“Yup. I’ll be back in a few hours. You still gonna be here, or do you need to go to the office?” Waters asks Violet.

“I’ll be here.”

He whispers something in her ear, and her cheeks turn pink. She murmurs something and pushes on his chest. “Good luck tonight, Lance.”

“Thanks for the advice.”

“Anytime. And if you want to know more about the ins and outs of stalking, ask this guy right here.” She pats Alex’s cheek.

I wonder what it’s like to have that kind of connection with someone. I bet it’s terrifying. But if it wasn’t worth it, people wouldn’t let it happen.

After our workout and ice time, I drop Waters and Westinghouse off. I don’t have to see the team massage therapist for a couple more days, thank fuck. Every single hour of torture makes me highly aware of what I’ve forfeited to get this date with Poppy. I hit the flower shop and follow that with a candy store. I stock up on all my favorite treats from the UK, searching for the things Poppy’s said she likes.

Then I go home and whack off, followed by a shower and more whacking off. I adhere to all the first-date guidelines as set out by Waters, who gave me some of his own advice on the way to get Westinghouse. We didn’t discuss it in front of Darren, and I was relieved since his relationship with Charlene is a little fucking weird from what I’ve witnessed. And that’s saying something, coming from me.

I shave because I don’t want any parts of Poppy to chafe as a result of too much stubble.

Once I’m dressed and ready to go, I pace around my house. I consider whacking off one more time, but twice should be enough, so I hit my garage to pick a car. I decide on the Audi; it’s not too flashy, but it’s nice. I’m going to arrive early, but I don’t think I can wait any longer. It’s been four days since I’ve seen Poppy, and I’m antsy.

Once I’m parked in front of her house, I take a few deep breaths before I get out of my car and walk up the front steps. The door is painted deep green. The mat on the front step says WELCOME. It’s homey—not like my place.

I ring the doorbell and wait, listening to the sound of pattering feet coming down the hall. The only time I’ve been more nervous was my first official NHL game.

The last time I tried to do this kind of thing I was fifteen years old. I went out with this girl in high school before I really understood my extreme aversion to physical contact from the opposite sex—before I got how badly my mother had fucked me up, how she’d made it impossible for me to have anything resembling a normal relationship. There I was, trying to be normal when I wasn’t.

The door swings open, and my dick starts crying. Maybe a third whacking session would’ve been a good idea based on where all the blood has redirected itself in my body. I don’t plan to let the head below my belt govern my actions tonight, but Poppy is my goddamn wet dream.

She’s wearing a silky emerald green dress. It’s the perfect color for her hair and her peachy, pale skin. The straps are two inches wide, showing off a light dusting of freckles on her shoulders—the only sign she’s been out in the sun recently. Her dress cinches at the waist and flares at the hip, stopping above her knee. It’s classy, pretty, and sexy all at the same time.

Poppy is perfectly feminine, curvy and lush. She’s exactly the opposite of Tash, who’s all hard muscle. That could be a factor in why I’m so into Poppy too.

I want to get my hands on all of those curves. I want to get inside her and feel that softness against my body. I want her to look at me the way she did when her sister dragged her out of the closet all those years ago: like leaving me was the last thing she wanted to do.

She took more of me with her than she’ll ever really understand. Maybe more than I’ll ever understand. And even after all the shit I’ve pulled, all the ways I’ve fucked up, she’s still willing to give me a shot. So handing control over to my dick isn’t an option. But man, the last thing I want in this moment is to get back in my car and go sit in a restaurant to be civilized and have conversations that might mean talking about myself.

Poppy runs her palms over her hips self-consciously. “Lance?”

“Huh?”

She clasps her hands in front of her. Her grip is tight, like maybe she’s trying not to fidget. “Do you want to come in?”

Yes. And then I want to get you naked and screw you on the closest surface. I stuff my hands in my pockets so I don’t do something I shouldn’t with them. “I can wait here if you want to grab your purse.”

Her pretty pink tongue touches her plush, glossed lips. I wonder if they taste like strawberries, or maybe something sweeter, like vanilla.

A small furrow appears between her brows. “I thought dinner reservations weren’t until seven thirty.”

“They’re not.”

“It’s not even seven. You could come in for a drink before we go.”

“I thought you didn’t drink.”

“Not usually, but I have a bottle of wine someone gave me as a gift.”

It will only take twenty minutes to get to the restaurant. There are a lot of things I could do between stepping through her doorway and the time we have to leave, a lot of ways I could fuck this up. “Sometimes it takes a while to get parking. We can have a drink at the bar if we’re too early.”

She drops her eyes, and her cheeks flush pink. “Oh. Okay, just give me a minute.”