Chapter 45

Chapter 45

Poppy

My heart races, outpacing the peaceful cadence of waves splashing against the shore. "Because," I state.

Julian senses my fear, his fingers gently rubbing my arms in an attempt to soothe me.

"Because it's my fault my brother Peter died. I killed Henry's twin."

There. I've said it.

"Poppy," Julian says, his voice deep with shock. "It's not your fault."

"It is." I rebut. I've worn this blame like a noose around my neck. Each time Henry walked past me without even an eye glance, the rope tightened. For three years, I just wished it would suffocate me, so I didn't have to bear it.

"I was at a party. Henry was there, too. It was at my ex's house," I recall, with a snort. "He had a huge house, and once a month, he threw these massive parties in the pool house. I say 'pool house,' but it was bigger than an average family's home. Anyway, things between my ex and I were getting tense, and," Here I start weaving lies into the truth, "we had a fight, and I wanted to go home. I could have found Henry, but Alice Davis was there, and Henry had the biggest crush on her. I didn't want to ruin his chance." That part is partially true. Henry was flirting with Alice, but he would've come in a heartbeat if I asked. He also would've confronted Andrew if I had told him what happened. Henry thought with his fist after our parents died. Peter didn't.

"So, I called Peter. I was crying, and naturally, like any older brother, he came rushing to me."

Continuing is hard, but I need Julian to know. "Peter's car crashed just outside of the guard gate to the neighborhood."

He was so close, and now...he's so far because he's dead, because you killed him.

"Peter always wore his seatbelt, except that night... because of me. He was rushing to get to me and wasn't thinking. I ran from the house to the main guard gate. I didn't want Henry to know I was upset. I heard the crash in the distance, and I just knew it was Peter. I knew as soon as I heard the screeching of tires." I grip my stomach. "I could feel it deep in my gut; it was like a bomb detonated inside of me."

"Poppy," Julian readjusts me so I'm cradled to his chest.

"Peter ran a stop sign and hit another car. They all walked away fine, but Peter never got to walk away; he always wore his seatbelt. Peter was the responsible one. The last thing he heard was my voice crying; I made him rush to me." My throat feels like it's closing, "I took Henry's twin from him."

Julian cradles me to his chest, his voice both soothing and firm. "It was an accident, Poppy. Not your fault."

"Sometimes words mean nothing, Julian," I state, my tone cold and numb, "I called my brother. My call put him on the road. A jury would agree it was my initial action that caused him to be on the road. It is my fault."

"You can't think like that."

I don't know how not to. I see it as a one-plus-one scenario, Julian. I called and asked Peter to come to me, and he did. I killed him." I mutter; the tears feel like acid as they slow to a trickle down my cheeks.

"I'm a monster, a villain. Ask my brother Henry, and he'd agree. He hates me."

"No, he doesn't."

I snort. Julian hugs me tighter. "We all react differently to pain, Poppy, Sometimes we lash out, sometimes we break, other times we just need time. Maybe thats's what you and Henry needed."

I close my eyes, pressing my wet cheeks into his shirt as he cradles me. "Time doesn't bring back the dead," I whisper. But…it does bring you closer to them. I don't voice that thought. I'm not eager for death anymore. Julian's helped change that; he's plucked that darkness out of me.

He kisses the top of my head. "Listen to me, Poppy, I never knew Peter, but as a brother myself, I know he wouldn't want this for you. We can't control everything, and sometimes terrible things happen to the most undeserving people. Grieving can lead us to cope by placing self-blame, but it's like a cancer, eating away at us." He gently tilts my head up, and through blurry eyes, I see his grey eyes mirroring the mountain tops behind him. "I don't want you to keep making yourself sick with blame, Pumpkin."

"I'm trying," I whisper. Maybe if Henry acknowledged me, I'd be able to move on, to untie the rope and set myself free.

"I don't think we should drink wine anymore." Changing the subject, I attempt a lighter tone. "It makes us too serious."

He chuckles, kissing my head. "So beer with the burgers... oh shit," he suddenly says, gently setting me down, "The burgers!" He gasps, and then he rushes to the grill.

Julian

Poppy pokes the burger, all the while trying to hide a grin, as the evening sun casts a warm glow over the patio of my Lake Tahoe backyard. The gentle sound of waves crashing on the shore creates a serene backdrop.

It's a relaxation I haven't had in a long time.

A charred flake drops off the burger and hits the plate, making a small dinging sound. "Blame it on the wine," I joke, the fading light reflecting in my eyes.

"Gets distracted when he cooks," Poppy says, her voice playful as she raises the burnt burger to her pouty lips. "That's a red flag, Neighbor." She quips, then takes a deliberate bite. Her gaze flickers to the horizon where the sun meets the lake, the sky a canvas of oranges and purples.

"Good thing I'm not just your neighbor," I retort playfully, leaning back in my chair, the sturdy wood feeling warm against my back. The smell of the charred burger mixes oddly with the fresh, pine-scented air.

Her head tips to the side, her hair cascading down like a silken curtain, catching the last rays of the sun. Our eyes lock, and the familiar chemistry that always sparks when we're close begins to pulse. I feel it in my heart, a deep thump, then a stirring lower down.

"No, you're not," she smiles sincerely, her eyes twinkling with a hint of something more. I can't help but wonder what's going through her mind.

She bats her lashes and looks back at the burger, her expression one of mock appraisal. "At least the buns look appetizing."

