I HEAD BACK TO SHOREDITCH feeling like ten tons of horseshit after leaving an angry sister behind. I hate disappointing Vi. I hate seeing her cry even more. This is the kind of shit that keeps me up at night.
I walk into our flat to Poppy blasting music from her portable speaker. I drop my keys on the side table and frown at a strange setup in the middle of the living room. The closer I get, the more I realise what I’m looking at. It’s a wooden rack with long dowels. Stretched over the wooden spindles are lacy, colourful knickers and bras. Red, black, print, pastel. You name it, Poppy has it. It looks like her entire drawer of unmentionables are spread out to dry on this rack in the middle of the bloody living room.
My dick twitches with awareness as I zero in on a sheer black pair of knickers that I recall from the other night.
“Fuckwit poppycox!” Poppy’s voice exclaims from down the hallway. “No, please…God, no!”
She cries again and I rush to see what the commotion is. The bi-fold doors where the washer and dryer are located are open. When I peer around them, I see Poppy squatting down in front of the washing machine, shoving heaps of bubbles back inside the door.
One would think the oozing amounts of soap and water running out of the machine would catch my eye first, but nope. It’s not. It’s Poppy, down on the ground wearing nothing but a pair of pale blue knickers and a white cotton tank. It doesn’t take a genius to know that the way she’s trying to block the bubbles with her chest means she’s going to turn around and—
“Booker!” Poppy states, as she catches me looking down on her from my high vantage point where I can see a clear hollow of cleavage peeking out. She moves to stand and shrieks loudly when her foot slips and she goes tumbling backwards onto her arse.
“Fuck, Poppy,” I croak and bend down to grab her by the arms. She’s stretched out on her back, soaked nearly head-to-toe with bubbles all over her.
The corner of my eye catches two dark spots on her white tank top that’s drenched and completely fucking see through.
I’m totally not looking. I’m totally not looking.
Bloody hell, she’s not wearing a bra.
I looked.
My dick presses against the back of my zipper as I move to help her stand. When I think I’ve got her stable, I reach over and press a button on the washer to stop it from running. The room falls silent aside from our heavy breathing.
“What’s going on?” I ask, shoving a bubble-covered hand through my hair.
Poppy stands before me, tugging on the bottom of her tank top like it’ll miraculously grow trousers and cover her bare legs that are on full display for my wandering eyes. Not that I’m looking.
“Laundry day?” she says with a shrug, her toes wiggling in the foam.
She glances down and her cheeks flame as she realises I can see her nipples through her tank. Her hands cover her breasts. “I wasn’t expecting you home so early.”
“Clearly,” I murmur, my eyes warring with where to look that’s not quite so bloody indecent.
“I had a little mishap with the soap powder.” Her finger points to the washer.
I nod and turn my head so I’m looking at the wall. “I’ll erm…get the mop. Maybe you should…get a shirt.”
She nods awkwardly, and we brush against each other as we each make a move to go in opposite directions. Fuck me, I think her hard nipples brushed my arm.
I make my way to the kitchen until she calls out, “Hey, Booker.” She stops at the doorway to her room and looks over her shoulder.
“What?” I turn my gaze, begging myself not to check out her supple arse barely covered by her blue knickers.
“I want you to know this wasn’t done on purpose.”
I pull my lip into my mouth and frown. “Why would I have thought otherwise?”
She gets a weird smile on her face. “No reason. Simply wanted to be sure you weren’t thinking unfavourable thoughts about me.”
I exhale. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Sunday is Harris family dinner night. Booker invites me like he always does but is surprised when I accept this time. Since the first dinner, I’ve been visiting my own parents while he visits his family. But tonight, I have goals.
Belle and Indie’s game plan for me to win Booker’s heart is a bit half-cocked. Basically I have to sexually frustrate him in a million different ways until the wedding. It seems juvenile, but I enjoy treating life like a performance. If ever there was a way for me to find out if Booker Harris loves me, this would probably be it. The other option is to walk right up to him and tell him my feelings, but that plan went horribly wrong the last time. So I think this game plan is worth a shot. The one caveat Belle said was that I can’t allow a slip before the wedding. She was very clear about that. I need to be “slip free” with Booker until D-Day.
Yesterday went a bit off script with the whole washing machine incident, but I think for once my clumsiness actually helped my cause. Bubbles on my tits…Fucking genius! I want to text Belle for a pat on the back, but I refrain because I’m not five.
Oh, fuck it, I’ll text her anyway.
