Kissing Cousins Read online

  “Unbelievable,” Poppy muttered to herself. She knew then—even if Swaggart had never kissed her, even if he’d never unknowingly reminded her how desperately in love she was with him—Poppy knew her enchantment with the charming Mark Lawson would not have lasted. He was gorgeous, sure. But a gorgeous face and body did not a real man make. Swaggart Moretti was a real man—tough, rugged, chivalrous, as well as possessing the natural faults every real man did.

  The incident buoyed Poppy somehow—strengthened her resolve and courage to let Mark know that, although he was a nice guy, he wasn’t for her. She sighed, feeling less anxious all of a sudden. No matter what—if Swaggart never gave her the time of day again—Mark Lawson was not for her. Still, she prayed Swaggart would give her the time of day—prayed for a miracle and that she could win his heart—some day.

  *

  “This is a big deal,” Mark said as he drove Poppy toward their destination later that evening. This is the kickoff for Bryant Industries’ new line,” he explained. “Our firm holds their account, and we’ve managed to keep them pretty happy so far.”

  “Oh,” Poppy said. She was uncomfortable—having trouble not blurting out that she just wanted to go home. Still, Mark was a nice man who had treated her very well. He deserved the respect of a calm “severing-of-the-ties.” She smoothed the black velvet of her dress over her legs and straightened the small ruby hanging from the silver chain at her neck. Even for wearing her fanciest, most expensive formal dress, she felt she suffered in comparison to Mark’s perfectly tailored tuxedo. Whitney had sworn to Poppy that she looked fabulous, but Poppy wondered if Whitney was exaggerating as usual.

  “Here we are,” he said, pulling into the parking lot of the Tinley Convention Center. “This should be interesting.”

  Poppy smiled at him, taking his offered hand and allowing him to help her out of the car—the car that Swaggart had so recently changed a tire on.

  “Dinner is promptly at six thirty, and then there’s a concert,” Mark explained as they walked toward the entrance to the building.

  “Sounds like quite the shindig,” Poppy said. She would have to force herself to make polite conversation.

  “Oh yeah!” Mark said. “I managed to get tickets last year and it was phenomenal!”

  Poppy experienced a massive pang of guilt as Mark smiled at her. He was a nice man—she mentally scolded herself for thinking badly of him. After all, it wasn’t his fault she was in love with Swaggart.

  “Mark,” Poppy began once they were seated at their table. Guilt was washing over her. She kept thinking of the way Mark had stood up for her with Miss Susan Reginald the night she’d first met him, of the fifty-dollar tips and the way he treated her with such respect and admiration. It was going to be hard to tell him she couldn’t see him again. She once more considered the possibility he would never ask her out again after the gala. Maybe—maybe she would wait, just a little longer—see how the evening went and if, by some miracle, another venue of letting him know presented itself.

  “Yeah?” he asked.

  Yes. She’d wait. She’d wait and see if something else happened.

  “This is really lovely,” she said. “Thank you for inviting me.”

  “You bet, beautiful,” he said, winking at her.

  The master of ceremonies welcomed everyone and explained the agenda for the evening. The gala would begin with dinner—guests could choose the citrus chicken or filet mignon—and end with a concert by the famous fiddle-fest group Barrage. Had Poppy not been so miserably preoccupied, the night would’ve held the promise of being wonderful. She was miserable and preoccupied, however. Yet she managed to choose the filet mignon when asked by the attendant and hoped a good meal would add to her courage as well.

  “I missed you while I was gone,” Mark said.

  “Were you able to have any fun on the trip—or was it strictly business meetings and things?” Poppy asked.

  She was distracted—Mark had known it from the moment he’d picked her up at her apartment. Something was on Poppy’s mind, but he sensed she wasn’t ready to share it. He’d decided not to press her, yet he hoped she would be able to relax eventually and enjoy the evening.

  Even at the restaurant, when he’d realized he had a flat and pulled over in the Good Ol’ Days parking lot to call roadside services—even then she’d seemed a bit distracted. For a moment, he’d imagined it was because of that cook—that Swaggart guy.

