I growl in frustration, pushing her back to put a foot of space between us. Instantly, I miss her touch, but I can’t give in to the urge to pull her back in. I won’t do that to her.

  “I want you so bad, but I’m trying real fucking hard to do right by you,” I admit in a voice that sounds a lot more pained than I’ve heard in a long time. “Let me do that, at least. Please.”

  Poppy looks hurt, but I can see her mulling over my words, analyzing them the way she does the ones she writes. I’ve never felt less adept at expressing myself with a random combination of twenty-six letters.

  “I should go,” I tell her, taking another step, but it’s still not enough. I can smell her, feel her, taste her, and see her, so close but yet too far. Not too far away, but too far above me. She’s so good, even in her wildness. She’s simply better than me. But I’m trying my fucking best here. “Get some work done tonight. I’ll see you in the morning, and we’ll go to the pawn shop.”

  She nods stiffly. As I head for the door, she calls out my name. “Connor!”

  I pause, turning back to look at her, hoping she tells me to come back while praying she tells me to go. She looks so fucking sexy, with her red hair mussed from my fingers and her lips puffy from my kisses. I’m surprised I haven’t busted out of my jeans already. “Yeah?”

  “Nine o’clock. I’ll be at your truck.”

  I grunt an agreement and flee to my house. I do a quick safety check, but there are no alerts. Everything is safe.

  Except the woman whose home I’m staring at through the kitchen window’s open blinds. In the shadows of my house, she can’t see me. But I can see her, going back and sitting at the table, looking dazed and confused. Me too, woman. Me fucking too.

  She presses her fingers to her lips as though feeling me still there.

  And then she smiles, reaching down to cup her breast through her T-shirt the way I did moments ago. Her head drops back as she finds a stiff nipple and pinches herself.

  I don’t think, I act. Reaching down, I fumble my belt open and my jeans down, my dick springing forth as my eyes fix on the sight of what Poppy’s doing.

  I can’t hear anything, of course, and the angle of the table and the window don’t allow me to see everything . . . but I can imagine. Just like she creates dialogues and scenes for her characters, I fill in the gaps as I take my cock in hand, pumping slowly.

  “That’s it,” I whisper, my thumb smearing the slick precum already oozing from my tip around the head of my cock. “Play with your nipples.”

  Though she can’t hear the order, she does it naturally, one hand massaging her breasts while the other dips below the table to do the same thing I’m doing over here. I can’t tear my eyes away, matching her stroke for stroke as we rise together.

  In my mind, her plump, luscious lips form words of desire and want as she starts rising up and down in her chair.

  I don’t know how I do it, keep myself going without rushing back to her, but we go faster and faster until, with a cry that I can actually hear between our two houses, she comes with a shaking spasm and I growl deeply at the sexy sight.

  My cock is about to explode, and I ride that edge of pain and pleasure as long as I can before I erupt, hot spurts of my cum splattering all over the kitchen cabinets and floor. There’s no trying to hold this back, no trying to save the mess with the power of my release.

  My knees unlock, and I have to plant my hand on the edge of the countertop to prevent myself from dropping to the floor. Gasping and feeling my heart pound in my chest, I blink slowly to clear the stars in my vision.

  Holy fucking shit.

  I can’t move for long moments, my body shaky from what I just did. Finally, with weak legs, I find a dish rag and wipe up the mess.

  When I’m sure everything is cleaned up, I throw the rag into the laundry room and wash my hands. While I suds up, I look out the window once more to see that Poppy’s not in her kitchen anymore. But the dining room light is on.

  “Good girl. Get some work done.”

  I don’t know what romantic bullshit ideas she’s planted in my head, but for some reason, I blow her a kiss. And then promptly, I shake my head at the ridiculous move. I can’t even see her, but I’m going soft-hearted.

  What I need to do is take a hot shower and get a good night’s sleep so I’m strong enough to resist Poppy tomorrow. And get her laptop back.

  “See you in the morning.”

