Wild Poppy (Wildflowers, #4)
By Vivian Winslow
Publication date: December 6th 2016
Genres: New Adult, Romance
The daughter of a renown media mogul, Poppy
Koslowski
has her life turned upside down overnight
when her father is indicted for a
massive fraud that
leads to the loss of her family’s fortune. In the wake of
the scandal, Poppy moves to Paris at the behest of her
aunt, the Countess
Domel, who, unbeknownst to
Poppy, intends to find a wealthy husband for her
niece
in order to ensure her future. Poppy, however, has her
own dreams of
finishing school and realizing her goal
of becoming an award-winning
journalist. When she
meets Henri Olin, the passionate and seductive
illegitimate
son of one of France’s most powerful
politicians, his political and social
ideology introduces
Poppy to a world very different from her own. Yet,
Poppy
ultimately learns that everything comes at a
price, even love. After suffering
a devastating loss,
Poppy finds herself alone and virtually penniless, and
is
forced to make her way back to America to piece
together the remnants of her
life in New York City.
There, she rediscovers her passion once again, only
to be confronted with yet another life choice, one that
will forever shape her
destiny.
I do not know what to
say. I am an emotional wreck after
reading this book. So just a word of warning
so you are
prepared. This book is so packed with emotions. You can feel
them.
And some are good but some are gut-wrenching.
Make you want to scream at the
book. But when an author
can make you feel this way, she is truly someone
special.
This book is about
Poppy a young woman in the late 70’s
that fall in love and goes through so many bad things. But
finding love can be
hard. And sometimes it is not all
fairy-tales. As I was taken along on this
journey with poppy
I felt so much for her. This young woman has been though
hell, but has pulled herself up and
started over on her own.
Fist her father going to jail and then falling in Love
with
Henri to only be left all alone with nothing after losing the one
thing
any woman would never want to lose. She feels like
her life is finally on track
and that just maybe she can get it
back. Only to learn she may never find it. I
can not wait for
book two to find out how it all ends.
Now before I ruin
this for you I will leave off here. I hope you
enjoy this book as much as I
did. If you do like this book,
please consider leaving a review. The Authors
really like it
when you do; they value your opinions too.
It’s been a
long time since she’s interacted with anyone other than Norah, let alone a man
whom she finds attractive. She’d never thought it would happen, not because she
had consciously sworn men off, but because after Henri, then Paul, she didn’t
believe there was room in her life for anything but her pain and misery. And
even though she’s convinced those feelings will never leave her, after seeing
those eyes and hearing that voice, she’s realized that there’s certainly room
for a little excitement.
“I’m going to get some air.” Poppy walks behind the bar to grab her sweater. The only chance she has to take a break is during the performances since Bass doesn’t allow its employees any down time. Norah had warned Poppy, but her desperation made her put her comfort behind money and Paul. She wedges a pipe in the frame of the back door, steps over an overstuffed garbage bag and leans against the alley wall. The stench of the garbage used to bother her, but not anymore. After a while, she’s come to understand that the smell is just as much a part of the City’s identity as the graffiti and crime. New York wouldn’t be New York without it. And she’ll still take it over Paris any day.
Paris. Poppy groans to herself. She hates when her thoughts go there. But she’s too sober for them not to. It’s why she prefers to spend her waking hours working. It makes her too preoccupied to wonder about Paul and how much he’s grown and changed over the past few months. Darkness begins to find a way inside her chest and starts to sink in. Poppy takes a long inhale, her senses awakening to the putrid smell. At least she’s distracted again. She looks over her left shoulder and watches as people rush up and down West 10th.
“You don’t like bossa nova?”
Poppy turns to see the serious brown eyes staring down at her. The man behind the eyes is taller than she assumed he’d be. Something about his stance gives him an air of self-possession, the kind that makes him seem arrogant or guarded. But Poppy recognizes it for what it is because she’s seen it before. It’s humility. That rare quality that enables a person to exist completely within himself, without need for validation or attention. What she saw back at the table was genuine, the look in his eyes made that obvious. Henri had it too, although not to the same degree. His desperate need for his father’s attention kept him from being that self-realized.
Henri. Poppy clears her throat to give herself a second to reorient to the present, pushing Henri’s ghost as far back in her mind as she possibly can. “It’s not a matter of like or dislike. I think it’s fine. I just needed some air.” Her eyes track back toward the entrance to the alley.