Me: Washing machine is knackered. Wet T-shirt contest for the win.
Belle: Bubbly tits? Fucking perfection! You’re going to have him panting for it before the wedding at this rate!
The entire crew is present at the Harris house this evening because it’s the off-season. Booker’s oldest brother, Gareth, eyes me curiously when I come bounding in like an over-caffeinated child. Cam and Tan are wrapped around their fiancés, while Vaughn holds Rocky at the table.
I decide to help Vi prep for dinner, but I must have a crap poker face because she keeps giving me these looks like she knows I’m up to something with her brother. When Camden, Indie, Hayden, and Vaughn decide to take Rocky for a walk in the pram to see if she’ll crash for a nap, I decide to activate day two of the GET BOOKER HARD scheme.
“So, Booker,” I say as he sits at the counter chatting with Gareth about football as usual. “Have you found a date for Tanner’s wedding yet?”
“Date?” Gareth and Vi both ask in unison.
“Yes,” Belle pipes in, sliding over to stand at the end of the counter beside Gareth. Her face looks peculiar. “I told them they both need to bring dates so I have someone to eat those lobsters that my parents won’t be welcome to.”
Vi gives Belle a sympathetic glance. “Are you sure there’s nothing that can be done about that?”
“I’m positive,” Belle states, plucking a grape from the fruit bowl on the counter and popping it into her mouth. Tanner comes up behind her, giving her waist a cheeky squeeze.
“I offered to go over and have a chat with her dear old daddy, but she practically tied me to the bed.” The two look at each other with naughty smiles on their faces, being about as subtle as a freight train.
Gareth’s deep voice cuts into their emoji heart eyes. “Can you two please stop dropping details about your sex life into random conversations? Some secrets are better left kept.”
“You’re just jealous because you don’t have sexy secrets to share,” Tanner cajoles and smacks his hand on the counter. “Mr. Celibate over here.”
Gareth’s eyes narrow and he shakes his head. From the look in his glower, I have a feeling he’s hiding loads of secrets. Quite honestly, I’ve always thought he’d be the type to have a Red Room of Pain—a kinky bugger through and through. Something about his beefy build and rogue face that’s not classically handsome but oozing that dirty kind of masculinity has always made me a bit nervous around him.
I’ll take dimpled face Booker any day.
“So, Booker? Date yet?” I ask again. He looks at me curiously, his dark, lash-framed eyes narrowing with speculation.
“In the one day I’ve had since Belle informed me I need to bring someone? No, Poppy. Not yet.” He tilts his head, annoyance evident in all his features. “Why? Have you?”
Suddenly, Belle slides past me toward the refrigerator. “I’m grabbing an ice lolly. Anyone else want one?”
Tanner raises his hand, and Vi glares at all of us while Belle passes one to me and Tanner. She thinks we’ll be spoiling our supper. Ever the mother hen.
Locking secret eyes with Belle, I quickly unwrap my purple ice treat and pop it in my mouth. I lean across the counter so I’m only a foot away from Booker, who’s now watching my lips. “So, Booker”—I suck hard and then take a nibble, my tongue swiping out to catch the syrupy liquid on my lips—“Do you know anyone who might be good for me?”
“Good for you for what?” Booker asks, his face devoid of any humour as he stares at my mouth with heat in his eyes.
“For a date. I thought maybe a teammate of yours might be good because they are familiar with Tower Park. They could show me around the stadium after the wedding. Give me a tour.” I wink.
His face turns red. “You’re not taking one of my fucking teammates to my brother’s wedding.”
“Why not?” I ask innocently and then plunge the lolly back in my mouth, going deeper this time.
He frowns as he watches my lips. “Because if you want a bloody tour of Tower Park, I can give you one.”
Rolling my eyes, I reply, “Fine, he doesn’t have to give me a tour. But I’m out of touch with people since I left, and you have a gaggle of teammates, Book. Surely you know someone who wouldn’t hate to spend the evening with me.”
“Roan DeWalt would be fun for her!” Vi interjects, snapping everyone’s attention to her as she whisks something in a bowl.
Tanner pipes up next. “Over my dead body he’s coming to my wedding. I’ve finally stopped wishing dismemberment on the prat.”
“It was only a suggestion!” Vi peals, looking perplexed. “It’s just that I set him up with our cousin Alice and she loved him! Roan is a South African dreamboat.” She waggles her eyebrows at me and I can’t help but smile.
