Kissing Cousins Page 15

  Monday was busy—especially for a Monday. All day Poppy tried to think about Mark, about their wonderful Saturday together. Yet no matter how hard she tried, her thoughts could not manage to linger on Mark and his perfectly applied good night kisses. Instead she could only think of Swaggart—of his willingness to fix the garbage disposal, of his wit and humor during and after doing so, of the delightful goose bumps breaking over her whenever she thought of him. And when she thought of his kiss, her mouth watered for wanting it so desperately again.

  It’s because Swaggart works here with me, she inwardly told herself. Mark wasn’t standing in front of her every second, all gorgeous, charming, and entirely attractive in every way, the way Swaggart was. She was certain if Mark was working in the kitchen, winking and smiling at her over the order counter the way Swaggart was, then her thoughts would be totally dominated by Mark instead.

  Still, the loop-the-loop in her stomach tried to convince her differently. Stop it, she told her stomach. You can’t have Swaggart—he’s out of reach, unobtainable, far beyond anything you could even endeavor to hope for, she told herself.

  “You look tired today, Poppy,” Mr. Dexter said as Poppy hung her apron on the apron rack.

  “Just have a lot on my mind, I guess,” Poppy told him. After all, it was true.

  “I guess I won’t ask you for the favor I was going to ask you for then,” Mr. Dexter said.

  Poppy smiled, knowing full well he wanted her to encourage him to go ahead and ask. “Oh, I don’t mind, Mr. Dexter,” she told him. “Go ahead and ask me.”

  Mr. Dexter smiled and handed Poppy a manila envelope. “Swaggart left already, and I needed to get this to him before tomorrow morning. He’s on your way home, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” Poppy said. She took the envelope from Mr. Dexter and smiled at the shiny-eyed elderly man. “I’ll drop it off. Are you sure he went home?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he did,” Mr. Dexter said. “But if he doesn’t answer the door, please just take it home with you. I don’t want it left sitting on the front porch for any Joe and his dog to get ahold of. Okay?”

  “Sure,” Poppy said.

  “Thank you, Poppy,” Mr. Dexter said. “You’re saving me a trip out of my way.”

  “Anytime,” Poppy said as she exited the restaurant by way of the back door.

  Mr. Dexter smiled. Oh, it was a terribly important envelope and had to be delivered at once. At once—and only by Poppy.

  Whistling along with the song playing over the sound system, Mr. Dexter went into his office and shut the door. There was paperwork to finish, signatures to obtain. He’d be working late again—but that would soon change.

  Poppy’s nerves had begun to twitter, and with every mile closer to Swaggart’s house, they twittered more. She’d been to Swaggart’s house only once before—when Whitney had dropped off some chicken soup when he was sick last fall. Yet she knew the way to Swaggart’s house well enough. For weeks after she’d gone with Whitney and discovered where he lived, Poppy had driven by day after day for months, just hoping to get a glimpse of him. Eventually, she realized she was teetering on being categorized as a stalker and ended her drive-bys of Swaggart’s house.

  Now, however, as she put her car in park and tried to muster enough courage to deliver Mr. Dexter’s envelope, she wondered again what Swaggart’s home life was like. She knew he’d moved out of his parents’ house and into his own long before he’d finished college. He’d said it was a good investment—better than throwing rent down the drain into somebody else’s pocket without anything to show for it.

  The house was located in a lovely, perfectly suburban neighborhood and looked like something right out of Leave It to Beaver. It was cozy and inviting, yet Poppy gulped as she walked up the walk to the front door.

  She watched her own finger trembling as she reached out and rang the doorbell. When no one came to the door, she wondered if Mr. Dexter had been wrong—perhaps Swaggart hadn’t gone straight home after work.

  As she turned to leave, she heard music. It seemed to be coming from the backyard. Poppy’s curiosity was entirely piqued, and she walked around the left side of the house. A smile spread across her face at the sight that met her. Swaggart had parked his pickup in the middle of the backyard and was lying on the hood gazing up into the sky. He was lying on his back, hands tucked back under his head, as the pickup’s radio quietly played.

  “Hey,” Poppy called before her good sense could stop her.

