“Please put your hands together for Poppy Westover.” David Wahl, an emergency medicine physician and emcee for the evening’s event, held out his hand to her.
Poppy took a deep breath and strode onto the stage to a smattering of applause. She glanced over the crowd and froze. The man whose torrid kiss had never been far from her thoughts the past two weeks sat at a small table in the front row.
Benedict saw the look of startled surprise in her green eyes before she looked away.
“She’s happy to see you,” Tripp observed, then took a sip of beer. His lips twitched.
Shock was closer to the word that had come to Benedict’s mind. Had he been mistaken about the desire he’d seen in her eyes two weeks ago as he’d left the party? Still, she didn’t look angry. That was some consolation. Though he now had to wonder if the gesture he’d made before leaving the office had been a smart move.
Since it was too late to change anything now, Benedict took a pull from the bottle of Dos Equis and sat back, ready to enjoy the show.
It took only a few notes for Benedict to realize that Poppy had a voice suited to this style of singing, warm with a bluesy richness. As the song continued he leaned forward, mesmerized.
She drew out the final note and the crowd rose to their feet. Cheering filled the bar. Even as he clapped, Benedict turned to Tripp. “She’s as good as any professional.”
“Poppy had the lead in several musicals when we were in school. She’s even better now.” Tripp shook his head. “I can’t imagine anyone topping that performance.”
The words barely registered. Benedict’s entire focus remained on the stage. He gave Poppy a thumbs-up and she blushed.
When Poppy bowed one last time, Benedict didn’t take his eyes off her. He’d been given a second chance to make an impression.
This time he wouldn’t blow it.
Chapter Three
After her performance, Poppy headed straight to the dressing room. She reached the small table with her name written on a strip of paper taped to the mirror and came to an abrupt halt. The makeup brushes littering the tabletop had been pushed aside. In their place sat a crystal vase holding a dozen long-stemmed burgundy roses.
She brought a hand to her breast and glanced around. “Are—are these for me?”
Although she’d spoken to no one in particular, Cassidy Kaye, owner of the Clippety Do-Dah salon, looked up from the supplies and brushes she’d been stuffing into an oversize purple bag.
The silver sparkles in Cassidy’s atomic blue eyeshadow glittered in the artificial light. “And you told me you weren’t dating anyone.” Her shocking pink lips curved up in a smug tilt. “You had to know I’d find out.”
Like a fine wine, some people got better with time. Others, well... Poppy sighed. The hairstylist was just as nosy as she’d been back in high school when she’d written the Loose Lips gossip column.
Dressed in skintight purple pants and a bright emerald green sweater, Cass still marched to her own beat. Her blond hair, jagged to her shoulders, currently held a streak of fuchcia. Canary yellow glasses were tipped up at the corners and studded with rhinestones.
Even when she’d been small, Cassidy had exhibited a bold, eclectic and totally unpredictable fashion sense. In kindergarten, she’d regularly worn a Halloween catsuit to school in lieu of more traditional attire. In sixth grade she’d come to school with her hair buzzed, demanding they call her Sinead.
Not everyone had been kind to her.
Remembering, Poppy felt her irritation ebb. She reached out, rubbing a soft, fragrant petal between her fingers. How long had it been since anyone had sent her flowers? Years, she decided.
She wished these beautiful blossoms were hers. But she’d learned long ago wishing didn’t change reality.
“I bet these were simply placed on the wrong table.” Regret filled Poppy’s voice.
“The flowers are yours.” Cassidy’s chin lifted. “I was here when they were delivered.”
Poppy widened her eyes at the stylist’s defensive tone. “I didn’t mean to imply—”
“See.” Cassidy plucked a card from the bouquet and shoved it under Poppy’s nose. “Your name is right here.”
Conscious of the curious glances from the other contestants now directed her way, Poppy took the envelope from the stylist and glanced down. Her name in elegant cursive stared back at her.
Unable to contain a shiver of anticipation, Poppy broke the seal with one finger and slowly pulled out the card nestled inside.
“Break a leg” had been scrawled in bold masculine strokes followed by a single name, “Ben.”
The warmth that rushed through her was chased by a prickle of alarm. Doctor Benedict Campbell wasn’t someone she wanted to notice her, much less buy her flowers.
Cassidy jostled close, rising on tiptoes to peer over her shoulder.
Biting back annoyance at the woman’s obvious attempt to see what was on the card, Poppy casually dropped it into her purse. The last thing she wanted was for rumors to get started about her and Benedict.
“Who sent them?” Poppy demanded.
“A friend.” Poppy’s tone came out light and breezy, just as she’d intended.
“Puh-leeze.” The stylist rolled her eyes and emitted a braying laugh. “I’m not stupid.”
“It happens to be the truth. Regardless of what you may think, Be—” Poppy stopped and cleared her throat. “The man who sent the flowers is merely a friend. Really a friend of a friend. Actually, more of an acquaintance.”
Cassidy hooted and glanced meaningfully around the room, but found herself playing to a dwindling audience. Without an immediate answer the other contestants had quickly lost interest in the “who sent the roses” game.
“A guy would never send something that pricey to a woman he considered an acquaintance or even a friend.” The stylist spoke loudly. “A gesture like that has lover written all over it.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Poppy saw Anna Randall cast a sympathetic glance in her direction. Anna had gone to school with her and Cassidy and was well aware of the stylist’s predilection for drama.
Poppy retrieved the cardboard carrier and the cellophane the florist had left next to the dressing table. Although she knew better, she clung to the hope Cassidy would give up the snooping and wander off. But when she looked up, the woman was still there.
Cassidy tapped a finger against her lips. “A dozen long-stemmed set this guy back plenty,” she said as if thinking aloud. “Florists jack up the prices something fierce around Valentine’s Day.”
Poppy simply shrugged and pretended to check her makeup. As she leaned close to the mirror, rose petals—soft as cashmere—caressed her cheek.
Now that the bouquet was up close and personal, Poppy realized that, unlike some of the inbred varieties, these roses possessed a wonderful scent, sweet without being cloying. Giving in to impulse, she buried her face in the fragrant blossoms and inhaled deeply.
“Give me a hint,” Cassidy said the second Poppy lifted her head. Apparently deciding to go with the subtle approach, the stylist used a persuasive tone that invited confidences. “Who is your mystery man, Poppy? Do I know him?”
Poppy was spared the need to respond when she and the other contestants were called back to the stage. After considerable fanfare, David Wahl announced she was the winner of the competition. Poppy stared in stunned