CHAPTER 7
POPPY
I’m in the middle of filming a skincare segment—sheet mask, ring light, the whole production—when my door buzzer rings. I ignore it. The light is perfect right now, and I’ve already done three takes.
BUZZ... again.
And again.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, pausing the recording. My face looks ridiculous in the viewfinder—half-visible through the mask, mascara slightly smudged from the previous take. Definitely not answering-the-door ready.
But whoever’s down there isn’t giving up.
I hit the intercom. “Yes?”
“Delivery for Poppy Gable.”
“Can you leave it?”
“Signature required, ma’am.”
I glance at my reflection. Lime green sheet mask. Messy bun. Sweatpants that say “SUNDAY” even though it’s Thursday.
“Give me one minute.”
I peel off the ridiculous-looking mask, wipe my face, and throw on a cardigan that at least covers the fact that I’m not wearing a bra. Good enough for a delivery guy.
The man at my door is wearing a uniform I don’t recognize—not UPS, not FedEx. Something more upscale. He’s holding a garment bag.
“Miss Gable?” He checks his tablet. “It’s from Mr. Blackthorne.”
My stomach does something complicated.
“Thank you.” I sign his tablet and take the bag. It’s heavier than I expected—quality fabric, probably. The kind that costs more than my monthly rent.
“Have a good evening, ma’am.”
I close the door and stare at the bag.
There’s a card attached. Thick cream cardstock, like the ones sold at actual stationery stores instead of the greeting card aisle at CVS. His handwriting is precise and slightly old-fashioned—more strokes than necessary, like he learned penmanship from a different era.
Green suits you. —J
I unzip the bag.
The dress inside makes me forget how to breathe.
Emerald silk. Simple cut—elegant without being fussy. The dress looks effortless, but I bet it cost a fortune. I look at the label: a designer I’ve seen on red carpets, but never in my closet.
I check the size. It’s exactly right.
Which is either thoughtful or slightly creepy—how does he know my size? We’ve had one dinner. Did he guess? Did he have someone look it up? Did I input it in Spellbound? If so, why would they give that info to a guy? Girls would never want the guy to know our dress size.
Oh my, this is too much. I should be annoyed, right? Isn’t this presumptuous?
Before I can answer myself, I try it on.
The silk slides over my skin like water. Cool and smooth and perfect. I stand in front of my full-length mirror and barely recognize myself.
This isn’t Glowstagram Poppy—carefully curated, strategically filtered. This is someone else. Someone who belongs at galas and gallery openings. Someone who dates mysterious billionaires who send designer dresses before dinner.
My phone buzzes.
JULIAN: Did it arrive?
I take a photo in the mirror—just the dress, no face, preserving some dignity—and send it.
ME: It’s too much.
JULIAN: It’s exactly enough.
ME: Julian. I bet this costs more than my car.
JULIAN: Your car is a 2019 Honda Civic. That’s not a high bar.
ME: How do you know what car I drive???
JULIAN: It was in your file.
ME: That’s creepy
JULIAN: That’s thorough. How about I pick you up at seven?
ME: Tonight?
JULIAN: Yes. You sounded like you could use some company, so I rearranged my schedule to be here for you.
ME: Really?
JULIAN: Perks of owning the company.
ME: What if I was busy tonight?
JULIAN: Are you?
ME: No
JULIAN: So seven?
I stare at the phone. At the dress. At my reflection—this stranger in emerald silk who’s apparently going on a date with a man who memorizes her car model and sends couture without asking.
ME: I’d love tha—
No, that’s way too forward. I delete it before I hit send. Instead, I say: I’ll see you at 7
JULIAN: Lovely
Lovely? Who says that? But also what girl doesn’t love grand gestures, right?
ME: Heart
I really need to text Sage. Get a reality check. Remember that this is fake, this is a job, this is a transaction that ends after my sister’s wedding.
No, I don’t want a reality check right now. Hair first. Maybe Sage after. But honestly, probably not.
At 6:58, my buzzer rings. Of course he’s early.
What did I expect? I mean, he totally seems like the type of person who’s exactly two minutes early.
The type of guy who shows up not so early it’s awkward, not so late it’s disrespectful.
I bet he was early, and just hung out in his car until it was a couple of minutes beforehand.
I’m not used to dating classy guys like Julian.
What am I thinking? I need to remember it’s just a job for him. Take a beat, Poppy.
With that, I take a deep breath before pressing the intercom. “Coming down.”
“Take your time.”
But I don’t take my time. I’ve been ready for twenty minutes, pacing my apartment, checking my makeup, second-guessing every decision I’ve made since the gown arrived.