Suddenly, Booker stands, his stool screeching on the marble floor as he pushes it away. “Not Roan. Not any Bethnal players. None of them would work. You’re not their type.”
I hear Vi suck in a breath of air, and my cheeks heat with embarrassment. “Why not?” My jaw is tight with anger as my ice lolly drips, forgotten between my two fingers.
His fists clench on the counter. “Because I know you, Poppy. You’re not the kind of girl they’d go for.”
The way he’s acting gets right up my nose. I wanted to make him jealous, but that’s not what’s happening. He’s insinuating I’m not good enough for his mates, as if they’d never go for anyone like me. He doesn’t even know me as an adult. He’s pigeonholing me into the Poppy he thought he used to know. It’s complete and utter shit! “If you actually think I’m not good enough for your team—”
“They’re not good enough for you!” he shouts, interrupting me as he leans over the counter to get in my face. Booker eyes me hard, clearly not amused by my request. “No teammates, Pop. Not Roan. Not anyone. Got it?” His shoulders rise and fall as he pins me with the most aggressive face I’ve ever seen on him.
I can tell the moment he snaps out of it because his neck turns red and he looks around at his family, who are all staring at us with their mouths open. He shoves two hands through his hair as he turns on his heel and strides out the back door and into the garden.
It’s quiet in the kitchen as everyone sits there gobsmacked.
“Wrong button,” Tanner quips and Belle elbows him in the ribs. I turn my red face to look at her and she nods with reassurance.
“I hope you girls know what you’re doing,” Vi says. Then she wipes her hands off and tosses the tea towel in front of me as she scurries out after Booker.
The next morning, I wake to find Booker in the kitchen wearing nothing but his boxers as he brews a pot of coffee. Our ride home from Chigwell last night was quiet as he stewed over something he definitely wasn’t interested in sharing with me.
But in the warm early light of day, watching him stand here in nothing but plaid, saggy-butt boxers, my chest contracts. He’s my best friend right now. The boy whom I told all my secrets to. The one who held my hand during the scary parts of my favourite book. The one who told me he liked the mud on my dress.
The one who put a lamp in my room and toast and water at my door.
And for a moment, I want to be Booker and Poppy again.
I trudge out in my T-shirt and long socks. My strands of hair are strewn over my eyes, but I’m not awake enough to push them out of the way. He turns when I sidle up next to him at the counter.
“Is it done yet?” I croak, watching the droplets funnel down into the pot. As if on cue, the coffee pot hisses.
“Not quite,” he replies, his voice deep and throaty. I really love his morning voice.
“I’m shattered,” I say with a sigh and rest my head on his arm.
He tenses at first, but I feel him relax. Then he puts his arm around me, tucking me under him and pressing his lips to the top of my head. It’s not sexy. It’s not spine-shivering. It’s simply…Booker.
“You should go back to bed,” he drawls.
I groan. “I can’t. I have my first meeting with the school today.”
“For your German language job?”
I nod against his chest. “Just a standard meet-and-greet thing. I’m not used to getting up early like this.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Well, why don’t you go jump in the shower and I’ll bring a cup to you?”
I nod and then close my eyes and press my lips to his arm before shuffling away. I pause halfway to the loo and turn to say something.
It could simply be that I’m not fully awake, but I’m about ninety percent sure Booker was watching me leave. And I’m about ninety-five percent sure he’s pitching a tent in his boxers.
He realises a bit too late that I’ve caught him checking me out and shakes his head, the redness in his neck flaming as he turns to face the coffee pot again.
“Booker?” I croak.
He angles his head but keeps his hips facing the counter. He can barely meet my eyes. “Yeah?”
“The shower door is glass.”
“Yeah,” he deadpans.
“The see through kind.”
“Riiight.”
“So, erm…maybe just pour me a cuppa and I’ll get it when I come out?”
“Of course,” he replies quietly and turns back to the coffee.
I head off to shower, pondering that little coffee pot exchange more and more as my brain wakes up. Was Booker trying to set up a slip with the coffee offer? Am I really erection-worthy in a T-shirt and long socks? He’s lady-boner-worthy, even in saggy boxers, so it’s possible.
This is why I have a plan in place. I can’t not think of him as more. And even though he’s fighting it, I know he feels it, too. He feels more. He just won’t let himself admit it yet. I have to stick to the plan.
Thirty minutes later, I leave my room and find Booker on the balcony. He’s still shirtless, but now he’s thrown on a pair of jeans that are popped open at the waist. His corded muscles are on full display, and I marvel at the smattering of hair that crawls down into his boxers. Only a few more days, Poppy. You can do this.