“Oh yes. Fresh, clean New York air,” he says facetiously.
When Poppy doesn’t respond, he continues. “Where I’m from, describing bossa nova as ‘fine’ would be taken quite personally.”
“I didn’t realize Brazilians were so sensitive regarding their culture.” Poppy is about to say more but remembers that she hasn’t been tipped yet.
“I wouldn’t say sensitive.” He shoves his hands into his corduroy jacket and leans against the brick wall to mirror Poppy’s stance. “I think proud is a more appropriate description.”
“You say potato . . . .” Poppy mumbles. As attractive as she finds the man, the need to impress him is already wearing on her. It’s all rather futile really. It’s not as if she’s looking for a lover, let alone a relationship. Perhaps a flirtation, she muses. But again, it’s fairly pointless since it demands more energy than she has, and he probably doesn’t even live in New York.
“What about a potato?”
His confused expression makes Poppy laugh out loud.
“What?” He asks, unable to keep from laughing. He knew she’d have a beautiful laugh. He just knew by the way she smiled when she delivered his drink. If only he’d been bold enough to touch her hand when she did. But she doesn’t seem like the kind of person who wants to be touched, at least not without her permission.
“Nothing,” Poppy replies, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. She begins to scrape at the loose gravel in the wall, not caring when she chips a nail.
He lowers his head so he can be eye level with her. Poppy figures he’s at least five inches taller than she is, in heels. “Come on, I can’t be that ridiculous can I?”
Poppy shrugs. “How would I know, we only just met. But I think it’s cute the way your brow goes like this.” She imitates his bemusement, wrinkling her face to make lines between her brows and points to it.
“I don’t look like that.”
Before Poppy can reply, a noise makes her turn toward West 10th again. Just inside the black iron gate that frames the alley, she spots a young woman who looks to be about her age. The woman tosses back her long dark hair as she talks to a guy whose arm is wound tightly around her waist. Poppy recognizes the intimacy, the way every inch of their bodies touch as they speak. She studies their unspoken language, wondering if that’s how she looked with Henri that first night.
A peal of laughter escapes the woman as the guy lifts her hips around his and presses her against the wall, squeezing the flesh beneath her skirt and kissing her neck.
The brown-eyed stranger follows her gaze. “I didn’t think I’d be getting two shows tonight,” he whispers.
The low sound of his voice ignites something in Poppy’s chest that travels down to her cunt. Desire, like everything post Henri and Paul, had seemed like a far-off notion, until tonight that is. Something about this stranger is awakening the kinds of feelings she believed she’d buried. Denial, Poppy realizes, isn’t the same as burying a truth. The former makes you want to pretend something never happened while the latter at least makes you acknowledge it before you shove it so deep underground it can’t touch you. The reality is that Poppy hasn’t been able to do either well. Some days Paris and Paul seem like a faint memory, so distant that it’s as if it all happened in a previous lifetime, while others it’s as if the truth is beating on her so hard that it hurts to breathe. Clearly she has to find a better coping mechanism.
The stranger’s warm breath on the side of her face draws Poppy out of her thoughts again. How easily distracted she is tonight, one thought jumping to the next. She attempts to make them melt together until she can’t distinguish them. It helps to lose herself in the moment, in the now which doesn’t allow any space for the past to reside. She gazes at the enamored couple, although enamored seems like a bit of a stretch. She didn’t love Henri that first night. Not that it took very long to make her feel something akin to love. Sometimes, though, she wonders if she wasn’t just picking up on his emotions and making them her own. He’s the one who pursued her, right? He’s the one who insisted they keep the baby, to get married in order to be a family. Where were her decisions in any of it? She had made them, of course. Her feelings had told her to agree, to make it alright. For whom though? For him? To make Henri happy? To give him some sense of peace and closure regarding his own painful childhood? How much control of her own life had she sublimated in order to make him whole? How much had she really loved him versus how much had she thought she loved him? Can she even remember anymore?
