Chapter One
@lyricadair
Are you a Hail Mary? Because you seem like a long shot, but I’m willing to take a chance. ????
Poppy loved Cash, no doubt about it, but on occasion she wanted to throttle him.
“What in God’s name possessed you to make a public pass at Lyric freaking Adair?” Poppy paced the perimeter of the patio, bare feet wearing a path in the grass. “Short of literal possession, I can’t
fathom why you would type—” She tugged her phone from the pocket of her overalls so she could recite the tweet verbatim, going
so far as to deepen her voice in her best impression of Cash, “‘Are you a Hail Mary? Because you seem like a long shot, but I’m willing to take a chance.’ On what planet did you think that was a good idea?”
At the rate they were going, Poppy would develop an ulcer before her twenty-sixth birthday.
Cash lobbed a cheeky smile at her and pointed at the ground. “Uh, this one? Planet Earth?”
Poppy picked up one of his outdoor throw pillows and hurled it at his head. Unfortunately, her aim sucked, and they both watched as it sailed over his shoulder and straight into the uncovered pool behind him.
“Ow,” Cash said deadpan.
“Do you think this is funny?” She put her hands on her hips. “I’m serious. Tell me.”
“You’re always serious these days.” He laughed. “You’re stressing over nothing, Pop-Tart. Chill.”
“I will not chill. Do you know how many impressions your tweet had?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “A few?”
Poppy pressed her teeth into her tongue, swallowing a scream. “Try fifteen million.”
He whistled, brows rising over his sunglasses. “Damn.”
More like damn it.
She threw herself down on the other end of the wicker love seat with a sigh. Sometimes it was like Cash forgot he was famous.
Like he thought he was some random football player and not easily the best quarterback in the NFC West, maybe even the whole
league.
“You have millions of people watching you and not just when you’re on the field. You’re a celebrity now. You can’t shitpost
and thirst tweet like you did when we were in college and expect to fly under the radar.”
“Geez, Poppy.” He groaned like she was killing him when it was the other way around. “I asked a girl out. It’s hardly the
PR crisis you seem to think it is.”
“Look.” She pivoted, knees knocking his thigh.
“As your publicist, you’ve entrusted me with maintaining and protecting your public image, and it’s not a responsibility I take lightly.
But I can’t do it, let alone do a good job at it, if you keep going rogue and tweeting every thought that pops into your head. ”
“It’s hardly every thought.”
She threw her head back and stared up at the sky, silently praying for strength. “Cash.”
“Isn’t this what I pay you the big bucks for? To watch my back?”
Yeah, well, preventing fires from starting was preferable to putting them out in her book.
“You know I’d watch your back even if it wasn’t for the, quite frankly, absurd amount of money you insist on paying me, but—”
“Don’t sell yourself short.” Cash knocked his shoulder against hers and grinned. “We’re both playing in the big leagues now.
Have you seen what they’re paying me? I’d be a dick if I didn’t pay you what I do. It’s, like, market value.”
Market value or not, what she wasn’t about to do was coast on their friendship and take advantage of his generosity. No, Poppy
was going to be the best damn publicist Cash Curran could ask for, but she couldn’t do it with him constantly placing obstacles
in her path.
How could she put this in a way that would get through to him? “The best offense is a good defense, yeah?”
Cash frowned thoughtfully. “That’s true.”
“All I’m asking is for you to exert a little impulse control. Look next time before you leap. Because, you’re right, these
are the big leagues. Lyric Adair isn’t just some girl. She’s reached a level of superstardom that most people can’t even dream
of attaining and she’s got a legion of loyal fans who will eat you alive if—”
“Her fans, sure. That’s who you’re worried about.” His lips twitched. “This has nothing to do with the fear boner you’ve got for her publicist.”
Poppy pointedly ignored the heat gathering in her cheeks and rolled her eyes. “Real mature, Cash.”
“And yet I don’t hear you denying it.”
“I do not have a fear boner for Rosaline Sinclair. What I have is a great deal of respect and—and deep admiration for a highly skilled
industry veteran with a clear mastery of marketing and strategy.”
The lore surrounding the pop star’s publicist was vast, the woman a legend among Lyric’s fans and industry insiders alike.
She was a force to be reckoned with, an utter PR mastermind who was capable and competent and unflinchingly cool under pressure.
Everything Poppy aspired to be as a publicist, and fine, yeah, Poppy had eyes—Rosaline Sinclair was hotter than sin.
