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  With a growing uncertainty, Heath searched her face and saw that now her expression had softened. Her eyes sparkled with a new ardor that both disturbed and exhilarated him. A waterfall of gold cascaded behind her as her head fell back, exposing her vulnerable neck, her eyes narrowed, and her lips parted in invitation.

  He was helpless to resist her. One of his hands reached around to support her nape while the other cupped her cheek. His pulse raced, his breath came in a rush from his nostrils, as inch by inch, the space between their lips closed.

  And then he was lost in the scent of orange blossoms, the hot, slippery warmth of her mouth, the curve of her waist. His heart pounded, creating a warm flush starting in the center of his chest, spreading outward.

  Poppy arched her body up toward his in a wantonness that both shocked and thrilled him. His scalp tingled where her fingers raked through his hair, which he was always forgetting to get cut.

  The kiss deepened, changed angles as chins and tongues jockeyed to get closer . . . ever closer. And then she was reclining back along the length of the couch, taking him with her.

  Pulled off balance, one of his knees landed between hers. A hand landed next to her ear and the fingers of the other slid into the crack between the cushions as he braced his weight above her.

  But far from being daunted at the prospect of being crushed, she seemed to beg for it. She tugged on his torso and squirmed until she was directly under him, as if desperate to feel his length along hers.

  In a voice thick with emotion, he choked out a hoarse warning. “Poppy . . .”

  “Huhhhh?” she breathed. In her eyes was a message even a boy could recognize.

  Step aside—I’ll take it from here, said the red-blooded male to the scientist in Heath.

  He was the victim of her whim, led by swelling desire until he was fully submerged in a blur of hands and tastes and the sound of skin brushing against skin.

  As the breaking point threatened with the impact of a runaway train, Heath caught a glimpse of the brown bags containing the wine bottles sitting on the bar, and in a flash of sanity, he remembered why they were there.

  Bracing himself on one hand, he frowned down at her, panting.

  “What?” she asked, frustrated.

  When he couldn’t immediately verbalize an answer, she lost patience and cupped the back of his head, greedily pulling him down for more.

  But again he cut the kiss short.

  “We can’t.”

  Carefully, he disengaged from where they lay entangled and stood up, tucking his shirt into his pants. Before he’d even had time to catch his breath he walked away with lead in his shoes, scrubbing a hand through his hair, not trusting himself to turn around again until he had put the bar between them.

  Poppy had propped herself up on one elbow, frowning. “What’s the matter?”

  Heath looked longingly at the rapid rise and fall of her chest . . . her breasts cradled in her snowy-white bra, the gentle swell of her belly where it disappeared into unzipped jeans, and every hormone and muscle in his body screamed to go back over there and finish what they had started.

  “I’m supposed to be helping you move away from Clarkston.”

  And you’re making me want you to stay, he thought.

  Mechanically, his hands found wineglasses and the faucet handle and dish soap. They itched for action, and he had to occupy them some way.

  After a minute or so, from the vicinity of the couch came the swish of fabric and the rasp of a zipper closing.

  He looked up from throwing away the numbered bags to see Poppy once again across the bar from where he stood, looking sheepish.

  She ran her fingers through her long hair and looked down at the sparkling bar surface that Heath continued to wipe. “I don’t know what to say.”

  Well, if Poppy Springer was at a loss for words, he was too.

  * * *

  Poppy’s head spun. She was as surprised as Heath when she’d thrown herself at him. What had come over her? Getting physical would set them up for complications neither one needed. It was a bad move.

  Dumb.

  If her pride had been hurt when he pushed her away, she had only herself to blame.

  She went over to the bar where Heath was. “I wasn’t thinking. I was just . . . feeling . . . celebrating the test results. That’s all.”

  Heath finally stopped cleaning and sucked in an audible breath.

  “Why are you really doing this? What’s the big deal about becoming a sommelier? Why isn’t Clarkston good enough for you?”

  “You too?” she snapped, thinking of her mom’s lack of faith in her, despite her declaration of support. “You’ve got some nerve! No one has ever questioned your goals. No one asked you why you wanted to become a brewer.” Her palm came down on the bar and she leaned toward him accusingly. “Why is everyone questioning mine? Aren’t I allowed to reach for my potential, just like everyone else?” She knew she wasn’t being fair, taking out her fear of failure on him, but she couldn’t stop herself. He was a safe target. She trusted him not to hold it against her.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “That’s what it sounded like.”

  She slouched again and frowned, anxiously fingering a lock of hair, the sound of her breath rushing through her nostrils filling her head.

  And then Heath was coming around the bar with long strides.

  Instantly he was next to her, his thigh touching her knee.

  “You’re good at the café,” he pleaded. “It works. People like you here. They . . .” He pressed his lips together. “Love you.”

  She scowled defiantly. “Who loves me?”

  He shifted uncomfortably, unable—or unwilling—to elaborate. “You know.”

  “No. I don’t,” she said, egging him on insolently.

  What is wrong with me? She knew he wasn’t good with explanations.

  “Tell me who loves me.”

  What do I want from him?

