Chapter One #2
His hand fell to his side with a heavy sigh. “Have you ever felt it down in your bones that you were meant to meet someone?”
What she wouldn’t give to feel that sure about anything, that confident. That a day could go by where she didn’t second-guess
every decision she made. “This is one massive crush you have, huh?”
“Nah,” he said, breezy tone at odds with the set of his jaw. “I don’t even know her. I just wanted . . .” He trailed off with
another of those resigned laughs. “Doesn’t matter what I wanted. She’s so far out of my league, it’s like we’re not even playing
the same fucking sport.”
Outside of sports, leagues were stupid and juvenile and even if they weren’t . . . “Did you forget you’re Cash freaking Curran? Come on. They wanted you to be the next Bachelor.”
And he could’ve been had filming not conflicted with training camp.
“That shit’s not real and you know it.” He shook his head. “Have you seen the guys she dates? Half those dudes have Emmys.
Or Oscars. Grammys? Fuck if I know.”
“And you’ve got a Heisman. Two National Championships.
A Super Bowl ring.” She ticked off his accomplishments on her fingers.
“You’re no slouch yourself.” She poked him in the chest, impressing upon him her sincerity.
“In fact, you, Cash Anthony Curran, are a total catch, a determination I feel uniquely qualified to make as someone who knew you before you were a mega-famous football player. I knew you when you had gross neon-green rubber bands on your braces and went three weeks thinking Axe was a stand-in for deodorant.”
“Don’t remind me,” he muttered. “Also? I’m pretty sure you’re, like, contractually obligated to say that.”
They didn’t have a contract. “When have you ever known me to bullshit you?”
“Doesn’t matter. This whole thing was a dumb idea.” He lifted his hips and slipped his phone from his pocket, thumb flying
across the screen. “There. I deleted the tweet. I know it’s not the same thing as never having put it out there in the first
place, but it should help things blow over. Right?”
Now she felt bad. “Cash—”
“Poppy.” The look he shot her was of fond exasperation. “I’m good. Seriously.”
The bubbly, slightly breathy vocal stylings of Carly Rae Jepsen filled the air, putting the conversation on a pause. Poppy
pulled her phone from her pocket and frowned at the screen.
Restricted. “Hello?”
“Is this Penelope Peterson?” The caller’s voice was clipped, professional, and slightly gravelly while still sounding distinctly
feminine.
“This is her. I mean, she.” Cash snickered and Poppy flipped him off. She hated talking on the phone, always felt like she was doing it wrong. Like
some script existed that everyone else knew except for her. “It’s Poppy, though. Poppy Peterson.”
A soft but not quite silent sigh came over the line and Poppy didn’t know who was calling but she had the strangest feeling
that she’d already failed some kind of test. “This is Rosaline Sinclair of Rarity PR. Is now an okay time?”
Shut the front door, no it was not.
“Who is it?”
Poppy flailed, slapping a hand over Cash’s mouth. “Shh!”
Rosaline Sinclair—holy shit it was Rosaline Sinclair—let out a disbelieving laugh. “Did you just shush me?”
“No!” Poppy shouted, horrified. “God no. I—sorry. Definitely not. And now is a great time. I can talk.”
Cash snickered, shoulders shaking with barely restrained laughter. “Can you?” he whispered. “Because I’m not so sure.”
“Asshole,” she mouthed, digging her toes harder into his thigh in warning.
The sound of shuffling papers carried through the phone. “Just to be clear, you are Cash Curran’s public relations agent, are you not?”
She wiped the sweat from her hands on her thighs, palms disgustingly clammy. “I am?”
“Are you asking or are you telling me?” Rosaline sounded amused.
“Telling you?” Poppy wanted to punch herself in the face. “I’m telling you. I—shit, is this about the tweet? Because Cash
is super sorry about that.” Her words caught up with her and her stomach sank. “And I’m sorry for swearing.”
Cash threw himself dramatically onto the ground, lying face down in the grass. Big baby. Poppy was the one about to get her
ass reamed by the scariest publicist in the business, not him.
The line was silent for a beat. “So, he wasn’t serious?”
Poppy winced. “Well, no, not exactly. He definitely meant what he said. It was more the, uh, method with which he chose to say what he said that he’s sorry about.”
“Hm. Lyric found it . . . charming.”
Charming? “Seriously?”
“No one is more baffled than I am, trust me.” Rosaline sighed.
“Assuming he hasn’t lost interest, Lyric is available for a call Tuesday evening, eight p.m. Pacific.
I’ll email you a nondisclosure agreement for both you and your client to sign prior to the call.
Upon receipt of the signed agreement, I’ll then email you the meeting ID and text you the passcode separately. Is this acceptable?”
Toto, Poppy had a feeling they were not in Kansas anymore.
“Wow, uh, NDAs and two-factor authentication. I guess I’ve been out of the dating game awhile, huh?”
Poppy laughed to fill the awkward, stomach-churning silence.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” Rosaline said, her voice chilly. “This isn’t a game.”
“No, I know it’s not. I only meant—”
“I know what you meant, but I need you to understand what I mean when I say this isn’t a joke. To be perfectly frank, I would have let your client’s madcap tweet go quietly into the
good night if not for the fact that my client requested I reach out on her behalf. If we’re going to proceed, we’re going to do it on my terms. Which is to say,
properly. Are we understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Poppy blurted, her voice horrifyingly breathy, the words fear boner flashing through her mind. Ma’am? Ma’am? Someone fucking lobotomize her. “I mean, uh . . .”
An agonizing beat of silence passed, a pause so pregnant Poppy debated flinging her phone into the pool and herself off the
nearest tall object. After another moment, Rosaline delicately cleared her throat. “Good. So, Tuesday?”
Poppy covered the phone with her hand and kicked Cash in the side. “Look alive, Curran. Lyric Adair wants to talk to you.”
“What?” Blades of grass stuck to his cheek when he lifted his head. “Now? Holy fuck, give me the phone.”
“No. Tuesday at eight,” she said, still covering the receiver. “What do you want me to say?”
Cash staggered forward on his knees and clasped her upper arms.
“For the love of God, Poppy,” he implored. “Say yes.”
“Hello?” Rosaline prompted. “Did I lose you?”
“No, no, I’m here. Um, eight on Tuesday. NDA. Got it.” She wiggled free from Cash’s hold. “Do you need my email address?”
“No need. I have it.”
Of course she did. Considering the mysterious means with which Rosaline had gotten ahold of Poppy’s phone number, Poppy really
shouldn’t have been surprised. “Is there anything else you need from me?”
Her social security number maybe? Her blood type?
“That’s it for now,” Rosaline said. “I’ll be in touch.”