath fanning across my cheek, “consuming me. Your beauty. Your gentleness with Becca. The way you feel in my arms.”

Sometimes when he speaks, I hear the slightest bit of an accent like his mom’s.

I can feel the tremor in his chest, as if his heart’s pounding as desperately as mine. His hands tighten at my waist.

“I can’t think straight when I’m near you, and I can’t think straight when I’m not.”

I swallow, overcome by the honesty in his voice, the vulnerability in his eyes. “Bowie,” I whisper.

I lift my hand to his cheek, uncertain of whether I should soothe him or kiss him.

“I’m terrified,” he admits. His gaze drops to my mouth, then rises again, locking on my eyes. “And I don’t want it to stop.”

My breathing is shaky as I inhale and exhale. “Do you think you’re feeling more because…I’m pregnant?” I whisper .

“I’ve thought of it nearly nonstop since you told me. I’ve had a whole slew of worries about the baby…except for tonight. All I’ve thought tonight is that I want to come up with more reasons for you to be here…because you’re so fun, and a bright spot in this house that doesn’t need another woman in it…but I’d do anything to have you in it…” His expression is shamed when he looks at me again. “I haven’t thought of the baby once.”

I giggle and he rears back to get a better look at my face.

“That’s funny?”

“A little. You don’t have to think about the baby nonstop. And I don’t mind at all that you’re thinking about me.”

“If you knew how much I think about you, you’d probably run.”

My brow creases and I try not to beam. “Um, no? Tell me more.”

His lips lift and he leans in, his mouth brushing against mine.

“God, you taste so good,” his voice is a low murmur, each word landing like a soft caress. “You smell so good.”

He presses another slow, deliberate kiss to the corner of my mouth.

“Everything about you is so sweet. Your laugh, your smile...”

He moves to my cheek and then my ear. Between each press of his lips, his voice is low and intimate. A craving builds inside me until I’m trembling.

“You’re so beautiful. So goddamn beautiful.”

His lips trail back to mine, lingering there. I get lost in his kiss and then he trails back to my ear.

“I want to memorize every soft sound you make when I kiss you here—” he kisses just beneath my jaw “—and here—” another kiss at the base of my throat .

His smile turns wicked when I whimper. I tug him closer.

“Do you feel what you do to me?” he asks.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Every time your lips touch mine, I lose another piece of my restraint. And it’s not just my body, Poppy.”

He kisses me again, slower, deeper, his hands curling into my hair. I stand on my tiptoes to feel more of him and he lifts me, wrapping my legs around his waist. He takes me to his bed and lays me on top of it.

“We don’t have to do anything more than you want. I can just kiss you for a while…”

I reach up and pull him down to kiss me again. “I don’t know if I can relax to do more than that when your mom and Mrs. McGregor are here.”

“Mrs. McGregor is in her cottage by now and my mom’s on the opposite end of the house.” His lips move to my ear and he whispers, “Can I taste you?”

“Oh…” I freeze. “I’m terrible at that,” I say.

His lips lift and he laughs against my skin. “Not possible.”

He leans back to look at me.

“I mean…I can’t really relax when—” I pause, my cheeks heating.

“Do you not like it?” he asks.

“Usually, no,” I say, crinkling my face. “But you have me curious now.”

He looks so happy with that answer, I cover my face with my hand. His hand hovers over my jeans.

“May I?”

I nod, already anticipating how it’ll feel, but nervous that I’ll be too knotted up to enjoy it.

He undoes my jeans and slides them down my legs. I lift my hips, helping him get them off. When he sees my hot pink lacy panties, he takes me in for a few moments, sighing and then staring at me with his lust-filled eyes.

I’d say yes to anything he asks when he looks at me like this.

His hand cups my stomach and he places a soft kiss below my belly button.

“Hello, little one,” he whispers. “Enjoy your sleep in there.”

I die.

He slides the lace down my legs and then his mouth is on my bare torso as he lifts my shirt, and places open-mouth kisses that tease their way down my body. When he spreads me with his thumbs and bends to suck directly over my clit, I nearly convulse off the bed. His chuckle heats my skin and then his mouth is hungry, sucking and exploring me with that tongue. His fingers get in there too. Gentle at first, and then when I am so wet the sounds are filling his bedroom, it’s no longer a teasing seduction but a full-on overwhelm of the senses. His fingers work deep and fast, his tongue flicking over me with such precision and perfection, everything in me feels achy and primed and so, so hungry. It’s so intense and I let out a sharp cry before realizing I have to be quiet. I try to grab a pillow, but he tosses it aside.

So my cries come out like an anguished mewl, whimpering his name over and over again as I fall apart.

“Bowie, Bowie, Bowie, Bowie. ” It’s a chant my heart keeps echoing after I stop saying it.

And then he presses one more kiss there, and I feel grounded to the earth, grounded to him, in a way I didn’t know existed.

He crawls up my body, kissing his way up my skin, until he reaches my breasts. He lowers the cup of my bra and wraps his tongue around my nipple .

“Still not a fan?” he asks, looking up at me through half-lowered lids.

My arm is flung over my eyes and I start laughing and can’t stop. He joins in and then lifts my arm, peering down at me.

“Well?”

“I’m your tongue and fingers’ number one fan,” I tell him sincerely.