I step out onto the balcony with a coffee cup in hand. “Booker?” I say his name and he huhs me without looking. “Can I get your advice?”
He turns and instantly eyes my cleavage pouring out of my shirt. This is so not business appropriate attire. “Is this top too much for my initial meet-and-greet with my new coworkers?”
“Yes,” he says without pause, his eyes trained on my chest.
“Really?” I ask, toying with the bow at the top. “I think it’s stylish.”
“It’s too much,” his voice is firm. “I can probably see your bloody nipple ring if I stand over you.”
My face flames with embarrassment. Not over his comment, but that we’re talking about his awareness of my nipple ring. Like a horrid film montage, I close my eyes and see snapshots of our passionate encounters. His hands on me. His fingers pinching my hardened bud. His dick thrusting in and out of me. I nearly let out a moan and quickly open my eyes to stop the images from flooding my psyche.
Booker’s eyes are hot on mine. I swear he’s thinking about all the same things. His arms are tense with a rigid stance as he watches me, looking like he’s using every muscle in his body to not jump me right now.
Good God, I wouldn’t mind being jumped.
I’m the first to look away, my voice shaky as I reply, “Fine, I’ll go change.”
I turn and pause at the doorway, willing myself not to look back. Begging the silly girl inside of me to be a strong woman.
I look back.
His lust-filled eyes now seem tormented. Disappointed. Like watching me walk away from him is as hard for him as it is for me. It makes the regret I feel come back full force. It’s wrong to be playing him like this. I wish I could simply lay all my feelings bare. Put it all out there.
But if there’s one thing I know, it’s Booker Harris. The man is the most stubborn human. He requires a creative and delicate touch, both of which happen to be my specialty.
I spend most of the next day at Camden’s new house in Notting Hill, grateful for the space from Poppy, who can’t seem to stop turning me on at every corner. If it’s not her breasts hanging out, it’s her legs, or her arse, or her adorable bed-head that makes me want to pull her into my bed for a cuddle.
And I don’t cuddle. I’ve never cuddled actually.
But bloody hell, she’s confusing the fuck out of me. There’s a constant argument going on inside my head between my dick and my mind. Dick wants a slip. Mind knows that it’s a bad idea. If I keep slipping with her, she’s going to try to bolt again. Move in with her parents or whatever nonsense she droned after the last time. I can’t just slip with Poppy. She’s going to need more and I don’t want that.
So the mindless task of helping Camden build some furniture that he and Indie bought is a welcome reprieve. Tanner is here as well. Even Gareth showed up since he’s been staying out at Dad’s all week while his team is on break. This is the riveting life of a Tuesday for off-season footballers.
“Thanks for the help, my brothers. Indie is going to love this.” Camden’s voice is reverent as he strokes the top of the smooth mahogany desk we just finished. It’s gigantic and sits as a focal point in the middle of an extensive library with floor-to-ceiling shelves that Cam already has half full of books. He’s been an avid reader for quite some time, so it’s kind of cool that he found a home with such a space for his collection.
“You mean you’re going to love railing Indie on this,” Tanner cajoles, lewdly hip thrusting the corner of the desk like an animal.
Gareth pops Tanner on the head. I fail to conceal a smirk at Tanner’s pained frown as he rubs his man bun.
Camden smirks. “Don’t talk about my fiancé like that, broseph.” He lightly punches him in the shoulder. “But you are correct. I can’t imagine a better place to bed my new fiancé than on top of a desk surrounded by books. Christ, I could get a stiffy just thinking about it.”
Gareth wallops Camden next. I just roll my eyes and sit down on top of said desk. Camden’s home is too nice for the likes of his dirty mind. He purchased a Victorian townhouse on an idyllic cobblestone street in Notting Hill. The neighbourhood looks like a movie set. The place is a stunning three floors and is very spacious for London. Arsenal certainly pays more than Bethnal Green.
Truthfully, I can’t complain. Living with Dad so many years means that I was able to stash away the majority of my earnings. I should be able to retire from football around the age of thirty-five and not have to work if I don’t want to. But I always fancied the thought of owning my own business someday. Just need to work out what that business would be. I should ask Poppy. She has such a creative mind, I’m sure she’d be great at brainstorming what I’d be good at outside of football.
“So, are you and Poppy at each other’s throats after Sunday night dinner?” Gareth’s deep voice asks as he sidles up next to me.