  “Well,” he fumbled, “all your customers at the café.”

  “The customers. Well, that’s enough to build a life on,” she spat acerbically.

  “Yeah. They’re always talking about how good you are at, you know, things.”

  “What things?”

  “You know. Pouring coffee.” He brightened. “Remembering their orders without writing them down.”

  “Remembering orders. You think there’s a category for that in The Guinness Book of World Records? I’ll have to check and see.”

  “How about your parents, then? They love you.”

  She tsked and rolled her eyes in derision. “Of course my parents love me. Don’t everyone’s?”

  A second too late, she remembered. She might not be the most successful person in Clarkston, but at least she had grown up with the knowledge that she was wanted. That was more than Heath had.

  Heath looked away, and Poppy knew that last comment was beyond the pale. Filled with regret, she laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sorry.”

  Shrugging her off, he turned and paced a few steps, hands on his hips, distancing himself from her insensitivity. “Forget it.”

  She hopped off her stool, winced, and kept going despite the pain. “Heath. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I would never do that.”

  He turned back around, his face a careful blank. “I said, don’t worry about it.”

  He was so good and kind and generous to her, and she was such a jerk. Somehow, she had to make him understand what she was going through, but how could she when she didn’t understand it herself?

  She pleaded with her eyes. “Every one of our friends will have some accomplishment to talk about at the ten-year reunion except me—which is exactly what Demi predicted. Do you know what that means? How that makes me feel about myself?” No sooner had she reached for the tips of her hair than she started chastising herself for her old, childish habit, one she was ready to lose. She tossed her mane back over her shoulder where she wouldn’t be tempted.r />
  And then she realized she was crying.

  Heath rushed to snatch a tissue from a nearby cocktail table and pressed it into her hand.

  She honked into it a few times while he wore a worried expression.

  “Look,” he said. “Let’s pretend this never happened.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?” she asked, wiping her nose.

  “We’ll just keep working on your exam, like before.”

  “You’re going to keep helping me, even though you don’t want me to do it.” She huffed a sad laugh at the irony. “That’s not hypocritical or anything.”

  “Go ahead, call me a hypocrite. All I know is, I can’t stand it if we’re not okay.”

  She blew her nose once more and handed him back the soggy tissue, which he took without flinching.

  She sniffed, mulling it over.

  “Okay,” she said, calmer now. “I couldn’t stand that, either.”

  Chapter Ten

  Armed with her knowledge of the doctor’s orders—thanks, Heath—there was no way Mom was going to let Poppy go in to work for the next week. And after Mom told Big Pop, it was two against one.

  Her father patted Poppy on the back on his way to work each morning, while Mom brought her tea and fluffed up the pillow under her foot and watched Poppy struggle with her mysterious exam notes, the faithful Jackson curled up on the carpet by her side.

  By day six, Poppy was bored and lonely. When Red texted to ask if she’d be in to work, she told her yes and then used that as an excuse to get Mom to cave.

  Poppy was relieved to see Red breeze in to the warm café, rosy from her short walk from her office in the brisk autumn air.

  “You’re back! I’ve been wanting to catch you up on the fashion show.”

  Poppy showed Red to a booth and slid in across from her.

  “What have I missed while I’ve been in prison?” asked Poppy.

  Red unwound her wool scarf and set it on the seat beside her. “First things first. Do I still have my bride?”

  “Of course. Ready to roll.” Poppy stuck her foot out to the side of the booth so Red could see it.

  “No more bandage?”

  “Bandage gone, the stitches dissolved.”

  “Thank goodness. I figure two rehearsals will be enough, don’t you? One without the dresses and one after they’ve been delivered?”

  “You’re the director. Just let me know when to be there. I would have been back to work even sooner if it weren’t for the warden lady.” She tossed her head toward her mom, who was chatting with a customer at the register.

  Red chuckled. “Doing hard time in the big house, huh?”

  “You have no idea. Thank goodness for your text. I got paroled a day early.”

  “Poppy’s isn’t the same when you’re not here. It’s good to see you back.”

  “Not as good as it is for me to see you. I’m dying to talk to someone born after nineteen sixty. Plus, I just drank three cups of Stumptown’s Costa Rican.”

  “I’d think it would be nice, having your mom pamper you when you’re laid up.”

  Poppy sighed. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful. My parents are the best. I’m just tired of being treated like an eight-year-old.”

  “That why you’re ready to move out?”

  Poppy rested her head in her hands. “I can’t believe I’ve never lived anywhere but with my parents.”

  “Everybody progresses as her own rate.”

  “I don’t know what’s taken me so long.”

  “You grew up in a safe, cozy nest. People need a deep inner motivation to justify moving out. Maybe you’re just now finding that.”

  “That’s exactly it. Before I was promoted to manager of the wine shop and passed my first sommelier test, I didn’t think I had it in me to ever do anything but work here, at the café.”

  “It takes some people longer than others to tap into their passions, build up momentum and get enough confidence to strike out on their own.”

  “Excuse me,” called Demi Barnes from the opposite side of the café. “Are you working? We could use a refill over here.”

