Fumbled (Playbook #2)(54)

My feet have the slight ache all waiters have at the end of the night, but considering I used to do this in heels and have to trek up stairs, it almost goes unnoticed.

Almost.

The commercial break ends and a drone flies above the stadium, giving everyone at home a bird’s-eye view of TK’s office. The field is a startling shade of green, and considering Denver has had watering restrictions since I moved here, it doesn’t take me long to work out they’re playing on turf. The thought of those little black rubber beads that will no doubt find their way into every crook and cranny of my house makes me cringe. Between TK and Sadie, my poor floors don’t stand a chance.

The Mustangs’ kicker takes a running start and drills the ball across the field and into the end zone, where the Steelers’ player catches it and promptly takes a knee. Whistles blow and sprints wind down to jogs as the men exit the field and more players take their place. The announcers talk about the new coaches and their different strategies and my attention is already lost.

Lucky for me, I have flowers to focus on.

I loved them in the dark, but in my well-lit living room, they’re even better. The arrangement has peonies, roses, hydrangeas, and tulips of all different colors. There have to be at least two-dozen roses alone, and I try to focus on the beauty and how special they make me feel instead of him spending hundreds of dollars on something that will die in a week or—more realistically with me tending them—a couple of days.

Whatever.

I’ve kept my kid alive for almost ten years—let’s not lose sight of what’s really important here.

I turn the vase around, wanting to look at the flowers from every angle, when I notice the little white envelope.

I start to laugh before I even lift the fold.

TK is more Kevin Hart than Shakespeare. He can have romantic moments, but he’s not romantic. Or at least he didn’t use to be. He just sent me flowers, so maybe this is his way of showing me he’s changed. Maybe he’s going to court me.

Courting sounds like fun.

I bet Prince Harry courted Meghan.

I shake my head, clearing my mind of princess thoughts, and pull out the note written in unfamiliar handwriting. You’d think the florist would use a printer, or at least entrust the note writing to a more penmanship-conscious employee.

    I miss you. You left without so much as a goodbye. I know you don’t want people to know about us, but he can’t give you what you need. Only I can do that. Poppy, my Serena, you’ll be mine. I’ll make sure of it.

Yours—



I drop the note and watch as it floats to the floor. Its graceful motions, swooping from left to right, taunting me.

My first instinct is Rochelle’s messing with me. Maybe even Phil since I still haven’t returned the uniform. But almost as quickly as the idea pops into my mind, it fades away. Both of them are way too cheap to send flowers like this. Sadie would, we’ve bought impressive, no-reason gifts for each other more than once. But she knows what a scaredy cat I am and she’d never do something like this knowing I’m alone.

A shiver runs down my spine and another thought crosses my mind. I walk to the front door, my paranoid steps slow and measured. I flip the switch to my porch a few times to see if maybe I just forgot to turn it on. But when nothing happens, I resort to my handy iPhone flashlight. I crack open my front door, leaving the top latch on, and aim the light straight to where my porch light is supposed to be.

But isn’t.

The blood freezes in my veins, and without thinking, I slam my door shut, turning all my locks in a frenzy. I turn off all my lights and the TV, and I move around my house guided only by the flicker of streetlights coming through the cracks in my blinds. I check to make sure all my windows are still locked, and when I’m positive I’m in complete lockdown, I crawl to my front window and lie on the floor under it, listening for any noises like a harmless guard dog.

Game forgotten and so thankful Ace isn’t here, I spend the rest of the night googling alarm systems and pushing old Law & Order episodes out of my mind. The good news is alarm systems have gotten cool and super high-tech. I can’t imagine having one and not feeling safer. The bad news, however, is they are so expensive, I can’t imagine ever having one at all.

Unless I work . . . a lot of hours.

I don’t know if it’s the thought of how much I need to work to feel semisafe in my own freaking house or the adrenaline leaving my system, but my eyelids weigh a hundred pounds and my room feels miles away. My bed is calling my name, and I try to get up, but after a few minutes of my muscles refusing to budge, I decide the hardwood floor isn’t too bad.





Twenty-three




Boom boom boom.

My dream has bass.

Boom boom boom. “Poppy!”

My dream sounds kind of pissed off . . . and like TK.

My eyes fly open and I bolt up.

Which is a mistake.

“Ouch.” I grab my lower back and it feels like the hardwood floor spent my entire nap punching me.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the screen on my phone light up. I’m not old, but I’m not a teenager and I maybe (definitely) read on my phone too much, so it takes my vision a few seconds to adjust and make out the name on the phone.

TK.

I shake my head. God forbid he be the tiniest bit patient.