I frown. “No…We’re fine.” I think? Yesterday morning seemed fine. Until she asked my advice about that sorry excuse for a shirt, and I had to worry about concealing the bulge that formed inside of my jeans. Christ, if she really thought she could wear something like that to her new job, I’m seriously concerned about her idea of a professional workplace environment.
Tanner slides up on the other side of me, sandwiching me tightly between him and Gareth. He nudges me in the shoulder. “I think the girls are up to something.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Belle was looking at Poppy kind of funny,” Tanner states, scratching his beard in contemplation. “I can usually tell when her crazy starts to show, and I definitely got a whiff of some crazy.”
“The three of them did spend time together on Friday night,” Camden adds, perching on the other side of Tanner.
“What could they be up to?” I ask, completely confused as I stare at all eight of our feet dangling in a row beside each other.
Tanner shakes his head. “I don’t know. Has Poppy found a date for the wedding yet?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.” It’s not really something I’ve wanted to ask her about. It’s going to be weird watching her with another guy the way she is now…all woman. But deep down, I think maybe it’s exactly what I need to get her out of my head. It’s a miracle we got past the first two slips, so maybe seeing her with another man will be helpful in getting us back to the friend zone. The real friend zone.
“Have you lined up a date?” Camden asks.
“Not yet,” I reply. “I am probably going to call Sidney.”
“The one from our neighbourhood with the huge fake jubblies that you brought to Belle’s charity event a while back?” Tanner asks, making a squeezing gesture over his pecs.
I nod and elbow him for being crass. He’s not wrong, though. Sidney Carmichael does have massive boobs—something she apparently treated herself to after secondary school. Regardless, she’s just a friend. We dated casually for a while when we were eighteen, but I had to end it. Her feelings were much stronger than mine and it became too much.
However, we’ve remained friends, and she’s kind of turned into my go-to date for events. As a pro footballer, we’re frequently invited to charities, formal galas, and award ceremonies. Sidney is easy and always available. And I don’t have to worry about her latching on like a wannabe WAG because she knows how I feel.
Tanner tsks. “I think it’s a mistake to bring Big Jubblies, baby bro.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t think Poppy wants to see you with a date any more than you want to see her with a date.”
“I don’t care if she has a date,” I bark defensively.
“Bullshit!” Gareth coughs into his fist.
“I don’t!” I turn and look at him with accusing eyes. “I don’t know how many times I have to tell you guys this. Poppy is just a friend. That’s it. I couldn’t give a toss whom she brings to the wedding.”
“Well you acted like a jealous boyfriend Sunday night,” Gareth prods.
I cut him a glare, his words causing a tightness in my shoulders. I wasn’t trying to act jealous. I was trying to protect her. “Teammates are different. They’re…off limits. You guys know why.”
“Prove it,” Tanner dares.
I swerve my head to look at him. “Prove what?”
“Prove that you don’t care. Call Sidney to come with you,” he challenges.
“You’re a moron. I was going to do that anyway.”
“Then there’s no need to wait another day.”
Rolling my eyes, I pull my mobile out of my pocket, find her number, and press CALL. They all watch me as it rings a few times.
“Hello?”
“Hiya, Sidney.”
“Booker Harris! Hiii!” Her voice is loud in the quiet library, so I know my brothers can hear her as well.
I clear my throat. “Listen, I have an…erm…event to go to this Saturday night and was wondering if you are free.”
“Bugger, I would have loved to go, but I’m in Cape Town for the week. I can look into booking an early flight home?”
“No, no. That’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“Are you sure? It would be no trouble.”
Actually, it would be a lot of trouble. “I’m sure. Don’t worry about it.”
“Okay, then.” She sounds disappointed. “I’ll give you a ring after I get back. Maybe we can grab a bite and catch up.”
I nod. “Sounds fine. Have fun.”
We say our goodbyes and I exhale.
“Now what?” Camden asks.
“I don’t know. I don’t really want to bring anyone else because they’ll get the wrong idea.”
“What idea is that?” Cam asks.
“That you’re a free man?” Tanner adds, his brows tweaking.
I frown. “I am a free man. Sidney never expects more. Other girls do.”
Gareth’s voice loses all humour when he replies, “And you can’t possibly be a free man because that would mean you’d have to close the door on Poppy.”
I growl and jump off the desk to get some space from my pushy and annoying brothers. “You guys don’t get it because you don’t understand what friendship with a girl is like. If I were to be with her, she hops out of that friend box and into a much more complicated box. Poppy is my best friend and will be forever. End of. I’ll find another bloody date.”
