Four
Whit
Smoky gray eyes haunted my dreams last night. They stared at me, hard and accusing, until I struggled awake at 5am and coaxed myself into a pre-dawn run.
Now my sneakers pound against the coast path, the salty breeze ruffling my damp hair, and my breath saws in and out of my lungs. On my right, the ocean stretches out as far as the eye can see. On my left is the highway, palm trees clustered in the dirt beyond.
I’m pushing harder than usual: running faster, going further, because something isoffwith me. My nerves are twisted up in knots and my temples throb.
Poppy Lennox is a pain in my ass, and she’s been here for less than twenty four hours. Is it bad that I want her to pass the assessment just so that she’ll leave Honey Cove? So I can breathe properly again?
Even as I think it, something lurches in my chest.
No.That young woman needs something from me, I know it. And handful or not, I have a duty of care.
The ocean is dark blue where it breaks against the rocks far below, the white dots of seabirds huddled together in the cliff side. As the sun creeps above the horizon, the sky blushes from gray to gold.
Poppy Lennox.
Sweat pours down my back as I run. It’s another muggy day, the air crackling with static. We could use a good storm to break this god-awful tension.
What is her problem? Most patients who come to Honey Cove are grateful to be here. They’rerelieved.We have a months-long waiting list, for god’s sake; subsidized spots in high demand. People come to us at their lowest moments, and we help them get well.
“If you hold me captive, I’ll sue you for every last cent you have.”
Ridiculous. I sprint faster, my elbows pumping.
I’m no jailer. First, do no harm.
I said those words, and I meant them.
* * *
I’m ready for battle when Poppy Lennox knocks on my office door at 9am. She’s on time? Color me surprised. I thought for sure she’d be late, forcing me to wait on her, or that she’d refuse to turn up altogether.
Doesn’t matter. I’ve had hours to settle my jangling nerves; I’ve had a cool shower and downed three mugs of coffee. And if I caught myself lingering too long as I chose a shirt this morning, picking out a dove gray button-down that matches her eyes—well. I’ll never admit that out loud.
My desk chair creaks as I lean back. A quick scan of the room shows a tidy office with a neat desk. There’s a well-tended swiss cheese plant and a cracked window to let in the breeze; an unmarked calendar on the wall. No signs of weakness.
“Come in, Poppy.”
The door opens quietly. She steps inside, the picture of meekness, her dark hair piled high in a ponytail. No kohl around her eyes today. That faded red t-shirt has been replaced by a blush pink camisole, and white yoga pants cling to her legs.
She’s pure innocence as she sinks into the chair opposite my desk. I’m not buying it.
“Did you sleep well?”
Poppy smiles at me sweetly, blinking those doe eyes. And fuck, I know it’s all an act, but tension coils in my gut. I squeeze my armrests.
“Very well, thank you, Dr Whitaker.”
“You missed dinner last night.”Focus on that, not on the husky way she says your name. Asshole.“Did you eat breakfast?”
Poppy nods. “It was delicious—so much fresh fruit. Thank you.”
Right. Fine. I drag the tablet across my desk, bringing up Poppy’s medical notes. Is a personality transplant on here somewhere?
Where is the stuffy princess from her head shot? Or the vicious harpy from yesterday? How many versions of Poppy Lennox are there?