Meant to Be (Sweetbriar Cove #1)(3)
Poppy had stared at her in shock. Of all the things they didn't talk about those days, the D-word was the biggie, something they tiptoed around like an elephant slap-bang in the middle of the house.
June gave her a knowing look. "C'mon kid, you're smarter than anyone, all those books you've been reading. It'll be alright," she added, patting Poppy on the shoulder. "Some things just aren't meant to be."
Poppy learned a lot of things that summer, like how to swing out over Blackbottom Pond to hit the water just right with the biggest splash, and the secret ingredient that made Aunt June's sweet iced tea so sweet (a splash of maple syrup), but that one stuck with her the longest. Because if some things weren't meant to be, then that meant there was plenty that was. True love existed, and maybe her parents hadn't found it with each other the first time around, but she had to believe it was still out there, for everyone.
Except you.
She pushed away the whisper of doubt in the back of her head, and focused on finding the blink-and-you'll-miss-it turn off the highway. She'd been up all night, and exhaustion was hitting hard. She had to force herself to keep her eyes open as she wound her way down past clapboard houses and white picket fences, bright with hydrangeas in the early morning sun. When she finally found the blue-shingled beach cottage sitting squarely at the end of the lane, she could have cheered out loud.
Poppy parked out front and grabbed her purse from the front seat. She had a suitcase in the trunk, but the only thing she needed right now was a soft mattress and sleep, so she fished the spare key from under the ceramic whale on the porch, let herself in, and crawled straight upstairs to collapse face-down on the nearest bed.
She kicked off her shoes, buried her face in the nearest cool pillow, and let out a sigh of satisfaction.
Then the hammering began.
2
What fresh hell was this?
Poppy dragged herself over to the window and squinted at the morning sun. From there, she could see out into the side yard, to Aunt June's vegetable patch, and the riot of wildflowers trailing down to the shore-and the house next door.
Although, to be honest, calling it a house felt like an insult to other homes, ones with four solid walls and a roof. This was barely standing, stripped back to the frame and wide open to the elements. She could see into the back room, from the cords of raw wood stacked on the foundation, to a tangle of power cords and equipment. And she could definitely hear everything inside, too.
The banging got louder.
Please, she sent up a silent prayer. Just let me have an hour or two of sleep. And then, like the Gods of Slumber were smiling down on her, the banging stopped. Yes!
Poppy collapsed back into bed and closed her eyes to-
RRRREEEEOOORRRR
The high-pitched whine of a saw echoed through the window, followed by the screech of metal against metal. Every one of the hairs on Poppy's skin stood on end.
She leapt out of bed. Enough! She stormed downstairs and out through the yard. "Excuse me!" she called, approaching the house next door. "Hey?"
The sawing cut out, and a moment later, a man strolled out onto the deck. "What's all the racket?" he demanded, safety goggles pushed up over his head and a power drill in his hands.
Hello.
Poppy stopped. Even through her sleep-deprived anger, she could still register cornflower-blue eyes, and a strong jaw, and chiseled arms straining under that plain white T-shirt . . .
"Well?" he asked again, scowling impatiently. "I'm kind of busy here."
"I know, I heard," Poppy recovered. "Every last hammer, in excruciating detail. Do you know what time it is?" she added, plaintive.
The man glanced at his watch. "Seven-oh-three," he drawled.
"On a Sunday morning!" Poppy exclaimed. "Aren't there rules or regulations about this kind of thing? Some of us are trying to sleep."
"Oh yeah, late night was it?" The man arched an eyebrow and gave her a head-to-toe smirk that made Poppy flush. She knew she must look a mess, in sweatpants and an old ball shirt with a stain from where the flight attendant had spilled cheap red wine during a bumpy patch.
She smoothed down her tangled hair and straightened up. "I just got in on a red-eye. I'm staying at my aunt's, right next door."
"June said something about that." He hoisted some wood over to the workbench. "But then, you always did like to boss everyone around, right pipsqueak?"
Hearing her old nickname triggered a sense of déjà vu. There was only one person who'd ever called her that, even when it drove her crazy. Especially when it drove her crazy.