Four Day Fling(27)
Hell, she’d put it on my gravestone.
Here lies Poppy Dunn. She was a big fat liar, liar, pants on fire who faked a boyfriend.
I glanced up at my mom. She picked up a large plastic cup and sipped through the bright red straw that was inside it.
Then, she saw my t-shirt.
“I want to be where the people aren’t,” read my nice, bright, turquoise tank top.
Mom frowned.
Adam looked at my shirt. “Maybe you should have worn a dress.”
“And miss the look on her face? Never.”
He shook his head. “And you think she’s the one who’ll drag us to hell.”
I jabbed my elbow into his side.
I’d remember that.
CHAPTER NINE – POPPY
Drinks and Disasters
“Mom. Did we keep you waiting long?” I asked, being perfectly sweet.
“Yes,” she said, pinching the arm of her sunglasses and lifting them so I could get the full hit of the ire that burned in her eyes. “You’re late.”
“That’s my fault, Mrs. Dunn,” Adam stepped forward. “I’m sorry. One of Mark’s cousins saw us in the lobby, and her son is a fan. I stopped to say hello.”
Mom touched her hand to her chest. “Oh! That was lovely of you. Why don’t you both sit down? I’ll get the first cocktail brought over for us to try.”
I took a deep breath and reached for my chair, but Adam beat me to it. He pulled it out, the bottoms of the legs scratching against the patio we were on.
Mom caught it, raising an eyebrow, but she didn’t say anything.
“Thank you,” I said softly, taking my seat.
Adam positioned himself between us. A wise choice. The women in my family had been known to kick each other under the table on occasion.
Mom sat up straight and waved in the direction of the bar. “Rosie asked them for three light pink cocktails to match the theme of the wedding, and we have to pick one out of the three. The first we’re trying is a rhubarb and ginger gin cocktail.”
“Rhubarb? In a cocktail? At a wedding?” It escaped me before I could engage my brain. “Really?”
She sighed. “I know. I raised the same concern. Gin is rather an acquired taste, not one I’m sure I possess.”
“They put rhubarb in a cocktail and the gin is what you’re worried about?”
“It might be nice,” Adam said in an obvious attempt to defuse the situation. “The weirdest things make sense sometimes. Like pineapple on pizza.”
Mom shook her head. “Pineapple on pizza never makes sense.”
With a grimace, I nodded.
“Why are you smiling like that? Is it because you’re agreeing with me?”
I pretended to look around at the bar. “Are the cocktails ready yet?”
Mom smiled and looked at Adam. “Pineapple on pizza is about the only thing we agree on. That and the shortness of her temper.”
“Really? You agree about your temper?” Adam turned to me.
I shrugged. “I have a hot temper. It’s not my fault. It’s the redhead in me. My temper strikes like a match.”
“And burns like a house fire,” Mom continued.
“If prison suits didn’t clash with my hair, I’d probably be a murderer.”
“They’re orange. They blend with your hair,” Adam said, frowning.
Mom shook her head. “She wore orange once. She looked like a human bowl of fruit.”
That was sadly true.
I sighed. “That was a rough day.”
Adam looked at me and tilted his head. “So that’s really your natural hair color?”
“You didn’t know that?” Mom asked.
“We’ve never discussed her hair,” he said honestly.
“Yes.” I jumped in before it could go any deeper into what we had and hadn’t spoken about. “The bottom isn’t, but the top is,” I explained, referring to the ombre effect I had that took my hair from dark ginger to a lighter, brighter color. “Keeps it fresh. I like it.”
“You never discussed it?” Mom continued with
her interrogation.
Great. Now she had a bee in her bonnet. I saw the glint in her eye. She was a bloodhound and she’d picked up the scent of absolute bullshit.
“Do you discuss your hair with Dad?” I shot back.
She paused. “Well, no.”
“There you go then.”
Right on cue, the server appeared with a silver tray. Three small glasses that resembled stemless wine glasses sat on it, filled with a light pink liquid, a handful of ice cubes, and a weird swirly pink thing that I was afraid was real rhubarb.
I was already skeptical, and now I was ready to veto this drink just on its look.
“Rhubarb and ginger gin cocktail,” the server said, lowering the tray to the table. One by one, he picked up the glasses and set them on woven coasters in front of each of us. “And your menus.” Folded, laminated menus were then placed in front of us.
“Thank you,” Mom said. “Could we have some bread, please?”
“Absolutely, ma’am. I’ll get that for you now.”
“Thank you.” She opened the menu, effectively dismissing him, and Adam glanced at me.