  Chapter 14

  Poppy

  I’m a little bleary, but so happy and relieved that I don’t mind it. After Connor left and I took a few minutes to relieve my immediate tension, I changed clothes and got to writing. And other than stopping to take the boys out to do their business and eat a trio of granola bars, I didn’t stop working until three in the morning.

  Three whole chapters. I almost never get three chapters done in a single writing session. They’ll need editing, lots of it, but I can finally feel it. The writer’s block is totally dissolved, all the juices flowing, the characters talking, the moments building into overlapping layers.

  But now it’s morning. And I’m running late, rolling out of bed fifteen minutes ago to scrub the fuzz off my teeth and let the boys out to do their thing while drinking my first cup of coffee.

  Connor said we’d go back to the pawn shop, and I need my laptop so I can weave the manuscript and what I’ve written on this cheap backup together into one master file.

  I peek out the window to make sure he’s not already in the driveway. I wouldn’t put it past him to try to sneak away without me. Hmm, I might have to plant myself in his truck again if I want to be sure I can go.

  And I definitely do.

  Shit . . . I’ve got to get a move on. Slugging down the rest of my cup, I hop in the shower, scrubbing down as fast as I can. Yanking on jeans and a T-shirt, I glance in the mirror. My hair is half bun, half rat’s nest, but there’s no time to do anything for it. Instead, I give myself exactly two minutes to swipe mascara on my fair eyelashes.

  I grab my tennis shoes just in case there’s a little light breaking and entering at the pawn shop. Because I am not leaving there without my laptop today. With one shoe on and one shoe off, my phone rings. Any other time, I’d ignore it, especially since it’s an unknown number.

  But there’s a chance it’s Connor.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Miss Woodstock? Poppy Woodstock?”

  Ugh, a telemarketer. I really don’t have time for this.

  “No,” I say slowly. “Can I take a message?”

  I’m hopping around, trying to slip on my other shoe and only half listening since I’m expecting another freaking call about my car’s extended warranty. Don’t these guys ever give up? And has anyone in the history of ever been like ‘why, yes, tell me more about your program’? I sincerely doubt it.

  “It’s extremely important that I speak with Miss Woodstock immediately. It’s regarding a matter we discussed previously.”

  Something about the voice breaks through the chorus in my head, and I pause, my eyebrows knitting together. “Wait, what? Who is this?”

  “Detective Jax Carter.”

  “Are you serious?” I snap, instantly angry that this asshat is calling me after blowing me off when I needed some help. It’s only through random good luck that Connor happened to move in next door and I’ve got any chance of getting my laptop back. No thanks to Detective Carter.

  “Yes ma’am,” he says haltingly, like he expected me to be thankful he was blessing me with a phone call. “Good morning, Miss Woodstock.”

  “What the fuck do you want?” I don’t play nice and polite. There’s no need to, not after how he treated me.

  “Ahem, well . . . it seems we might’ve gotten off on the wrong foot before.”

  I snort. “You could say that. Or you could say that you were a condescending asshole. But that’s probably not why you called, is it? Let me guess . . . my agent called and ripped you a bloody new hole to shit out of, and now you’re trying to play nice?”

  Detective Carter clears his throat, not quite dropping his arrogant ‘take charge’ act but definitely taken down a peg or two. Or at least trying to sound contrite. “Poppy—”

  I cut him off again. “Deal with Hilda, not me. I have no interest in discussing this matter with you ever again.”

  “We have a lead,” he says, the words rushed out like he knows I’ll interrupt him if he doesn’t say them as fast as possible.

  “What?” I say woodenly, freezing in place. Even my mouth freezes, hanging open and silent.

  “Yes, Miss Woodstock. We have a lead, and I’d like to discuss it with you. I’m sorry for how I behaved last time, but this is important. Very important.” He sounds grave, serious, and infinitely more professional than before.

  But a lead?

  He can’t have one as good as I have.

  Or could he?

  Could he have figured out who Connor is too? When I went into the police station that night, I would’ve killed the thief with my bare hands to get my laptop back. I was that desperate and furious.

  But now?