"That they do," I reply as I raise my brow.

She rolls her eyes playfully, "You and Harper always make everything sexual."

"It's a talent, but I think Harper takes the gold."

Poppy giggles.

That sound. I crave it now. Like a dose of vitamins, I want to hear her laugh every day.

"I agree." She replies.

I pick up my burger, which is dripping with ketchup, to hide the burnt taste and copy her as I take a bite. It's not awful, but what I cook for Poppy, I don't want to be 'not awful.' I want it to be the best damn burger she has had, so she keeps coming over and wants more.

The setting sun casts a golden hue over the patio, the shadows growing longer as the evening sets in. I contemplate the night ahead. Unlike past relationships, where physical intimacy came early, with Poppy, it's been a slow burn, a dance of patience. I never thought I was a good dancer, but I've found my rhythm. I'll wait as long as I have to.

I've wanted her from the moment I saw her, but I've learned to temper my desires. It's hard when all the blood leaves my brain and my cock takes over.

Is it insane to admit I've had more than one mental conversation with my dick, trying to convince him the wait is worth it?

Poppy is worth it.

I'm hard 24/7 when I see her. I feel like a teenager who can barely keep it in his pants. My hand is sore from the number of times I've jerked off to the memory of her when I'm alone.

It's torture.

She wants me to take the lead and initiate. I love that; that's what turns me on. But I'm careful to gauge her feelings, sensitive to the signs of fear that sometimes flicker in her eyes. At first, I thought it was excitement when her breaths became more shallow and her heart rate quickened. Then I realized she was scared; her eyes grew distant like they were lost in a fog, and the tips of her fingers trembled and sunk into my flesh.

When I slowed down, she snapped out of it. Each night, I test those boundaries, bringing her to the edge of her fear and showing her I won't hurt her. And each night, I see our progression. During this trip, I go to sleep and wake up with her in my arms. Her hair is a silken, tangled mess all over my shoulder as we cuddle.

I don't cuddle; I never have, but as I'm learning, things with Poppy are different. Maybe making me wait is all part of her plan: drive me wild, turn me into a man who crawls on his knees and begs for anything.

This brings me to my next problem: how do I keep it this way? Once we return to Texas, there is no way I will kiss her goodnight at her door and then leave. I want her in my bed, in my arms, where I know she is safe.

I think I'll ask her to move in with me on the plane ride home.

I'll say it, mentally, that is, because I don't want to scare her by blurting out, Move in with me, woman, because I'm falling in love with you. I feel like a caveman that wants to throw you over my shoulder and shout to the world to stay the fuck away, or I'll kill them.

Is that too subtle?

I'm falling in love.

It feels fucking fantastic.

It's more than just her effortless beauty that draws me to her, a beauty she wears so unassumingly. It's all the little things she does that make me smile as I watch her. She carries around a label printer in her bag. I didn't even know such things existed. But it's something she loves; her excitement when she opens the app to design a label is adorable. When she thinks something is secretly funny, her nose twitches slightly when she tries to hide her smile.

She thinks she's a decent baker, but that's usually when the mix comes straight from a box. One evening, she ambitiously printed out a recipe for red velvet cupcakes from scratch – my girl does have a sweet tooth, after all. Those cupcakes managed to make my charred burger taste like a gourmet meal from a five-star restaurant. I didn't have the heart to tell her, of course. Noticing her disappointment, I offered to help with icing while she tackled the dishes. I slathered so much cream cheese icing on them that they were more icing than cupcake – a mountain of cream cheese frosting with a hint of tragically overdone red velvet beneath. It drowned out everything, which was exactly what I wanted, just to see her smile without a hint of worry. I bravely downed three of them. Most likely, I'm a type two diabetic now from all the sugar, but her smile was worth it.

I think that's love, eating questionable food but still loving the woman who cooked it.

Did I mentally say ‘loving'? Yeah, I did.

I love you, Poppy, I think, just as our eyes meet.

She looks momentarily puzzled, covering her mouth. "What?" she asks, her hazel eyes wide, beautifully innocent."Do I have something on my face?" She panics slightly, reaching for a napkin.

"No. I'm just wondering how you're managing to swallow this," I say, my voice laced with amusement.

She dramatically gulps. "I'll swallow anything you give me," she declares with a sassy edge, then immediately blushes a deep red as she realizes the innuendo. "I didn't mean it like that! I mean food. The good or bad, I'll be your taste tester."

I shake my head, trying to contain a deep belly laugh, as the evening breeze carries our laughter over the gentle lapping of the lake's waves.

Fuck it. "I love you," I blurt out, feeling like a complete fool. This isn't how I wanted to tell her. I had planned to wait a few more weeks to avoid pressuring her.

The burger in my hand clatters onto the plate as I hastily wipe my hands on my jeans. Admitting my love over burnt burgers and across a simple table wasn't part of the plan.

"I, uh," I stammer, running a hand through my hair in nervousness. "I love you," I repeat with a helpless shrug. "I didn't want to tell you like this, but—" I stand and start to circle the table, then pause, realizing the intensity of my approach.That's right, Julian, don't crowd her more; go sit back down and give her space, you idiot.

I grab my chair and drag it closer to her.

"It's ok," she mutters, her voice barely above a whisper. Her hands lower slowly, placing her half-eaten burger back on the plate.

'It's ok.' I turn the phrase over in my mind, trying to decipher its meaning. Is that good or bad?

Shit. I might have messed up. Did I push her away?