Chapter Three
“Wine?” Rosaline had breezed into the kitchen on bare feet, plucking an already-open bottle of red wine off the butcher-block
counter. Two short-stemmed, wide-bowled wineglasses sat nearby.
Poppy hovered in the doorway, eyeing the bottle in Rosaline’s hand longingly. A glass of wine would take the edge off, but
it was never just one glass. Not for Poppy. “Water would be great, thank you.”
Rosaline filled one glass before recorking the bottle. “You sure? I’ve got . . .” She turned, tongue clicking against the
back of her teeth as she surveyed the inside of her sleek glass front refrigerator. “Kombucha, coconut water, Olipop, LaCroix,
and . . . iced tea. Peppermint, I believe.”
The contents of her refrigerator couldn’t have been more different from the Gatorade and Muscle Milk that filled Cash’s.
“Uh, a soda would be nice. Any flavor.”
Rosaline retrieved a can of cherry vanilla Olipop from the fridge, which just so happened to be Poppy’s favorite. She cracked
open the can and poured it into the empty wineglass before nodding to one of the tall barstools in front of the island. “Make
yourself comfortable. I have a feeling we’re going to be here awhile.”
Poppy hauled herself onto the stool as smoothly as possible. “Your place is beautiful. Very midcentury Spanish eclectic. I love it.”
Set behind that grand carriage-style door was a veritable oasis. Bird-of-paradise sprouted proudly from the enormous terra-cotta
planter by the door, magenta orchids and African violets dotting the long entry table. The floors were octagonal Saltillo
tile overlaid with a colorful Moroccan rug, and the textured walls were painted a vibrant saffron from the foyer all the way
down the hall leading to a kitchen even Nancy Meyers would covet with its ginormous island and emerald glass-front cabinets,
peacock-colored backsplash, bevy of copper pots and pans hanging from the ceiling, and cream-colored, retro-style appliances.
The place was a cozy, colorful jewel box, so different from the austerity of Cash’s bachelor pad that Poppy could weep. Cash
had given her free reign to redecorate as she pleased, but staying with him was only ever meant to be a pit stop, not permanent.
Rosaline looked at her curiously across the island. “Design buff?”
“Unless religiously watching Zillow Gone Wild counts, hardly.” She gave a self-effacing laugh. “But I know what I like when I see it.”
Rosaline’s eyes raked down the length of Poppy’s body. “Something we have in common.”
Poppy blinked, startled, breath hitching. For a wild second, it almost seemed like . . .
Ha, no. No, Poppy was totally imagining things. Except, what if . . . no, no, she was definitely imagining things. Rosaline Sinclair had not just checked her out. She’d probably just been . . . hell if Poppy knew, sizing her up?
Historically, Poppy had not always made the best choices, good ones even, but she was trying to turn over a new leaf. Flirting
with Rosaline Sinclair would be stupid. Right?
Right. “So Portland, huh?”
“Lake Oswego, if you want to get specific.” Rosaline sipped her wine. “You seem surprised.”
“I mean, Portland is big but it’s not that big. I guess I just figured I would’ve, I don’t know, read it somewhere.”
Rosaline cocked her head, braid falling over shoulder, more of that dark, glossy hair slipping free from the loose plait.
Poppy had the strangest impulse to tuck it behind Rosaline’s ear, maybe trace the plains of Rosaline’s face with her fingertips
while she was at it. To follow the slope of her nose down to the curve of her cupid’s bow.
Poppy tucked her hands underneath her ass, sitting on them instead.
“Read about it?” Rosaline’s lips twitched. “So you’re admitting I’m not the only one who did her research?”
“I don’t think I need to tell you that you’re nearly as famous as Lyric.”
For crying out loud, the woman had her own Wikipedia page. A lengthy one at that.
Rosaline huffed out a soft laugh. “Infamous would be the word most would use, but sure.”
Poppy tapped her socked toes against the bottom rung of the stool, hands still tucked under her. “Right. So, I watched that
E! True Hollywood Story about Lyric when I was in college, and you were featured in it.”
“You really haven’t been doing this for very long, have you?” Rosaline asked over the rim of her wineglass, bursting Poppy’s
bubble, and bringing her back down to earth with a whopping case of imposter syndrome.
Poppy nibbled on the inside of her lip. “Is it that obvious?”
“You’re not much older than Lyric is what I meant.”
Oh. “Well, sure. But I’m guessing you already knew that.”
“Curran’s one thing; bold of you to assume I bothered to look you up beyond your contact info.”
“I think it would be bolder of me to assume you didn’t,” Poppy volleyed back.