  Things have changed. I still want my laptop back more than anything, but the thief is a real person to me now.

  It’s . . . Connor. My fake fiancé.

  I can’t let him get arrested before Caylee’s wedding.

  And I don’t think I could let it happen afterward, either. I mean, as long as I get my laptop back, no harm, no foul. And in what I’ve seen over the past few days, he’s going above and beyond in trying to get it back.

  I’ve been silent too long, lost in my own swirling, tumbling thoughts, so distracted that I haven’t heard a thing Jax Carter has said, nor the man who’s entered my house.

  “Poppy, you okay?” Connor says from right behind me.

  I jump a foot in the air, screeching like a banshee. “Ahh!” I spin before my feet, one still bare, hit the floor. “You scared the fuck out of me!”

  I swat at Connor’s chest, hard and unyielding beneath my weak smacks. He grins arrogantly and brushes the back of his hand on his chest, ‘wiping off’ my hits like they’re nothing.

  A buzz comes from my phone. “Miss Woodstock? Are you okay?”

  I realize Detective Carter is still talking in my ear, concerned from my screaming reaction to Connor sneaking up on me. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  Connor’s eyes tick to the phone pressed to my ear. I can see the questions lurking there. So many questions. I’ve got some too, man. But not now. Now, it’s laptop time.

  Priorities, Poppy.

  For once, I’ve got to play this smart and not act first, ask questions never. The consequences are too high.

  “I’m not interested. Have a good day.” I hang up the phone with Detective Carter still talking.

  Despite my assumptions, Connor doesn’t ask who it was.

  He never asks questions.

  Usually, that’s because I volunteer more information than I probably should. My life’s an open book, for the most part. I’ll share it with Connor, the teller at the bank, and even my readers when I use it as inspiration. Of course, it’s usually boring as fuck. But now, it’s not.

  “You ready?” I ask instead. “Let me finish putting my shoes on.”

  I slip the other tennis shoe on, bending down to tie it quickly. When I stand, Connor is watching me closely. And something hits me. I’m late. He could’ve left me, gone to the pawn shop without me, or even moved on, leaving me behind to handle it on my own.

  But he didn’t. He’s here. He came for me. He kept his promise, and for a man like Connor, that says something. It means a lot. Especially after that kiss.

  “Thank you,” I tell him solemnly.

  “We don’t have the laptop back yet,” he answers, misunderstanding. But I watch his eyes drop slowly to my lips. He wants me, even if he pushed himself away last night.

  I lick them in preparation, hopeful for another taste of his strength and heat. Can’t he understand that I’m not scared, that I’ve seen the dark side of him and I’m not going away? I see the way he wars with the decision in his gaze and wonder if he knows that his own lips have parted and turned up at the corners.

  Not a smirk, or arrogance, but hunger. For me. The smoldering desire overwhelms everything else, and the whole world fades away. All that matters is Connor.

  But he’s not as lost as I am.

  He takes a half-step back, swallowing before jerking his head toward the door. “Let’s go.”

  The order surprises me. I wanted him to do what we both want and kiss me. Hell, I wanted him to pick me up, throw me on my bed, and tear my clothes off before ravaging my more than willing body. So I’m disappointed, painfully so. Especially at my core, which is so wet I might as well be swimming in the ocean.

  The sharp stab of the lost opportunity breaks the surface, reminding me of what today is about. My laptop. My manuscript. If Connor can focus, so can I.

  “Yeah, let’s go.” I walk quickly out to the living room, where Nut and Juice are now napping on the sofa. I gave up long ago trying to keep them off the furniture, and now, I don’t dare disturb them. They always wake up grumpy, but especially so when I’m leaving. So I’m as quiet as I can be while grabbing my keys and purse. Connor follows, leading me out to his truck, and we drive to the pawn shop.

  It’s sunny today, which makes the place look somehow even grungier than it did yesterday afternoon. Against the bright blue sky, the yellow awning appears even more faded and sad, and the dirty windows are covered in streaks from where the rain ran down.

  “I need you to do something for me,” Connor says as we park. “Dead serious, Poppy.”

