Not the Marrying Kind(22)

“None of your business.”

“You are!” Ashlee jabbed an accusatory finger in her direction. “How far did you go last night to seal this deal?”

“Not that far,” Poppy said, wondering what she would’ve done if Beck had taken those kisses further. She might have despised him for leaving her no choice but to agree to his proposal, but her body? Having no such qualms. She dated. She liked sex. But how he’d turned her on last night with a mere make-out session? Yowza.

“We’ve got a lot to get through today—”

“When are you getting married?”

“Next week.”

It sounded ludicrous even to her ears and Ashlee’s squeal didn’t help. “I better be invited.”

“I was hoping you’d be a witness.”

“Done.” Ashlee dashed a hand across her suspiciously moist eyes. “I can’t believe you’re getting married.”

She wasn’t the only one.

This time next week Poppy would be Mrs. Beck Blackwood.

How far the diva had fallen.

“Neither can I, Ash. Neither can I.”





Chapter Seven



Divorce Diva Daily recommends:

Playlist: “Trouble” by Pink

Movie: It’s Complicated

Cocktail: Hot Dream





Poppy knew she was in a bad way when she couldn’t raise a chuckle after penning her funniest blog yet. She knew why she wasn’t in the mood for smiling, too.

Sara.

Poppy had to tell her sis about her upcoming nuptials.

It wouldn’t be pretty.

Sara took her parenting role seriously. Sara had been the one to take her training-bra shopping, to pick her up from the prom when that dork Mick Miller dumped her, to cruise down to San Diego in her first car.

Guess she should’ve been grateful that Rozelle and Earl tore themselves away from their surgery long enough to attend her graduation. Her folks had loved her in their own way—a narcissist, absentee way—and Sara had willingly picked up the slack.

Sara had always been the responsible one: going to college, marrying a rich guy from a good family, buying the picket fence house. It had made it all the harder to watch when Sara’s dream came crashing down, and while her sister was getting stronger every day, Poppy couldn’t equate the morose waif now with the sister who ate brownies for breakfast and laughed the longest.

Poppy had considered not telling her until after the wedding but couldn’t risk her finding out via the media. Beck Blackwood was hot property in Vegas; she couldn’t take the chance. It’d be hard enough for Sara to believe in this marriage, and the last thing she needed was to add to her doubts.

The marriage had to appear real in every way for Sara not to catch on to her motivation. That was all Poppy needed, for Sara to discover the real reason she was getting married and blame herself. No way Poppy would let that happen. She had it all figured out: play up the romance angle, downplay her sketchy knowledge of her groom. And thank the powers that be at the clinic for their “No checking out early” policy.

While they allowed freedom of day trips once a client had stabilized, they operated under strict rehab rules, and according to her therapist, Sara wasn’t ready to leave. Which made Poppy’s job of playing the adoring, blushing bride all that easier. Although she may have been able to fool a bunch of Beck’s business cronies, she couldn’t have fooled Sara if she saw the two of them at some makeshift altar.

No, it was easier this way. Sara would be none the wiser and when Poppy’s marriage “fell apart” at a later date, her sis would be strong enough to handle it.

Poppy had it all figured out. Except the part where Beck had emailed her details of the wedding. She’d expected him to go for Vegas glitz in one of Blackwood’s luxurious hotels with an entourage of movers and shakers in tow. What she hadn’t expected? To buy a dress for a low-key desert wedding near his home in Red Rock Canyon.

With his designer suits and slick attitude, she didn’t expect him to give a crap about the desert, let alone live there. It rattled her, how much she didn’t know about her husband-to-be. Then again, she had time to discover all she needed to know.

And five hundred grand was a damned good incentive to figure him out.

Poppy turned into the clinic’s driveway, hit the intercom button, stared into the video cam, gave her name, and waited to be buzzed through.

As the wrought-iron gates swung open she pulled into the nearest parking spot, took a few steadying breaths, and readied herself to confront her sister. Zenza Clinic may have looked low key with its lush lawns, manicured garden beds, and hotel lobby entrance, but having to sign in and wear a visitor’s lanyard before being buzzed through electronically locked doors reinforced the reality that her sister was virtually a prisoner here by choice.