  “Another reunion meeting,” Poppy sighed. “Be right back.”

  When Poppy returned a minute later Red asked, “What are you hearing about the reunion?”

  “Did you know the theme is Bacchanalia?”

  “That’s fitting, given the valley’s the new home of pinot noir. Though those ancient Romans did tend to get a little off the chain when they partied.”

  “Off the chain?”

  “Orgies, binges lasting for days. Nothing was sacred. Speaking of off the chain, what about you and Demi? Are things civil between you two?”

  “You mean since I sprayed her with champagne?” She smirked self-effacingly. “Some sommelier I’m going to make.”

  Red giggled. “I shouldn’t laugh. But Demi has such a superiority complex. It was kind of satisfying to see her brought down a peg.”

  “I thought she’d tear into me the next time she saw me, but she acted as though it never happened.”

  “She doesn’t have to milk that,” said Red. “Not when she’s got these ongoing reunion meetings here, where you have no choice but to defer to her.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why do you think she decided to switch meeting locations as soon as she found out you were back working here? So she could flaunt her power over you.”

  Poppy frowned. “But Demi has everything going for herself. A prestigious job, brains, great organizational skills . . . why’s she have to be so mean?”

  Calmly, Red sipped her coffee. “She’s jealous of you.”

  “Please. Because Daryl used to play me songs on the phone when we were, what? Fourteen?” Poppy made a face. “I didn’t even know Demi liked him, or I wouldn’t have taken his calls. It didn’t mean anything. It was just kid stuff. Mildly interesting, at the most.”

  “No. Because you were so effortlessly popular, all through school. Everybody liked you without you even trying. That gave you power, in her eyes. Power that she craved.”

  Poppy shrugged. “I like people. If they like me back, all the better.”

  “I know. You’re self-referring.”

  “You’re losing me with your therapist talk.”

  “If you’re not happy about something in your life, you look to make a change in yourself. You don’t crave control over others. You’re so different from someone like Demi, you can’t even fathom how she operates.

  “What about the reunion? You think any more about going?”

  Poppy sat back, putting distance between her and Red. She knew shouldn’t let an old senior superlative get to her. But these days, she was touchy about the slightest suggestion of what she should and shouldn’t do.

  “I have other things on my plate. I’m trying to block it out of my head. I’m sure there’s a fancy psychological term for that.”

  “Let’s see. Maybe . . . avoidance behavior?”

  Poppy pointed at Red. “Yeah. Sounds about right. Anyway, I’m going to concentrate on passing my test.”

  “When is it?”

  “Two days before the reunion.”

  She chewed her lower lip.

  “How’s the studying going?”

  “Heath’s been coaching me.”

  Red eyed her sideways.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re analyzing me.”

  Red smiled slyly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re my friend, not my client.”

  “Okay, friend. How come you’re acting like something’s going on between me and Heath?”

  “Is there?”

  “No! Heath and I are just friends. That’s all we’ve ever been.” The memory of throwing herself at Heath, and him pushing her away, popped into her head, reviving that uneasy feeling.

  “I can still remember you and Heath hanging out here at the café after scho
ol when we were little. Seemed like you two were always together.”

  “It worked for everyone concerned. Mom and Big Pop ran the café all by themselves back then. They couldn’t afford a sitter. Heath tolerated my prattle—kept me occupied while my parents worked. And as much as he went through, he was never any trouble. But you know Heath.”

  “Hayden’s death had to have been a seminal event in his life,” said Red.

  “And then losing his mom, on top of that . . . I never understood how she could do that. Just . . . leave, and never come back.”

  “The death of a child is one of the worst kinds of loss.”

  “I still don’t understand. Why couldn’t his parents comfort each other?”

  “You would think that would come naturally, wouldn’t you? Often it doesn’t, though, even in a healthy marriage. It can be like leaning on someone who’s already doubled over in pain.”

  “But how can a mother be so distraught she walks away from her remaining child?” Poppy shook her head. Especially a precious little boy like Heath. “That’s what I don’t get.”

  “Everyone grieves differently. I can only presume that she shut down in self-defense. There could be another factor in play, too. It’s not often talked about, but multiple births can be exceptionally stressful. So stressful that parents of twins sometimes have more trouble bonding with them than parents of singles.”

  “I can’t put myself in Heath’s mom’s shoes. All I know is, losing her right after losing his twin had to have been hurtful and confusing. I’ve always wondered if that’s why he isn’t real outgoing.”

  “He could be a bit of a natural introvert. But there’s something else, something I think you should know.”

  Poppy found that she was holding her breath.

  “Children who are abandoned, like Heath was, can grow up believing they’re not lovable.”

  “Heath? Not lovable? That’s crazy.” What’s not to love? He was perfect. Cute, genius smart, always put her needs before his.

  “At the very least, they find it hard to trust. One thing I know for sure . . .”

  “What’s that?” Nervously, she fingered the tips of her hair, picturing Heath’s dear face with the perpetual worry frown lines between his brows.

  “Heath Sinclair trusts you.”