Rosaline had a certain perspicacity that lent itself to an unparalleled competency that Poppy couldn’t help but admire. She
might not be in possession of her own Wiki page, but she would have to be stupid to believe for a single second Rosaline Sinclair
didn’t know more about her than she was letting on.
“I’m starting to think I’m not the only one who should come with a warning.” Rosaline gave her an appraising sidelong glance,
her left brow rising sharply. “You’ve been Curran’s publicity manager for a little over a year.”
It wasn’t a question, but Poppy nodded anyway. “Mhmm. About a year and two months.” Since the recent expansion draft brought
Cash home to Portland to play for the Pathfinders, the NFL’s newest enfranchised team.
Rosaline’s expression turned thoughtful. “In the last year alone, you’ve had your work cut out for you, haven’t you?”
Poppy frowned. “What do you mean?”
Rosaline shrugged. “I can’t imagine it was a walk in the park, orchestrating the public coming out of a professional athlete
as bisexual. A football player no less. That couldn’t have been easy.”
It wasn’t about what was easy, it was about what was right. If Poppy cared about easy, she’d have taken Rosaline up on that
glass of wine when she’d had the chance. If Poppy cared about easy, she’d have given up a long time ago. “I don’t care about
easy; I care about Cash. And coming out was important to him, so it was important to me.”
As his friend she’d wholeheartedly supported him and as his publicist she’d helped him strategize a game plan that accounted for as many outcomes as could be predicted. Easy? No. A hardship? Never.
“Risky,” Rosaline said, unnecessarily stating the obvious.
Of course it had been a risk. But any brand that distanced themself because Cash was queer could kick rocks.
“Some risks are worth it.” Poppy lifted her chin, staring Rosaline down, daring her to say otherwise. “Some things are more
important than brand deals or endorsements or public opinion. And maybe it makes me a bad publicist to admit it, but people
are always going to be more important to me than getting good PR.”
Cash’s being able to live authentically and be a visible role model to young, queer athletes was infinitely more important
than appealing to a few Brads, Chads, and Dads who were pissy their favorite quarterback was bisexual and not afraid to say
it with his whole chest. The face of the NFL was changing—albeit at a snail’s pace—and as far as Poppy was concerned, those
small-minded fuckers could change the channel if they were so butthurt over it.
“It wasn’t an indictment,” Rosaline said, giving her a soft look she couldn’t quite parse. “The opposite, in fact.”
Opposite of indictment could mean a lot of things. “I guess it didn’t seem right that I could date whomever I wanted, and
Cash couldn’t.”
Her parents might not understand her for a whole host of reasons, only a few of which were related to her being bisexual,
but she’d never faced any real discrimination for liking who she liked. Not the way Cash could’ve, the way he could’ve lost
everything he’d worked tirelessly for. Mercifully, it hadn’t come to the worst.
“What I’m trying to say is that it was very brave of him.” Rosaline’s eyes shone, green as sea glass, their sharpness blunted by sincerity. “Curran is lucky to have someone like you in his corner.”
Cash Curran was good in a way Poppy had found so few people were, there for her when no one else was, not even her family—especially not her family. Even when she’d given him every reason not to, he’d believed in her. Twenty years they’d been looking out
for each other; Poppy wasn’t about to stop now that fame and money were in the mix.
“Like I said, he’s my best friend,” she demurred. “I’d have his back even if I wasn’t working for him.”
“Well, for whatever it’s worth, I’m sure it wasn’t simple, but together you made the entire rollout look, quite frankly, effortless,”
Rosaline praised. “I doubt I could’ve handled it any better myself.”
Poppy exhaled slowly, shoulders falling from where she’d inadvertently had them hiked up to her ears.
For as long as she could remember, she’d been chasing the high of the first gold star she’d gotten, a shiny foil sticker stuck
to the corner of a spelling test, indelible proof that she was good. It had driven her to do things she wasn’t proud of, desperate for the attention she was missing at home, starved for validation.
Affection. It had taken a year of therapy to recognize it for what it was, to accept that she didn’t need anyone to tell her she had value for it to be intrinsically true, but it was also okay for her to want to hear it from time
to time, normal even. There was still a lot she was working to unpack, a lot she’d probably always be working to unpack, the
destination the journey.
She didn’t need a gold star like a first grader anymore, but that didn’t stop her breath from vanishing when Rosaline said exactly what she hadn’t known she’d needed to hear tonight.
She wasn’t totally fucking up this job the way she had everything else in her life.
Cash could count on her. She was capable. She could do this.