Eight
Whit
Poppy Lennox looks so small opposite the city journalist. They’re both at my desk, the steel-haired reporter Gina Ferris opening her sleek laptop while Poppy looks on, blinking and lost in the depths of my chair.
I swear she didn’t look that small yesterday. Nor so fine-boned and vulnerable. Today’s Poppy Lennox could blow away on a stiff breeze, and just the sight of her makes my chest hurt.
She borrowed one of my white button-down shirts for the interview, rolling the long sleeves past her wrists. Thought it might make her seem more credible.
All it’s done is short-circuit my hind brain. Does my shirt smell like her now? How long will that scent last?
“So. You allege that Governor Lennox sent you here against your will and falsified medical records. That he tried to keep you captive here, all because you—” Gina squints at her laptop screen “—booked a solo trip to Europe this summer.”
“Yes.” Poppy licks her lips. She’s huskier than usual, her nerves clear to see, because sheknowshow far-fetched that sounds. She keeps fidgeting with the curled ends of her hair. “That’s right.”
Gina’s expression does not change. She stares at Poppy, jaw hard.
And god, this is painful. How can anyone look at Poppy Lennox and not see her honesty, her innate goodness? The frightened way she’s nibbling on her bottom lip? This girl glows with how perfect she is.
In my eyes, anyway.
“My father is very controlling.”
“I can corroborate Poppy’s claims about false medical records,” I put in.
There. Gina’s eyebrow twitches, andnowshe’s listening, tapping away at her keyboard.
The grateful smile my ex-patient shoots me… I don’t deserve it. By rights, she should report me to Gina too. Because I shouldn’t hang on Poppy’s every word like I do; shouldn’t feel so raw every moment I don’t have eyes on her. My heart shouldn’t beat in my throat as I wait for Gina Ferris to speak again.
“The accusations you have made against your father are very serious, Miss Lennox.”
No shit. Does she think we’re doing this for our own entertainment? Poppy visibly fights the urge to roll her eyes—andthereshe is. My firecracker. She’s got this.
I ball my fists, shoving them in my pockets. I’m leaning against the door, trying not to intrude, sweating under the white coat that Poppy loves so much.
“Almost as serious as actually doing those things,” she points out.
The reporter’s mouth twitches. “Agreed.”
The keyboard rattles as Gina types at breakneck speed. She pauses to rummage in her purse, then sets out a recorder and switches it on.
“Okay, Miss Lennox.” The office is pin-drop silent. I can’t breathe. “You have thirty minutes. Tell me your story.”
* * *
I wave Gina Ferris off at the curb, the street nearly empty this late in the evening. Her thirty minutes turned into two hours, and now the red sun is sinking below the horizon. Pale headlights swoop around the corner up ahead, and then she’s gone.
We did it. No:Poppydid it.
I glance around, the cool breeze soothing on my heated neck. In the fading light, the Honey Cove trees and buildings are tinged blue.
Someone splashes in the pool nearby as I stride across the courtyard, back to the office building. The sound is rhythmic and peaceful: a patient doing laps.
“Oh. My. God.” I’ve barely opened my office door before Poppy flies into my arms. She’s a bundle of excitement, her dark hair frizzing with it, and she’s got me in a stranglehold. “Oh my god, Whit! I can’t believe we did that. I can’t believe she really came. Do you think Gina will write the story?”
Her borrowed shirt sticks to the small of her back. She’s all worked-up and sweaty, her voice hoarse from all the stress.
“Yes. Come here.”