He’s waiting on the sidewalk when I emerge.
The sight of him stops me on the stairs.
Dark suit—different from the one he wore to our first dinner. More fitted. More modern. It matches the dress he sent me. His hair is a little disheveled, which I’m starting to suspect is intentional. Everything about Julian Blackthorne seems intentional.
His eyes track up my body as I descend. Slowly. Deliberately. Not leering—more like he’s memorizing how the silk falls, how the color catches the evening light, and how I look in something he chose.
“You wore it,” he says.
“Isn’t that what you wanted?”
“I was hoping you would. But I wasn’t sure that you would. Most people don’t like being told what to wear.”
“Most people don’t get told by a designer label.”
His mouth curves. Not quite a smile—Julian doesn’t seem to do full smiles—but something close. “You look beautiful.”
The words are simple. His voice makes them feel like I’m more than I am.
“Thank you.” I reach the bottom of the stairs. We’re standing close now—closer than I was expecting. My heart starts beating faster. Can he hear it? I take a breath. Pace yourself. “Though I’m still deciding if the dress is romantic or controlling.”
“Can it be both?”
“No. Pick one.”
“Romantic,” he says. “Definitely romantic. I saw the color and thought of you.”
“When? You’ve been in Geneva.”
“I had it sent from a boutique in Paris. They have a personal shopper I’ve used before.”
“Of course you have a personal shopper in Paris.”
“Several, actually. For different occasions.”
I shake my head. “I can’t tell if you’re joking.”
“I rarely joke.”
“That’s concerning.”
“Is it?” He opens the car door. “I thought it was efficient.”
Same black town car, different driver than last time. This one is younger, sharper-eyed, with the same unsettling stillness Julian has. He doesn’t acknowledge me, just watches the street like he’s expecting trouble.
I slide into the back seat. He follows, maintaining a careful distance between us. It feels like the same distance he maintained last time—like he’s calculated exactly how much space is appropriate for a fake relationship that might be becoming something else.
“New driver?” I ask as I slide in.
“Rotation.” Julian settles beside me. “Marcus had other obligations tonight.”
The explanation is smooth. Too smooth. I file it away with everything else.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Somewhere quiet. We need to practice.”
“Practice what, exactly?”
He turns to look at me. The streetlights slide across his face as we pull away from the curb—shadows and angles, all that sharpness softened by the evening light.
“Being comfortable with each other,” he says. “Your family will notice if you flinch every time I touch you.”
“I don’t flinch.”
“You do.” His hand moves to my knee—light and casual, the way a boyfriend might touch his girlfriend in a car. “There. You just tensed.”
He’s right. I did.
“I’m not used to being touched,” I admit. “Not like this. Not casually.”
“What about Preston?”
“Preston touched me like he was checking a box. Affection as transaction.” I look down at his hand, still resting on my knee. His fingers are long and elegant. Cool, even through the silk. “You touch me like you’re paying attention.”
“I’m always paying attention to you.”
The words land heavier than they should.
“See, that’s the problem,” I say. “You say things like that, and I can’t tell if you mean them or if you’re just very good at your job.”
“Would it matter?”
“Yes. It would matter a lot.”
His hand moves—sliding up slightly, thumb brushing the inside of my knee. Not sexual. Just... present. Intentional.
“I mean to them,” he says. “Everything I say to you, I mean.”
“Even the mysterious parts?”
“Especially those.”
The car turns onto Wilshire and outside, Los Angeles rushes by.
“Okay,” I say. “Teach me. How do we do this?”
The restaurant is tucked into a courtyard in Los Feliz—one of those places you’d never find unless someone told you it existed. No sign. No visible entrance. Just a wooden door in a vine-covered wall and a hostess who greets Julian by name.
“Mr. Blackthorne. Your usual table?”
“Please.”
We’re led through a garden strung with fairy lights and sat in a corner booth that feels completely private. I slide in; Julian slides in beside me instead of across from me.
Close. Very close.
“This is practice,” he says, reading my expression. “At the wedding, we’ll be seated together. Beside each other. You need to be comfortable with proximity.”
“I’m comfortable with proximity.”
“Your breathing says something different. Shorter inhales. Your pulse is visible in your throat.”
“Are you watching my pulse?”
“Always.”
I knew he could hear it!
I don’t know what to say to that. He’s doing it again—saying things that sound romantic until you think about them too hard, and then they sound almost predatory.
The waiter appears. Julian orders wine without looking at the menu—a specific vintage, a specific year. The waiter nods like this is normal.
“How often do you come here?” I ask.
“Often enough.”
“With other women?”