But that was neither here nor there. To cross her was to commit career suicide. Just ask Gavin Daniels. He dated Lyric Adair
for four months when she was only seventeen, then went on some late-night talk show and claimed to have—barf—popped her cherry. Rumor had it not even film students at USC would work with him. All because Rosaline Sinclair had called in favors and pulled
strings, quietly and ruthlessly working her magic behind the scenes to make Gavin Daniels a persona non grata in Hollywood.
“I don’t know,” Cash teased. “That sounds like a fancy way of saying fear boner to me.”
“For the love of God,” Poppy groaned. “Stop saying the word boner and stop trying to change the subject. Lyric Adair is not someone you mess around with.”
Cash’s mouth flattened into a grim line, his expression stricken. “Gee, that’s a real charitable interpretation of my intentions.”
Ah, shit. “You know that’s not what I—”
“No, seriously. I love knowing my best friend assumes the worst of me.” His smile didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.”
Double shit. That was so not what she meant. “I’m sorry, okay? You know you’re not the only one whose foot lives in their mouth.”
Cash harrumphed and crossed his arms. Apparently, he was really going to make her work for it. Grovel and everything.
“I know you’re a great guy with a heart of gold.” And a terrible romantic with an awful habit of believing everyone he dated
was the one, leading to a string of short-lived relationships and a trail of broken hearts. Saying so would only dig the hole Poppy had
tripped in deeper. “I only meant the optics might not be—”
“Fuck the optics.” Cash scoffed. “Isn’t that what you said when my parents were worried about me losing endorsement deals
earlier this year? Fuck the optics?”
No one was suggesting Cash couldn’t do what he wanted, date who he wanted, definitely not Poppy. But his actions, well intentioned as they might have been, were going to have repercussions
and it was her job as his publicist to consider them. She wasn’t just his best friend anymore. “I only wish you would’ve talked
to me first or—or I don’t know, messaged her privately.” But what’s done was done. “There’s going to be a postgame press conference
on Thursday. When someone asks about Lyric, and they’re going to, you should say—”
“Let me guess. No comment? Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a complete moron.”
“You’re not,” she agreed. “And screw anyone who says otherwise. But if you go with no comment, people are going to think you have something to hide. Instead, you should say . . .” What would Rosaline Sinclair have a
client say? Something complimentary that couldn’t be misconstrued. Something like, “I admire her work ethic and I strive to embody the same dedication on the field.”
“Won’t be hard to remember considering it’s the truth.” He sighed and turned, finally meeting her eyes. “I’m sorry, okay?
I’m not trying to be a dick or make your job harder.”
“I happen to like a challenge,” she said, ribbing him gently, relieved that he wasn’t still mad at her for implying he was
some kind of playboy. “Makes me feel like I’m earning my keep around here.”
He rolled his eyes. “Now who’s being ridiculous?”
Not her. Not only had Cash taken a risk on her when he could’ve easily hired a more seasoned publicist—someone with more than
just a college internship and a few measly years spent working at a midsize agency under their belt, followed by an embarrassing
firing Poppy desperately didn’t want to think about—he was also letting her live in his guest room, rent free. There wasn’t
anything ridiculous about wanting to square up, even the score.
Never would she let it be said that Poppy Peterson was a mooch.
“Honestly? I’m probably making this into a bigger deal than it is. Give it a week or two and I’m sure it’ll blow over.”
The news cycle was endless, attention spans short, and fresh gossip constantly emerging. Bored by the lack of drama, people
would move on to the next celebrity spectacle, preferably not involving Cash Curran.
He stared into the middle distance and sighed, shoulders slumping. “It was a long shot anyway.”
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
He slipped his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose and looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “What do you mean what do
I mean? Lyric Adair probably gets hundreds, if not thousands, of DMs a day. What are the chances she reads any of ’em?” His
laugh was all kinds of self-deprecating and it made Poppy’s chest ache. “Odds of her responding to a public tweet aren’t any
better, but I just wanted her attention, you know?”
Far be it for her to judge when she’d acted far, far dumber for attention. At least Cash’s gaffe was harmless. “I get it.”
He slouched deeper into the love seat, letting his head loll against the back of the couch. “Have you ever—” He cut himself
off, scrubbing a hand roughly over his face, skewing his sunglasses. “Never mind. It’s stupid.”
Poppy dug her toes into his thigh. “Tell me.”