I move past the desk and out the door, ignoring my brothers’ calls to come back and stop being a baby. Stuff that. I’m tired of them thinking they know what’s best for me all the time. I’m determined to show Poppy and everyone else that this isn’t happening between her and me. We’re just best friends, like always. She’ll bring a date and I’ll bring a date. What’s the worst that could happen?
It’s dark by the time I get home from Camden’s. I enter our flat and all is quiet except for some strange noise coming from the loo. Frowning, I walk over and lean closer to the door where I hear shower water running.
Just when I decide that’s all the noise was, a soft moan resonates through the door. Then the humming begins again. Actually, it’s more of a buzzing. I press my ear against the door, stunned when I hear the sound of what must be a vibrator because Poppy’s hoarse groans echoing inside the loo can’t be for no reason.
She moans again.
I clutch the doorframe with my hands and drop my chin to my chest. My dick instantly rises inside my jeans as I picture the scene happening in my shower. This is wrong, Booker. This is so wrong.
But fuck me, all I want to do is go in there and help her finish the job. Activate another slip by pressing myself inside of her and fucking her against the shower wall as her soapy breasts slide up and down my chest.
My thoughts are maddening.
I inhale sharply and turn away from the door, storming straight for the balcony. Cool air hits my face as I slide the glass door closed and breathe in the London night air. It would be melodramatic to scream out of sexual frustration, right?
Fuck me! Why do I keep wanting to fuck my best friend? This is bloody torture!
What man could resist someone like her pleasuring herself in the shower? Christ, this is painful.
My mind begins engaging my hormones. Why can’t you fuck your best friend? Because she wouldn’t be my best friend anymore. Who cares? She’d be more. She’d be more until she wasn’t. Until it ended and then she’d want nothing to do with me. Why does it have to end? Because I’m not right for her. Poppy deserves love. True love. Like what Hayden and Vi have. I can’t give that to her. I can barely give that to my family. So what do you want? I want her to stay. I want her to be my best friend. I want to trust that she won’t leave again.
A noise snaps me out of my inner warzone. I hear something that sounds like her pocket door closing, so I steel myself to reenter the flat.
Curious, I stride down toward the bathroom door and look inside to see if the coast is clear. Steam billows out of the white, glossy loo. I step in and close the door, hoping that maybe taking a leak will help stave off my erection. When I lift the seat and pull myself out of my pants, I freeze, semi-hard cock in hand as my eyes catch sight of something shiny and silver on the bathroom counter.
Her fucking vibrator.
And now it’s time for a cold bloody shower.
My walk home from work tonight is riddled with thoughts of Booker. The past week and a half have been hell. The wedding is only four days away. I was supposed to be torturing Booker all this time, but all I’ve been doing is torturing myself. I’m running around like a sexually frustrated nutter.
Two nights ago, I was wearing boy shorts while playing PlayStation. I don’t even like video games! You have the same results if you slide your fingers over all the buttons like a maniac as you do if you actually apply yourself. They’re stupid and I don’t understand the appeal. However, the agog expression on Booker’s face was somewhat satisfying, if only he would have bloody acted on it! Instead, he mumbled something about meeting Cam and Tan for a drink and bolted.
Last week I was supposed to plant my vibrator somewhere Booker would find it, but I was so wound up, I had to use it first! I know that’s not what Belle intended for me to do. Now, not only am I pathetic, but I’ve catapulted myself up to proper hussy level, leaving used vibrators out like I’m living in some sort of battery-operated brothel.
But I was desperate. Good God, I’ve never had such an active libido in all my life! This living with Booker Harris shit without having any slips is not my idea of a good time. Thank goodness the wedding is Saturday because I don’t know how much more of this I can take. Above all, I miss my old friend, and I wish we could just go to the bloody wedding together.
It’s too late now, though. I heard Booker on the phone with someone the other day, and it sounded like they were working out details for the big day. So when I saw Andrew at the gym yesterday, I secured him as my date for an “event,” a.k.a. Tanner and Belle’s wedding.
He was so excited, rambling on and on about what he should wear. Then he asked me what I will be wearing, what colour it might be, and how something form-fitted would be great for my body type. It was then that I realised Andrew likes boys. Really feminine boys. He told me so after informing me that he’s a topper and then asked if there’d be any single, gay men at the event.
And since Andrew did such a top-notch job of over-sharing, I ended up confessing that I am in love with my best friend who’s now my flatmate. I told him about our history and how I was planning to use him to make Booker jealous.