Once again, Poppy swallows back each question like a bitter pill. The answers are a luxury she can’t afford at the moment. There’s no one to give them to her anyway. Poppy tilts her head against the wall and focuses on the couple. She figures there’s no need to give the couple any privacy. If they wanted that, they could’ve chosen a different place. But they didn’t. Instead they opted for an alley, and not a particularly dark one either. They want to be seen, to be on display. It fascinates her to be the voyeur this time. When she was the woman up against the wall, she had never considered what it would be like to watch. God how she loved feeling so uninhibited. God how she misses the freedom that comes with not caring that her actions could ever have consequences. She loved the power she derived from that freedom, how it impressed upon her a feeling of invincibility. She can see on the young woman’s face that she’s experiencing the same thing. It’s the distant gaze that gives her away as the man pushes his cock inside of her. She’s there, but she’s also deep inside herself, taking the energy from the moment and storing it inside of her for a later time. It’s life force she’s seeking, and it’s life force she’s giving. If only she’d known what she would have to give in exchange for what she took, Poppy thinks to herself.
“I’m going to get some air.” Poppy walks behind the bar to grab her sweater. The only chance she has to take a break is during the performances since Bass doesn’t allow its employees any down time. Norah had warned Poppy, but her desperation made her put her comfort behind money and Paul. She wedges a pipe in the frame of the back door, steps over an overstuffed garbage bag and leans against the alley wall. The stench of the garbage used to bother her, but not anymore. After a while, she’s come to understand that the smell is just as much a part of the City’s identity as the graffiti and crime. New York wouldn’t be New York without it. And she’ll still take it over Paris any day.
Paris. Poppy groans to herself. She hates when her thoughts go there. But she’s too sober for them not to. It’s why she prefers to spend her waking hours working. It makes her too preoccupied to wonder about Paul and how much he’s grown and changed over the past few months. Darkness begins to find a way inside her chest and starts to sink in. Poppy takes a long inhale, her senses awakening to the putrid smell. At least she’s distracted again. She looks over her left shoulder and watches as people rush up and down West 10th.
“You don’t like bossa nova?”
Poppy turns to see the serious brown eyes staring down at her. The man behind the eyes is taller than she assumed he’d be. Something about his stance gives him an air of self-possession, the kind that makes him seem arrogant or guarded. But Poppy recognizes it for what it is because she’s seen it before. It’s humility. That rare quality that enables a person to exist completely within himself, without need for validation or attention. What she saw back at the table was genuine, the look in his eyes made that obvious. Henri had it too, although not to the same degree. His desperate need for his father’s attention kept him from being that self-realized.
Henri. Poppy clears her throat to give herself a second to reorient to the present, pushing Henri’s ghost as far back in her mind as she possibly can. “It’s not a matter of like or dislike. I think it’s fine. I just needed some air.” Her eyes track back toward the entrance to the alley.
“Oh yes. Fresh, clean New York air,” he says facetiously.
When Poppy doesn’t respond, he continues. “Where I’m from, describing bossa nova as ‘fine’ would be taken quite personally.”
“I didn’t realize Brazilians were so sensitive regarding their culture.” Poppy is about to say more but remembers that she hasn’t been tipped yet.
“I wouldn’t say sensitive.” He shoves his hands into his corduroy jacket and leans against the brick wall to mirror Poppy’s stance. “I think proud is a more appropriate description.”
“You say potato . . . .” Poppy mumbles. As attractive as she finds the man, the need to impress him is already wearing on her. It’s all rather futile really. It’s not as if she’s looking for a lover, let alone a relationship. Perhaps a flirtation, she muses. But again, it’s fairly pointless since it demands more energy than she has, and he probably doesn’t even live in New York.
“What about a potato?”
His confused expression makes Poppy laugh out loud.
“What?” He asks, unable to keep from laughing. He knew she’d have a beautiful laugh. He just knew by the way she smiled when she delivered his drink. If only he’d been bold enough to touch her hand when she did. But she doesn’t seem like the kind of person who wants to be touched, at least not without her permission.
“Nothing,” Poppy replies, shifting her weight from one leg to the other. She begins to scrape at the loose gravel in the wall, not caring when she chips a nail.
He lowers his head so he can be eye level with her. Poppy figures he’s at least five inches taller than she is, in heels. “Come on, I can’t be that ridiculous can I?”
Poppy shrugs. “How would I know, we only just met. But I think it’s cute the way your brow goes like this.” She imitates his bemusement, wrinkling her face to make lines between her brows and points to it.
“I don’t look like that.”