  Mark remembered the first time he’d ever met the cook. It was the night he’d taken Braden with him to the restaurant to see what his friend thought of the cute little waitress he’d encountered. At first, when the cook had come out to ask him and Braden about their meal, Mark could’ve sworn he’d seen Poppy’s eyes light up like the Fourth of July. Still, he’d convinced himself he’d imagined it. That was until he’d walked into the restaurant earlier in the day to find Poppy and the cook standing with the hostess. The Swaggart guy’s eyes shot daggers at him, he was sure. Mark thought it was because he hadn’t wanted to change his tire himself. Yet what was wrong with that? Why do it yourself if you can pay someone to do it for you? Mark thought. However, now—as he thought back on it—he wondered if the daggers shooting out of the Swaggart guy’s eyes were because of Poppy. He wondered if Poppy’s obvious distraction right now was because of the Swaggart guy.

  Sure the cook was pretty impressive to look at, but Mark was certain the guy didn’t hold a candle to him. After all, both times he’d seen the guy, he’d been wearing worn-out jeans and a white t-shirt—plain as they get. Yet he couldn’t ignore the fact that his own sisters probably would’ve dropped at the cook’s feet one by one, begging for his attention. Mark shook his head. What girl in her right mind would choose a fry cook in a t-shirt over an advertising firm executive in a Beamer?

  “Just meetings, I’m afraid,” Mark answered. “It was tough being in Arizona and not being able to play a round of golf.”

  “I can imagine,” Poppy said, forcing a smile. She couldn’t get the vision of Swaggart changing Mark’s tire out of her mind. She couldn’t get the vision of Swaggart out of her mind—and that vision she didn’t want to. It was going to be a long night.

  And it did indeed seem to drag. Although it was only twenty minutes between the time the attendant had taken their order and the waiter arrived with it, it seemed like forever to Poppy. She’d managed to hold a fairly interesting conversation with Mark, but all she could think of was Swaggart—long to be with him. She wondered where Swaggart was. Was he with Jennifer? Did he have another date? Had their marvelous date rut day been just another date to him?

  “Your filet mignon, madam,” the waiter said, setting a dinner plate on the table before Poppy. “And for you, sir, the citrus chicken,” the waiter said as he presented Mark’s meal.

  “Thank you,” Poppy told the waiter. She smiled at him, knowing how demanding catered affairs of this magnitude were.

  “Wow!” Mark said. Poppy looked to see him studying his plate, a satisfied smile on his handsome face. “Fancy!”

  Poppy smiled and looked down at her own plate. She gasped as instant recognition washed over her.

  “Oh my heck!” she breathed. Her smile broadened as delight washed over her.

  “What? Is something wrong?” Mark asked. “Did they overcook it? I can have it sent back if you want.”

  Poppy shook her head and tried to keep tears of joy from welling in her eyes. Her heart was pounding like mad.

  “No. No, it’s perfect,” she said.

  “How can you tell?” Mark asked. “You haven’t even cut into it yet.”

  “No, it’s perfect. I promise,” Poppy said.

  “How can you be so sure?” Mark chuckled.

  “Because Swaggart Moretti cooked it,” she said.

  “Swaggart?” Mark asked. “The cook at your restaurant?”

  “Yeah,” Poppy told him. “I’d recognize his presentation anywhere!” Loop-the-loops were going off in her stomach like f
ireworks on the Fourth of July. “I’ll prove it,” she told him. “I won’t look at your plate, but you ordered the citrus chicken, right?” she said covering her eyes.

  “Yeah,” Mark said.

  “Then on your plate, you’ll have two chicken breasts covered in roasted onions with five very thin orange slices fanned out on one side of your plate—three thin lemon slices, alternated with two thin lime slices, fanned out together on the other side. The onions are red onion, and there’s a small sprig of thyme resting between the two chicken pieces,” Poppy said.

  “Exactly,” Mark chuckled. “You’ve got it.”

  Poppy giggled and let her hand drop from covering her eyes.

  “You see?” she said. “The second I saw the presentation of this filet mignon—can you smell the balsamic pan sauce? See the three sprigs of rosemary peeking out from beneath the cut? And the wavy lines drawn through the sauce—he does that with his fingers…but don’t tell anyone.”