  “Hey there, Poppy-seed,” he said, glancing over at her and smiling. “What brings you here?”

  Poppy smiled and held up the envelope as she walked toward Swaggart. “Your grandpa sent me on a mission,” she said, handing the envelope to him. He accepted it, studied it for a moment, and then tossed it into the open window of his pickup. “He said you needed to see it before tomorrow.”

  “Okay,” Swaggart said, sitting up. “Come on up here,” he said, gesturing she should join him. “You gotta see this.”

  Poppy paused. Was he actually asking her to climb up on the hood of his pickup?

  “Unless you don’t want to get dirty,” he added.

  “Are you kidding? Like I’m so fresh and clean after working eight hours in a restaurant,” she said.

  “Then come on,” he said, offering a hand to her. “Wait…hold on a second,” he mumbled. Unexpectedly stripping off his tight, white t-shirt, he spread it over the hood of the pickup next to him. “There you go,” he said, smiling.

  Poppy had to consciously, yet silently, will her mouth not to drop open in awed, flabbergasted astonishment—not because of his charming act of chivalry in being concerned for her comfort—but for the sake of being witness to the full glory of the flawlessly chiseled, muscular torso she had always suspected lurked beneath his shirts.

  Tanned, ripped, and appearing no less than masterfully sculpted, Swaggart Moretti’s biceps, shoulders, chest, stomach, and abdominal muscles were unlike anything Poppy had ever seen—in real life anyway. For the very first time, she understood the term “washboard stomach,” and it was staggering. She was suddenly nearly overwhelmed with an intimidated, nervous sensation in her stomach and chest. Yet she could not have resisted joining him—even if she’d wanted to. She would not miss the chance to be alone with him—linger in his company—no matter how unsettling and sexy he looked without his shirt.

  “Will it hold me?” she asked as she took the hand he offered again, put a foot on the front bumper, and hopped onto the hood of the pickup.

  “Are you kidding? This thing’s a tank,” he said, helping her settle down on the hood. “Now…lay back and just look at those stars.”

  Poppy giggled and did as instructed. Studying Swaggart’s position for a moment, she crossed her feet at the ankles, let her back lay against the cold windshield, and looked up into the night sky. In that moment, she could’ve sworn she could feel the warmth radiating from his body—his shirtless body.

  “Wow!” she breathed as she managed to concentrate on the brilliance of the stars overhead. The night was unusually clear, and the stars and constellations were more brilliant and vivid than she’d ever seen them.

  “I know!” he said. “I came home from work and just happened to glance up. It’s too good to ignore.”

  “It is,” Poppy agreed.

  “You want some jerky?” he asked, producing a package of jerky from beneath one leg.

  Poppy giggled and stuck her hand into the open bag, withdrawing a piece of leathery meat. She smiled as Swaggart pulled a piece out for himself, tearing off a bite with his teeth.

  He breathed a heavy sigh and said, “Is this the life or what?” Poppy continued to smile and chew her jerky. “I mean, moments like this—you know—when you’re all wrung out from hard work and just needing to get to sleep and then—bam! Something like this makes you stop, take a breath, and be thankful you’re alive.”

  “I call them ‘wow moments,’” Poppy said.

  “Wow moments?�
�� he asked.

  “Yeah,” Poppy said, still chewing her jerky. “Wow moments. You know, moments that make you go, ‘Wow!’ It’s the same thing you’re talking about. I have them at the restaurant sometimes.”

  “Me, too,” Swaggart said. “Like the other day, I was watching grandpa—thinking about everything he’s accomplished in his life—a great family, a successful business, and you’re right—I thought, ‘Wow!’ Once he was just a seventeen-year-old kid riding the rails without a dime in his pocket. It’s amazing.”

  “I like wow moments,” Poppy said, gazing at one particular star that seemed to be twinkling more than the others.

  “Was your date with Mr. Gorgeous a wow moment?” Swaggart asked.

  Poppy’s smile faded a little. She didn’t want to talk about her date with Mark just then. She wanted to talk about stars, the restaurant—she just wanted to enjoy her private moment with Swaggart. She wanted to reach over and run her hand over his washboard stomach and see what it felt like. Still, his question caused her to think about her date with Mark in a new context.

