Intoxicating Read online

  “Anyway, I promised. Figured it’d make me feel useful while I’m stuck here, studying for my exam.”

  She unfolded her fawnlike legs and set one foot on the floor.

  “Wait.”

  She stopped in the midst of hoisting her body off the bed and looked up at him.

  “I’ll coach you.”

  “Really?” Slowly, she sank back down.

  If she failed, he would have himself to blame. That only added to the cost. But if life had doled him out his share of tragedy, it had also given him broad shoulders. And the hope in her eyes was worth missing a few meetings. Even having to face a life without her, if that’s what it took to make her happy.

  “It would mean so much to me, Heath.”

  “I’m not gonna lie. It’s going to be tough.”

  Poppy threw her arms around him, catching him off guard.

  Behind her, his hands hovered inches over her back while his preganglionic sympathetic nerves released acetylcholine, speeding up his heart rate, stirring stagnant blood, and tightening his muscles in the textbook “fight or flight” response.

  “Stay and love” had never been one of the options.

  Tentatively, his palms came down on her silky hair. Her sweet, tart scent filled his senses . . . her body was warm and lithe, pressed up against his.

  It wasn’t the raw, sensual attraction itself that terrified him. He might be a klutz at cocktail parties, but he didn’t need the lights on to find his way around the bedroom.

  It was that these were Poppy’s arms gripping him in a stranglehold. . . little Poppy, who had talked his ear off after school at her parents’ café until his dad got home from work.

  Poppy, whose incessant chatter at the science club meetings his dad insisted they invite her to in return made everyone lose track of their experiments.

  She pulled back until her hands rested on his shoulders.

  “How soon can you do a mock tasting?”

  It took him a second to remember what they were there for.

  “What about that reunion meeting next week? You told Demi you already got the job. How are you going to fix that?”

  Poppy’s hands slid into her lap, leaving him feeling relieved and at the same time, robbed of something priceless.

  “I got a little carried away there, didn’t I?” She laughed drily. “I figure the best thing to do is dial it back a bit—admit to Demi the fact that I have to take a little test as a requirement for the new job. I don’t have to add that I happen to be scared out of my mind about it.”

  “Watch out. Demi Barnes is a ballbuster.”

  But Poppy was already on her feet, her usual, sunny grin restored. “Thankfully, most people aren’t like Demi. I’m hoping there’ll be some friendly faces on the reunion committee.”

  Heath wasn’t nearly as optimistic as she was. But then, who was? “Just saying. Be careful, and don’t let anything Demi says bother you. You’re smarter than you think.”

  She put one foot below the other as she climbed down the ladder with the burden of her satchel. Despite her disability, she was so bold, so brave.

  “Careful,” he called, wishing he could wrap her in a cocoon of protection wherever she went.

  Watching her shoes stir up the new-fallen leaves as she made her way back up the path, his heart squeezed. Poppy had always been there for him. He would do whatever he could to help her pass this test, even if it meant losing the best friend he’d ever had.

  Chapter Four

  The following Tuesday Poppy arrived for her three o’clock shift with a bounce in her step. She had a plan, and people willing to help her implement it.

  For most of her life, Poppy’s world had revolved around the comfortable two-story home and the café her parents had named for her. Her mom had a smile for everyone, and her dad’s cheerful personality was contagious. Everyone told her she’d gotten the best of both of parents.

  On the wall above the register, framed photos marked the pivotal events of her life.

  The first, grainy baby picture showed her slouched in one of those infant bouncy chairs, perched on the counter only inches from where she now stood. In the next, she was taking her first wobbly steps, holding on to a chair seat. Then she was about eight, one of her mom’s aprons knotted behind her neck, her tongue out in concentration as she carried a brimming water glass in each hand while helping out during the busy crush season. She could still remember how proud she’d been when she hadn’t spilled a drop.

  When she was thirteen, she begged to be allowed to wait on customers. After she proved she could heft a tray full of heavy restaurant china used for its home-style cooking, there’d been no holding her back.

  The final picture depicted all five foot seven inches of her in her pale blue prom gown bought special in Portland at the new Macy’s that had swallowed up Meier & Frank, the Bon Marché, and Marshall Field’s. The photo was snapped at the moment her hand caught the crown that kept slipping off her sleek blond head, as if it didn’t quite fit.

  The day after prom, Poppy tossed the crown into an old shoe box, but Mom had that snapshot framed and hung at the end of the row. Now there was no room on that wall for more pictures. It was as if being prom queen was the pinnacle of Poppy’s success.

  By the time she graduated, no job at the café was beyond her. She could greet customers with a smile as welcoming as Mom’s and close out the register at night as good as Big Pop, and even pinch-hit at the grill on the days when the cook didn’t show.

  After a while, Poppy forgot about that last picture of herself. She’d become a grown-up. She figured she’d learned all she’d ever need to know.

  It wasn’t until her former classmates began trickling back to town, flush with accomplishments and talk of exotic-sounding places they’d seen and interesting people they’d met, that Poppy started to feel vaguely uneasy every time she caught a glimpse of that photo’s fading colors. Did being crowned prom queen really represent the high point in her life? Was it all downhill from here?