God, I’m a pathetic cow.
Amazingly, Andrew was delighted. He said Scots know better than anyone how to make lads jealous. So I think it’s safe to say I found myself a devoted wingman. I’m thanking my lucky fucking stars for that because I don’t have a clue who Booker is bringing. I can’t bring myself to ask because I don’t want to know. She’ll probably be stunning and tall with legs up to her ears. I’ll immediately regret this entire fucked-up plan that Dr. Love roped me in to.
It’s almost ten o’clock when I return home from work. I walk in and find Booker scrounging around the kitchen. Before making my presence known, I take a moment to appreciate the simple beauty of him. He’s reaching up to the top shelf of an open cupboard, and a sliver of smooth, olive skin shows between the gap of his dark green T-shirt and his faded jeans that are quickly becoming my favourite. I want to run my hand along his skin so badly, I have to make a fist.
“Hello,” I say with an exhale.
He pauses his stretch and looks over his shoulder at me. “Hiya.”
“What are you doing?” I ask, dropping my keys on the kitchen table.
He turns and tugs on his earlobe. “I was looking for something to eat. We have nothing.”
I nod. “Yeah, it’s been a busy week. I was planning to go to the supermarket tomorrow.”
“I can go with you,” he says, looking hopeful.
“I’d like that,” I reply.
His kind smile reveals his perfect dimples and it relaxes my troubled soul. It’s been so strained between us. The sexual tension competing with our friendship has made it impossible to have any sort of relationship.
“Want to go for a walk and grab a bite?” I ask, gesturing toward the door. “I passed a food truck a few roads back that smelled divine. They had kebabs.”
He half smiles, the dimple on his cheek so cute I want to reach out and touch it. “Yeah, that sounds perfect. Let’s go.”
I run to change out of my work clothes, sliding on a pair of skinny jeans, some flats, and a T-shirt. I’m ruffling my hair when I stride out of my room and find Booker waiting at the door for me. We both smile and make our way downstairs.
As we walk, we discuss what it’s like living in East London. It’s such a slower pace over here than the more heavily toured west London. And it’s diverse. From Americans to French, Bangladeshi to Eastern Europeans, you find all types of people walking the stunning mural-painted streets. The neighbourhood is built up with old industrial buildings teeming with a cool multicultural art scene. It’s invigorating. I can see how perfect this area is for Booker. The tranquility allows him to live his life and focus on football without the hustle and bustle of proper London. He looks at home here.
We stride up to the Turkish kebab truck and argue over what we should order. We both want the same thing, but we want the other to get something different so we can sample each other’s. Booker relents and gets the chicken while I get the lamb.
I do a little victory dance as we wait for our order. A homeless man sitting on the ground sees my moves and begins laughing at me.
“Don’t encourage her,” Booker groans with a rueful smile that he’s doing a crap job at executing.
The man holds up a finger, so we watch him while he rustles around his pile of belongings. My jaw drops when he produces a golden trumpet. He presses the mouthpiece to his lips and begins playing some sort of bouncy jazz number.
My eyes are wide and my smile is huge as I turn to Booker like this is the best moment of my life. I thrust my hands in the air and wiggle my butt over to the talented musician, ready to get lost in the music for a bit.
Poppy’s moves aren’t sexy in the least bit. But her smile could light up all of London. She’s like sunshine no matter what time of day it is. She wildly shakes her hair out over her face with her hands above her head as she dances along with the homeless gentleman. Even the passersby can’t help but smile at the silly scene. She looks like a bouncing little girl trapped in the body of a beautiful woman.
I lean on a small tree and watch. Blue and red lights pour down on her from the busy pub next door. People inside are drinking and partying, using the pub to facilitate a fun night out, whereas all Poppy needs is a friendly face and a little music.
This is probably one of my favourite things about her. She’s confident enough to start dancing anywhere she feels like, onlookers be damned.
The food truck worker hollers, “Hallo!” He’s holding our two kebabs and frowning at Poppy. “She not very good dencer,” he says in a thick Turkish accent.
I laugh and then laugh some more. “No…No, she’s not. But she’s something, isn’t she?”
He shrugs and hands me the food. I stride over to her, meat-sticks in hand.
“Dance with me, Booker!” she sings.
“I’ve got the food.” I shake them at her as if she can’t see them plain as day.