  “It was really fun—different,” she said. “But—but it wasn’t a wow moment,” she answered at last.

  The realization discouraged her, but she rationalized it was only because she hadn’t spent enough time with Mark yet. Surely wow moments with him were just around the corner. Glancing at Swaggart, Poppy was suddenly very conscious of the many, many, many wow moments he had provided for her throughout the years. Realizing that witnessing him so casually unclothed was just another one gave her goose bumps.

  “Yeah, I guess they’re kind of rare. You can’t go looking for them—they just have to happen,” he said.

  “Did you ever have any wow moments with Jennifer?” Poppy asked. She couldn’t help it. Swaggart dating Jennifer Trujillo had nearly driven her mad! She had to know if Jennifer had provided any wow moments for him—she had to know.

  “Not one,” Swaggart said, shaking his head. “What was wrong with all of you anyway?” he asked. “Letting me go out with her for so long—I must’ve been on drugs to do it, and you must’ve been on drugs to let me.”

  “You’re a big boy—you have to make your own choices,” Poppy said. “Even if they are stupid.”

  “Whoa!” Swaggart chuckled. “That’s harsh.”

  “I’m sorry,” Poppy said. She’d let her innermost thoughts pop out in verbal form.

  “No. You’re right,” he said. “But I guess everyone’s allowed one foolish relationship choice, right?”

  “Maybe,” Poppy said. She didn’t want to talk about Jennifer Trujillo anymore. She thought of Mark—wondered if she continued to date him, continued to develop a relationship with him—would it be a foolish choice or a good choice?

  “You want some more?” Swaggart asked, offering the bag of jerky to her again.

  “No, thanks,” Poppy said.

  Swaggart tossed the bag through the window of his pickup. He turned on his side and retrieved a can of root beer from the dashboard inside. He drank from it for a minute then offered it to Poppy.

  Poppy’s eyes widened. Everyone knew how Swaggart felt about eating and drinking after people—he didn’t do it! Yet he had eaten pudding from her spoon—the day he’d managed to retrieve her quarter from the garbage disposal.

  “Here,” he said, nodding at her. “That jerky’s salty.”

  Still stunned that he was offering her his drink, Poppy accepted it. It was strange—the way the simplest thing, such as sharing a drink with Swaggart, could cause Poppy’s stomach to start the familiar round of twists and turns.

  “Thanks,” she said, handing the can back to him.

  “You bet,” he said, taking a swig himself before leaning over to set the beverage back inside the pickup.

  “So,” he began then. “This date you had last Saturday—Whitney says it was quite the event—canoeing, a picnic, a concert in the park. I guess this guy isn’t operating in date rut, huh?”

  “Date rut?” Poppy asked. “And what is Whitney doing telling you all about my date with Mark?”

  “I asked her,” he answered.

  Poppy felt breathless—he’d asked about her date with Mark? Why? What did it matter to him? Hope took flight in her chest, and she tried to squelch it.

  “I mean, just because you didn’t care enough to tell me I was a jerk for dating Jennifer doesn’t mean I won’t keep my eye on you and Whitney—you know, help you watch out for losers.”

  Her hope was squelched—he was worried about her the same way he was about Whitney.

  “Mark isn’t a loser,” she grumbled. “And, whatever date rut is…I’m sure he’s not operating on it.” She felt hurt, defensive.

  “I’m sure he’s not a loser,” Swaggart said. “After all, he’s hot after you, isn’t he? And with a prime cut like you in his sights, I’m sure he’s got date rut licked already.”

  “What do you mean by date rut?” Poppy asked. She was blushing, yes—blushing because Swaggart had called her a prime cut—implied she was worth Mark’s time.

  “You know—date rut,” he said, gazing up into the night sky. “Jennifer said I was bogged down in it, completely stuck. Date rut—doing the same things over and over and over—never planning anything exciting and out of the ordinary. Like this, for instance.” He nodded toward the sky. “Sitting out here looking at the stars, eating jerky, and drinking root beer—this would’ve been date rut to Jennifer.”