  The way he just called me Poppy has me nodding and half melting. God, to hear him say my name . . . “Anything.”

  “Keep your mouth shut and follow my lead.”

  And there’s my little dose of ice water to put me back on track. “No way.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize you had a plan.” He side-eyes me, holding a hand out in invitation to share this magical, mystical, and nonexistent plan. Unfortunately, he’s right. I plan out books and stories in slightly messy but organized ways.

  Life? About the only thing I’m not diving for that I want is between his legs, and that’s because I don’t think I can get my head in between his steering wheel and his crotch.

  “I’m going to ask for it,” I tell him in reply, acting as if I’ve had a legit plan for hours. “If that doesn’t work, then I’ll demand it. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll start smashing shit and throwing anything in arm’s reach until he gives me the laptop just to get me to stop.”

  Connor laughs. It still sounds a little rusty, like it did at his parents’ house, but it’s warm and genuine and sends little chills down my spine. Later, I’ll replay it in my mind and enjoy it, maybe in bed where I can really appreciate it like I did last night. Now, it pisses me off.

  “What? You don’t think that’ll work?”

  Connor turns to look at me, lifting an eyebrow and studying me up and down. “Could it? Sure. But I think you’d have better luck showing him your tits than destroying property. Or, you know, there’s always the option to buy it. You know, more flies with honey than vinegar and all that?”

  “Oh.” Duh. I was more than happy to toss money Manuel’s way yesterday. Now I’m all kick ass and take names. Why? “I didn’t . . . think of that.”

  “Let’s try that first. Just follow my lead.” Without waiting for my reply, he gets out and walks around the truck to open the door for me. Gentlemanly, despite the fact that he doesn’t think he is.

  The inside of the pawn shop’s about as worn down and grimy as the exterior. Most of the stuff on display looks like it’s barely worth the space it’s taking up, let alone what some of the price tags are asking for them.

  And it’s your usual assortment of pawn shop crap. Cameras, cell phones, a rack of guns on one wall, musical instruments, and electronics.

  But I’m only here for one thing, and as we let the door close behind us, the tiny brass bell on the door frame jingling, I see the owner. Pawn Shop Pete, or at least the guy with that emblazoned on the back of his shirt, is probably in his mid-forties with three days’ worth of unshaven stubble on his fleshy neck and a few stains on the too tight polo shirt he’s wearing. Turning as the door closes, he hits mute on the TV he’s got on display that’s currently showing a game show. Ironically, the prize being given away right now is a high-end laptop computer.

  “Hello, folks!” he greets. “Welcome. What can I help you with today?” Seeing Connor and me fully, his eyes brighten, and he jumps into full sales mode, making assumptions along the way. “Oh! Let me guess . . . engagement rings! Right this way!”

  He hops up off his stool faster than I would’ve thought possible and opens a case, pulling out a tray.

  “No, no . . . we’re here for—” I try to tell him. But it’s of no use. He’s made up his mind what we’re here for, and he’s a man on a mission. Woman and man together equals ring!

  Too bad we’re not buying what he’s selling. I’m here for gigabytes, not gemstones. Besides, as I look at the collection of bands, my brain can’t stop making up stories. Each one of these bands represents a potential broken promise, a relationship that was supposed to end in happily ever after, only to fall apart into tears, guilt, and a few bucks exchanged in this shop for the incomplete relief of having to never look at the ring again.

  It’s fucking depressing. Not that Pete notices as he takes a large, gaudy diamond ring out of the case and holds it up. “This one is perfect. So pretty.”

  I wave my hands, still arguing. First, that diamond’s about as real as pro wrestling. Second, I want silicon. “We need—”

  “Too big. I understand. Sometimes petite is the way to go, eh?” he jokes with Connor, assuming my protests are likely because of the cost of the large solitaire.

  Connor offers an amused smirk as he crosses his arms and leans a hip into the case. Normally, I’d be mad about his potentially leaving marks on the glass, but this case hasn’t seen Windex in years. “Go on, you heard the man. Try it on.”