Before Poppy can reply, a noise makes her turn toward West 10th again. Just inside the black iron gate that frames the alley, she spots a young woman who looks to be about her age. The woman tosses back her long dark hair as she talks to a guy whose arm is wound tightly around her waist. Poppy recognizes the intimacy, the way every inch of their bodies touch as they speak. She studies their unspoken language, wondering if that’s how she looked with Henri that first night.
A peal of laughter escapes the woman as the guy lifts her hips around his and presses her against the wall, squeezing the flesh beneath her skirt and kissing her neck.
The brown-eyed stranger follows her gaze. “I didn’t think I’d be getting two shows tonight,” he whispers.
The low sound of his voice ignites something in Poppy’s chest that travels down to her cunt. Desire, like everything post Henri and Paul, had seemed like a far-off notion, until tonight that is. Something about this stranger is awakening the kinds of feelings she believed she’d buried. Denial, Poppy realizes, isn’t the same as burying a truth. The former makes you want to pretend something never happened while the latter at least makes you acknowledge it before you shove it so deep underground it can’t touch you. The reality is that Poppy hasn’t been able to do either well. Some days Paris and Paul seem like a faint memory, so distant that it’s as if it all happened in a previous lifetime, while others it’s as if the truth is beating on her so hard that it hurts to breathe. Clearly she has to find a better coping mechanism.
The stranger’s warm breath on the side of her face draws Poppy out of her thoughts again. How easily distracted she is tonight, one thought jumping to the next. She attempts to make them melt together until she can’t distinguish them. It helps to lose herself in the moment, in the now which doesn’t allow any space for the past to reside. She gazes at the enamored couple, although enamored seems like a bit of a stretch. She didn’t love Henri that first night. Not that it took very long to make her feel something akin to love. Sometimes, though, she wonders if she wasn’t just picking up on his emotions and making them her own. He’s the one who pursued her, right? He’s the one who insisted they keep the baby, to get married in order to be a family. Where were her decisions in any of it? She had made them, of course. Her feelings had told her to agree, to make it alright. For whom though? For him? To make Henri happy? To give him some sense of peace and closure regarding his own painful childhood? How much control of her own life had she sublimated in order to make him whole? How much had she really loved him versus how much had she thought she loved him? Can she even remember anymore?
Once again, Poppy swallows back each question like a bitter pill. The answers are a luxury she can’t afford at the moment. There’s no one to give them to her anyway. Poppy tilts her head against the wall and focuses on the couple. She figures there’s no need to give the couple any privacy. If they wanted that, they could’ve chosen a different place. But they didn’t. Instead they opted for an alley, and not a particularly dark one either. They want to be seen, to be on display. It fascinates her to be the voyeur this time. When she was the woman up against the wall, she had never considered what it would be like to watch. God how she loved feeling so uninhibited. God how she misses the freedom that comes with not caring that her actions could ever have consequences. She loved the power she derived from that freedom, how it impressed upon her a feeling of invincibility. She can see on the young woman’s face that she’s experiencing the same thing. It’s the distant gaze that gives her away as the man pushes his cock inside of her. She’s there, but she’s also deep inside herself, taking the energy from the moment and storing it inside of her for a later time. It’s life force she’s seeking, and it’s life force she’s giving. If only she’d known what she would have to give in exchange for what she took, Poppy thinks to herself.
Previous books in the series:
Goodreads
·٠•● Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ●•٠· Vivian
Winslow ·٠•●
Ƹ̵̡Ӝ̵̨̄Ʒ ●•٠·
Vivian
Winslow was born and raised in Southern
California. Before becoming a writer,
she made a
career out of moving around the world every couple of
years thanks
to her husband’s job and her incurable
wanderlust. She currently lives in New
York City with
her husband and two elementary school age children,
and is
grateful to finally have a place to call home for
more than two years.
New
York is the perfect city to indulge her love of
fashion, the arts and especially food. If
she’s not at
home writing or running around the city with her kids,
you’ll most
likely find her eating at the newest
restaurant in her beloved Lower East Side
or having
a cocktail at her favorite bar in Alphabet City. That said,
she’s
still a California girl at heart and would gladly
trade in her heels for a pair
of flip-flops to catch
a sunset on the beach.
I love these emotionally charged, character driven stories! Great review, Kimmie Sue! Glad you liked it! :)
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