“Who cares? Kebabs are street food, historically made for dancing. It’s probably in some literature somewhere.” She shimmies over to me and grabs one stick out of my hand. Then she takes my newly freed hand in hers and spins herself under my arm.
I stand there with a straight face as she continues using me to dance. “I’m just a prop to you, aren’t I?”
She bites a chunk of pineapple off the stick. “Mmmhmm,” she giggles and chews the food, wiping the bit that drizzles down her chin. “Because surely you can’t dance. You never danced with me when we were kids even though I always begged you. Mr. Dull and Painfully Boring, this one.” She sighs heavily, a naughty glint in her eyes that eggs me on.
I shake my head at her because I know exactly what she’s doing. She’s trying to goad me into performing for her like a puppet. And I don’t fucking care.
Two can play at this game.
I hand her my kebab, and she jumps up and down with a squeal of delight over what she doesn’t even know is coming. I bounce my head to the beat and the trumpeter gets louder. I inhale deeply before diving down on the ground to do the worm dance, repeating the smooth body roll over and over.
Poppy’s shocked, gut-spitting laughter is so worth the bruises this will leave on my hip bones tomorrow. She’s never seen me do this move before because I didn’t learn how to do it until several years ago when Tanner wanted me in on a goal celebration. We had it all planned out. And when he scored a goal, he soared like a bird all the way across the field to me, where I was doing the worm. Then he did a dive-bomb on me, like a bird devouring a worm.
We looked ridiculous.
Naturally, it was replayed on sports networks for weeks.
I spring up to my feet and cross my arms over my chest for a brief b-boy pose before reaching out for my kebab like nothing happened. Poppy is buckled over laughing. Once she contains herself, she gives me a hearty round of applause with several whoops of cheering.
Smiling, I dig a note out of my pocket and toss a tenner in the man’s trumpet case. His brows lift as he keeps playing, and Poppy pauses to look straight into the musician’s eyes as she says, “Thank you for the music.”
He nods a musical thank you and away we go with our street food.
We walk for a few minutes, silently eating before Poppy touches my arm. “Thank you as well,” she says reverently, looking up at me as we head toward our flat. “For the food and the dancing and the music.”
I look at her in wonder as she thoughtfully picks at her kebab. Poppy is quite possibly the most appreciative person I know. Even when we were younger, I remember her thanking me all the time. And it didn’t matter if it was for something as simple as helping her up off the ground when she tripped, which she did a lot. She always made sure we connected eyes before she thanked me.
Here she is again, being so quintessentially Poppy and acting like truck food and a street musician is a night at the theatre.
I shrug. “See now, if you never lived with me, you never would have had the opportunity to dance on a London sidewalk at ten o’clock at night with a meat-stick in your hand.”
She beams and pulls a piece off. “So true, Booker. I love it here. I hope I love Hoxton just as much.”
The thought of her leaving in a month brings an uneasiness to my chest. “We can see if my building has any openings if you’d like.”
“Sick of me already?” she exclaims in horror.
“No…Actually, I was thinking Hoxton seems a bit too far away.” I can feel her eyes on me, so I grab a bite to avoid her penetrative gaze.
“Hoxton is only a mile away, you nutter!” I shrug, but she does a little twirl and continues. “You won’t want me around in a month anyway. You’ll be ready for some space.”
I stop her from doing another spin and wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her to me. The fragrance of her perfume is faint this late at night but still present. “I’ll never need space from you, Pop.” I kiss the top of her head and let my arm rest on her shoulder as I pull a bite off my stick.
She nuzzles into me, probably because she’s cold. But I can’t stop myself from thinking how right this feels. How natural and normal. Safe and comfortable. I like having her with me again. I don’t want to think about her leaving.
“The big wedding day will be here soon,” she says, a sad tone to her voice.
I nod. “Yep.”
“Are you excited?” she asks, her voice curious.
“Of course,” I state noncommittally, pursing my lips off to the side, deep in thought. Truthfully, I’m really not excited. I’m happy for Tanner and Belle, but this whole having to bring a date thing is starting to bother me a lot more than I realised. I don’t even know who Poppy’s bringing. I can’t bring myself to ask. And she’s not asking me, so there’s a big elephant in the room that neither of us is discussing.
I hate it.
I hate not knowing things about Poppy. It never bothered me when we were younger. I had girlfriends. She probably had some boyfriends. We never talked about it and it never got to me.
Now, things are different. Somehow, we’ve changed. Poppy is my oldest and dearest friend in the world, yet this is something I can’t talk to her about. And I’m terrified of what that means.