  She began to get the sneaking suspicion that she was missing out on something. What that something was, she didn’t know. But she thought it was high time she found out what the world held outside of sleepy Clarkston.

  She took the first job she was offered: stocking wine at a dusty shop tucked into a Portland side street. Portland was an hour’s commute on a good day, longer during the fall crush when the two-lane roads were packed with thirsty wine-country tourists.

  Within three years, she had memorized the shop’s entire inventory. Then one day the manager quit. Poppy was happily surprised when absentee owner Saul Rankow phone-promoted her, though she had moments of self-doubt when she suspected Saul just didn’t feel like leaving sunny Arizona in the middle of the winter to look for a more qualified candidate.

  That promotion was no meaningless honor for someone having been born with looks that fit some stereotypical image of beauty. She was determined to show Saul that he hadn’t made a mistake. For a year, she ran the shop single-handedly. Her knowledge of wine impressed a certain customer, who offered her a hostess job at his restaurant on weekends.

  That led to more connections. Soon, she was poached by a more upscale establishment where she got to see firsthand what a wine steward did. He told her someone with a memory like hers could make a career in wine if she got her sommelier certificate.

  It took her another year to get up the guts to take the two-day introductory course.

  Passing that test was her second big milestone.

  Still, she stayed at the wine shop and took the odd hostessing job on weekends.

  Then one day, Saul flew up from Arizona, his skin baked to the distressed texture of an old leather couch. He had come to tell Poppy in person that the business had been sold and the shop was being torn down to make way for a bank.

  It was back to square one.

  It’d be one thing if she had never left Clarkston. But leaving and coming back in the wake of losing her job—eve
n through no fault of her own—made her feel as if she had failed.

  If anything could give her back her self-respect, the sommelier and modeling jobs could. She had three months to make them happen.

  Poppy wondered again who else to expect along with Demi for the meeting. She was on good terms with practically everyone in town, so she wasn’t particularly worried, despite what Heath had said.

  C-a-y-e-n-n-e. L-e-m-o-n-s. Poppy stuck out her tongue in concentration as she penned a shopping list of perishables when just before seven, a threesome came into view outside in the twilight.

  Demi entered first, dressed in the latest style.

  Following were Demi’s high school best friend Jess Hoffer and . . . Keval?

  Poppy sat them down and distributed menus. “Something to drink?”

  Demi skimmed the front and back of the laminated plastic and thrust it back at her. “I’ll have a Mexican mocha.”

  “Me too,” said Jess, aping Demi, just like old times.

  Poppy frowned. “Sorry. We’re out of cayenne. I just put it on my list of things to pick up at the store.”

  With a sigh of disgust, Demi sank her chin into her left palm and dismissed Poppy with a wave of her right. “Just give me a black coffee, then.”

  “Me too,” said Jess.

  “I’ll have water,” said Keval. “My cl—”

  “Your cleanse,” Poppy said for him.

  The women ordered food and chatted while they ate.

  Immersed in her duties, Poppy picked up a word here and there concerning the band, the menu . . . typical reunion plans.

  Keval sipped his water, uncharacteristically quiet.

  Poppy relaxed a bit more. It seemed as though Demi was never even going to bring up Poppy’s aspirations. Maybe all her worrying had been for nothing.

  Before she totaled their check, she went over to ask if they wanted anything else.

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” asked Demi, patting the vinyl beside her, as if Poppy were indeed her retriever.

  She looked around the room, hoping to see someone flagging her for more catsup or a drink refill, but all of her other patrons seemed content for the moment. She had no excuse not to lower herself next to Demi.

  “So, I was thinking that we should set up an event page with all the reunion information such as the place, date, ticket registration, and fun throwback photos. And who better to do that than Keval? He blogs for a living.”

  That explained Keval’s presence.

  “Well, it’s more than blogging . . .” Keval started to say, but Demi horned in before he could finish.

  “Also, I’d like to reach out to our classmates with some pre-reunion teasers. Posting pictures and videos can direct traffic to our event page. When people link back to us on their own social media sites, it’ll really help create buzz. I thought we could include a bit about you and your new position, Poppy. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

  Poppy squirmed. “Er, I guess. To be clear, I still have to take a qualifying test.”

  “What do you mean, a test?”

  “It’s just a formality, but I wanted to mention it.”

  Sniffing controversy, Demi’s eyes lit up. “What does that entail?”

  “Confirmation that I’m qualified to be a sommelier. Like I said, it’s just a formality.” Talking about it dredged up the excitement just below the surface, and she couldn’t help sharing more information than she’d intended. “Sam Owens is letting me use the Clarkston wine consortium to have a mock service and blind tastings.” No harm in mentioning that.

  “I have a great idea! Keval, you should go to the mock service and report on Poppy’s progress.”

  Keval opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

  “It’s not very interesting,” Poppy hastened to add. “A few friends pretending to be difficult customers, to prepare me for any service eventuality.”

  But Poppy could see Demi’s wheels turning.

  “When’s the first one?”