  Mark smiled as he watched the light dancing in Poppy’s eyes. It was the cook—that he-man, muscle-bound, tousled-haired cook—and she was in love with him! Yet even for the thick jealousy and pang of realization and loss in his chest—how could he be angry with her? What woman wouldn’t like a man who could change a fool’s tire in one hour and create culinary art in the next?

  Poppy Amore was one of the most beautiful people Mark had ever met—one of the cutest, prettiest young women he’d ever known. He was astounded that instead of being enraged—he simply felt bested by a better man.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “How long have you been in love with him?” Mark asked.

  Poppy’s smile disappeared instantly. “What?” she asked.

  “With the cook guy?” Mark asked, grinning at her. There was a sort of regret mingled with slight pain and disappointment in his expression, but no true anger or heartbreak. “How long have you been in love with him?”

  Poppy swallowed hard. Her initial reaction was to lie, deny being in love with Swaggart, but she didn’t. She simply took the time to choose her words with care.

  “Seven years,” she said.

  “Seven years?” Mark exclaimed. “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  Poppy shook her head. “Since I was a freshman in high school,” she answered.

  “And he’s in love with you?” Mark asked.

  Poppy shook her head again, shrugging her shoulders as she answered, “I don’t know. He seems to like me, I guess.”

  Poppy was startled when Mark began to laugh.

  “You think it’s funny?” she asked him. How cruel! How could he laugh at her being in love with Swaggart? Yet she supposed his reaction meant his own heart wasn’t too damaged. She should be glad of it, but it angered her that he would mock her so openly.

  “No, no, not at all,” Mark said. “I’m just thinking…no wonder he seemed so ticked off about changing my tire! And no wonder he offered to change it—he wanted me out of there!”

  “I’m sure he was just being nice,” Poppy said. Still, what if Mark was right? What if Swaggart had been irritated by Mark’s showing up at the restaurant? What if he had changed the tire just make sure Mark wouldn’t be lingering where Poppy was?

  “No way!” Mark assured her. “He was furious! I couldn’t figure it out at the time—I figured he just thought I was a weenie because I didn’t want to change my own tire. But now…” he said, chuckling. “That guy probably wanted to tear me apart.”

  “You don’t seem to be mad at me at all,” Poppy said. It was strange—the fact Mark seemed so calm.

  “Oh, don’t get me wrong,” he said, smiling at her. “You’re the kind of girl a guy never gets over.”

  Poppy felt herself blush as she prodded, “But…”

  “But I’m humble enough to admit when I’m beaten,” he said. “You’ve left a mark, Poppy—I won’t lie to you—but somehow I’m okay. A little wounded, but nothing I can’t recover from.”

  “Wow,” Poppy breathed. “Your chivalrous nature sure made that a lot easier than I thought it would be.”

  “You’re just trying to make me feel better,” he said. “Though—I do have one question.”

  “What’s that?” Poppy asked.

  “Why did you ever go out with me in the first place? If you’ve been in love with this guy for seven years—why bother dating anybody else?” he asked.

  Poppy sighed. It was odd that Mark should ask such a similar question as Swaggart had once before. It was a legitimate question, and he deserved an honest answer.

  “I thought I needed to move beyond it,” she told him. “I didn’t think he’d ever see me as anything more than just another person in his life. I still don’t know if he ever will. And you’re so wonderful that I…”

  “Thought I might be able to purge him from your soul?” Mark finished.

  Poppy giggled. “It sounds so dramatic when you say it that way.”

  Mark chuckled and said, “Well, that’s what you meant.”

  Poppy nodded.

  “So now what?” Mark said, leaning back in his chair. “Now that I’ve been officially dumped…”

  “Oh, don’t say that,” Poppy interrupted.

  Mark laughed again. “I’m just teasing you, Poppy,” he said. “Tell you what,” he began, “let’s just enjoy this perfect meal—prepared by Mr. Perfect back there in the kitchen—and be glad we met. What do you say?”

  Poppy smiled at him. He was too good! She hoped there was a girl somewhere who would appreciate Mark’s unique character—one that wasn’t already in love with the most fabulous man on the face of the planet.