  Poppy frowned. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she said. “What? Did she expect dinner and a movie every time?”

  Swaggart laughed. “Dinner and a movie? That was her exact definition of date rut. She called it ‘the ultimate insult a woman can receive’—the offer of dinner and a movie. She says it’s like offering green Jell-O to someone who’s been in the hospital for a year.”

  “Swaggart Moretti!” Poppy scolded. She was angry, furious with Jennifer for having obviously and so thoroughly attacked Swaggart’s self-esteem. “What the heck were you doing going out with that wench? Date rut? Who does she think she is anyway?” she rambled. “Date rut? Why—any woman who knows you would practically do anything to go to dinner and a movie with you! Date rut—that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! I love dinner and a movie! It’s my favorite thing to do! Now, dinner and a double feature…that’s even better!”

  “Really?” he said, grinning at her. Poppy didn’t care if he was grinning at her—if he was amused by her tantrum.

  “Yes, really!” she said, sitting up and playfully pushing at him. The feel of his warm skin against her palm caused her goose bumps to return. “Date rut,” she grumbled, shaking her head. “You’re right—Whitney and I should’ve taken you out behind the restaurant and slapped some sense into you when you started taking Jennifer out.”

  Swaggart chuckled and returned his attention to the sky. “Well, she’s history now. I guess that’s all that matters—as long as I learned my lesson. Right?”

  “In theory,” Poppy mumbled. She was still angry, irritated at the very thought of Jennifer Trujillo. Still, she leaned back on the windshield and looked into the black canvas above.

  “So you don’t believe in date rut?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “I think if you feel you’re in date rut, you’re either a self-centered, arrogant wench—like some Jennifers we could name—or you’re simply dating the wrong person. If you’re dating the right person, then you’ll enjoy doing anything. Different and exciting—that’s good just for fun—but you should be able to have as much fun together doing nothing as you do doing something.”

  “I had no idea you were such a philosopher,” Swaggart said, looking from the stars to Poppy and smiling.

  “Well—you just hit a nerve, that’s all,” Poppy said, trying to simmer herself down.

  “I think I like hitting your nerves,” Swaggart said. “It gets you all wound up.”

  “Well, that nerve did,” Poppy admitted. “Don’t you have nerves that get
hit?” she asked.

  “Oh, sure,” he said.

  “Like what?” she asked.

  “I can’t tell you that,” Swaggart said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’ll try to hit them on purpose,” he answered, winking at her.

  “I won’t—I promise,” Poppy said. Her curiosity was really piqued. “Come on, Swaggart—just one nerve that you’re sensitive about.”

  Swaggart chuckled. “Okay,” he said. “Do you want a good nerve or a bad nerve?”

  Poppy didn’t want him to get angry while contemplating anything. “A good nerve,” she said.

  “A good nerve that gets me wound up,” he mused, frowning as if he were thinking very hard.

  “Come on,” Poppy said. “’Fess up.”

  “Can it be a literal nerve?” he asked.

  “You mean like—like part of your nervous system or something? Or something like the way you don’t want people eating off your plate and drinking out of your glass?”

  “Either,” he said. “Hey, wait a minute,” he added. “Who told you I don’t like people to eat off my plate or drink out of my glass?”

  “Everybody knows it, Swaggart,” she said, smiling at his perplexed expression.

  “I let you drink out of my pop can just a minute ago,” he said.

  “I know! I felt so special,” she teased.

  He shrugged and asked, “Why would you think it would bother me to drink after you? Seems to me we swapped more germs the other night in the restaurant checking item one off your list than are in my pop can right now. And believe me—that didn’t bother me one bit.”

  Poppy was stunned into silence. He’d mentioned it! He’d actually referred to their hours together spent kissing!

  Unlike Poppy, however, Swaggart seemed unaffected and continued their conversation. “One good nerve that I’m willing to tell you about…hmmm,” he mused.

  Poppy knew her cheeks were crimson. In fact, she felt hot all over. As she continued to look at him, her mouth began to water at the memory of his magnificent kiss.

  “Well, if you’ll allow a literal nerve,” he continued, “you hit one the other night, and I’m guessing you didn’t even know it.”