  “When?” Poppy was a poor liar. “Sunday afternoon around four, about an hour before the consortium closes. It’s not very busy at that time of day. But—”

  “Sunday. Take note, Keval. I’m counting on you to deliver. People are going to eat this up.”

  “But—”

  “Actually, I might come, too. Four, did you say?”

  Before Poppy could answer, Keval said, “The consortium will be open. Just show up.”

  Poppy shot him dagger eyes.

  Keval shrugged. “Just trying to be helpful,” he said sheepishly, to no one in particular.

  “Good! I’ll see you both, then. Are we finished here? I have mountains of work to do when I get home,” Demi said, not waiting to hear anyone else’s point of view. She turned off her tablet and slid it into her bag. “We’ll take our check now.”

  “Yeah. We’ll take our check,” said Jess.

  Keval hung around the café after the other two women left.

  “What the . . .” Poppy’s hands went up in the air.

  “Sorry. The way you talked the other day, I didn’t even think you cared about the reunion.”

  “That has nothing to do with you reporting on my every move between now and December!”

  “It’s not every move. It’s just a few little wine tastings.”

  “A few little—?” she sputtered. “You know how much this means to me. My stomach’s already tied up in knots!”

  “But this will be perfect! Don’t you see? I can skew your story any way I like. You know: Yesterday’s valedictorian is today’s meth addict. Former quarterback’s now a balding Uber driver. The beloved teacher who wrote your college recommendation barely remembers you . . .” That last one seemed to hit home. He frowned, momentarily lost in his thoughts.

  “What I see is you, covering your ass.”

  “Maybe I am. But I’m right.”

  “And how do you propose to skew me?”

  Keval tapped his upper lip with his pointer finger and thought. “ ‘Small-town barista becomes high-class wineau’?”

  “That doesn’t make me sound like an alkie.”

  “How about, ‘Café namesake aspires to loftier lodgings’?”

  Resolutely, Poppy folded her arms. “And you call yourself a blogger?”

  “Let me work on it. Something along the lines of ‘we are all masters of our own destiny’ or ‘our lives are what we make of them.’”

  “Wait until Heath hears that you and Demi are going to be at the mock service. I’ll be lucky if he shows up.”

  “Don’t tell him.”

  “Are you telling me to lie?”

  “I just said don’t tell him. Unless you want to scare him away.”

  Poppy dropped onto the seat across from Keval. This simple practice session that she’d promised Heath was going to be among close friends was turning into a zoo.

  Chapter Five

  On the day of the mock service, Poppy picked up Heath and drove him to the consortium.

  “Lot of cars here for an hour before closing,” said Heath suspiciously.

  “Well, Junie promised to come . . .”

  “That accounts for one car. What about the other dozen?”

  “Maybe there’s some consortium business going on.”

  “This late on a Sunday afternoon?”

  “We’ll find out soon enough.”

  Inside, Sam had draped a round table in white linen and set six places. Around it sat Holly Davis, the consortium’s wine rep; Rory Stillman, whose family were cider makers; Junie; Keval . . . and Demi Barnes.

  Poppy stopped in her tracks.

  Heath peered over her shoulder at the table. “Did you ask Demi to be part of this?”

  “She said she might come. But I was hoping she only intended to watch. I didn’t think she was going to actually participate,” she replied, the knot of tension growing in her stomach. She watched the six chatting as if they hadn’t a care in the world, suddenly wishing she were sitting among them
instead of about to perform. What had she gotten herself into? In twelve years of school, she had barely passed from one grade into the next. She was sure a couple of teachers only passed her because she made an effort to be extra pleasant and helpful. But the sommelier test was a whole other world. Who was she to think she could suddenly do something so ambitious?

  All the consortium’s two- and four-tops were filled, and Poppy recognized some wine growers, a cellar master, and a distributor standing around, talking over their wine. A few of them waved to Poppy, and she waved back nervously.

  The atmosphere crackled with expectation. Nothing like this had ever happened here before.

  “There she is, the woman of the hour,” said Sam.

  “I thought you said this was a slow time of day?” Poppy muttered under her breath.

  “Apparently word of your mock tasting got around.”

  “Who . . . ?”

  “Don’t look at me. But I’m not surprised. Sommeliers are having a moment. Anyone would be interested in getting a glimpse of what you have to do to become one. Especially the people around here, in the middle of Pinot country.”

  Sam rested his hand on Poppy’s back. “You feel as stiff as a board. Relax! This is going to be fun. Heath, that empty chair is yours.”

  Heath went over and took his place.

  Without his reassuring presence next to her, Poppy gulped.

  “We’re all ready for you,” said Sam. “I snapped a photo of the instructions for Demi and Keval, and they’ve been going over them, thinking of questions to stump you with. How you feeling, champ?”

  He gave her back a brisk rub to go with his pep talk.

  “I was feeling fine, but now . . . Sam, I was only expecting to wait on four people, not six. And I thought there might be a few people milling around, but I wasn’t counting on being the center of attention—putting on a show.”

  “Aw, you’ll do fine. The harder it is now, the more it’ll help you in the long run, right? Isn’t the whole point of this exercise to help you perform under pressure?”

  “Yeah, but . . .”