  “Sounds good,” she said.

  *

  And it was a pleasant meal. Mark seemed quite painlessly reconciled. Poppy was glad he seemed to be unscathed. They talked about different sorts of things than they had before—more about his work, less about individual goals and experiences.

  “Would you care for dessert?” the waiter asked as he cleared their plates.

  “What is it tonight?” Mark asked.

  “Dark chocolate torte, covered with a layer of ganache, and served with a raspberry puree on the side, sir,” the waiter answered.

  “Sounds fabulous! We’ll have two,” Mark said.

  “And would you be so kind as to give this to Chef Moretti?” Poppy asked, handing the waiter a folded paper napkin. While Mark had gone to make a phone call, Poppy had taken a moment to write a note to Swaggart. She’d written, I know you’re back there! Perfect…as always!

  “How did you know the chef’s name, madam? If I may ask?” the waiter said. “We were told he prefers to work with anonymity.”

  “I recognized his work,” Poppy explained.

  “Please give my compliments to the chef, as well,” Mark said. “He’s an incredible talent—and he changes a mean tire.”

  “Of course,” the waiter said, quirking one puzzled eyebrow. “I’ll be back shortly with your desserts.”

  “Thank you,” Mark said. “So he’s humble too?”

  “Usually,” Poppy said.

  “I’m lucky I got as far as I did,” Mark said.

  Poppy smiled as he winked at her.

  “A gentleman at one of the tables sends his compliments, chef,” the waiter said as he entered the kitchen.

  “Thanks,” Swaggart mumbled, wishing the infernal event were over. He was tired and grouchy and hadn’t been able to think of anything but Poppy and the weasel of a guy who wouldn’t even get his hands dirty changing his own tire. It was a miracle he’d been able to instruct the kitchen staff well enough, instruct himself well enough, to pull off a good meal. Why was she out with him? Swaggart couldn’t figure it. Hadn’t he shown his hand? Hadn’t he made it clear he wanted her? Yet he knew he hadn’t—not in a way that would let her know for certain.

  “And the lady with him asked that I give this to you,” the waiter said, interrupting Swaggart’s chaotic thoughts.

  “What?” Swaggart asked.

  �
��This,” the waiter said handing a folded napkin to Swaggart.

  Swaggart opened it, his frown curving to a grin as he read the words written in such familiar handwriting. Yes, he’d know Poppy’s handwriting anywhere—he’d been reading it off order pages for years.

  “‘I know you’re back there. Perfect…as always,’” Swaggart read. He looked to the waiter and smiled, saying, “Do you think she means the food was perfect or that I’m perfect?”

  The waiter, whose name Swaggart couldn’t remember all of a sudden, chuckled. “I don’t know, but she’s hot—so either way, you rock, man.”

  Swaggart laughed at the waiter’s sudden change of demeanor.

  “Well, if this lady is hot, with dark brown eyes, brown hair, and lips that make your mouth water,” Swaggart began, “then wait just a minute before you take their dessert out. I’m assuming they’re both having dessert.”

  “Yep,” the waiter said.

  Swaggart tucked the napkin with Poppy’s note on it into his pocket. “Hey, Mike!” Swaggart called to one of the cooks he’d hired for the evening. “I’m glad we made that crème brûlée. Grab one out of the fridge for me, would you? And bring me a propane torch too, please.”

  Swaggart always kept several crème brûlée on hand, in case a guest complained about the planned desert. He knew Poppy loved crème brûlée more than almost any other fancy dessert, and here was his chance to let her know he knew it.

  He’d pamper her with a little something special and then pack up his utensils and head for home. Swaggart usually stayed and helped in the cleaning up, even though he was paying other people to do it for him. But tonight, he’d leave early. He had no desire to see Poppy sitting out there with Mr. Perfect. In truth, he was afraid he might lose his cool, knock the guy senseless, throw Poppy over his shoulder, and carry her away. He knew it would be wiser to simply let her finish her date—because if one thing was for sure, it was that this date would be the last she ever had with anybody but him.

  “The chef sends this to you, madam, with his personal compliments,” the waiter said as he sat a beautiful crème brûlée on the table next to Poppy’s chocolate torte.