Chapter Ten
“If you were in Los Angeles, it would make preparing for the WMAs much simpler,” Rosaline said without prelude.
Poppy cradled her phone against her shoulder. “Cash can’t fly in until the day of. Mandatory practice, remember?”
“Mandatory for him. You have no such obligation to attend, do you?”
“No, but I assumed I’d fly down with—”
“Then there’s no reason you can’t get a flight out tonight.
” The muted click-clack of a keyboard made it past the phone’s background noise cancellation.
“What do you think about staying at the Beverly Wilshire? CUT is definitely overrated as far as restaurants go, but the spa has a eucalyptus steam room that will absolutely change your—”
“Slow down.” Poppy laughed. “Rosaline, be real. I can’t stay at the Beverly Wilshire.”
It was the Beverly Wilshire. The Four freaking Seasons. A one-night stay probably cost more than Poppy made in two weeks at her old job. She could afford it now, sure, but did she
honestly have any business dropping that kind of money on a hotel room she didn’t really need? Not to mention what a last-minute flight would cost.
“Okaaay.” Rosaline drew out the word skeptically. “Would you rather stay at the Beverly Hills Hotel?”
Poppy palmed her face. “Look, I can maybe fly down Saturday, but . . . what would I even do for four whole days by myself in LA?”
There was a pause. “Are you being serious right now? I can’t tell.”
Poppy frowned. “Yes? I’m being serious.”
“Jesus Christ,” Rosaline muttered, making Poppy frown harder. “Look, if you’re so worried about making the trip worth your
while, I’m having dinner on Thursday with a few acquaintances from Vanity Fair who are in town covering the awards. You are more than welcome to come with me. Plus, you said you still need to find a dress.
If ever there were a rack that deserves better than off-the-rack, it’s yours. We’ll go shopping, you and me. There. You have plans. Happy?”
Her brain blue screened. “I—you think I have nice tits?”
“Poppy,” Rosaline chided. “Is that the only thing you took away from what I said?”
“No,” she denied. “Vanity Fair magazine. Shopping for dresses that probably cost more than Cash’s mortgage payment. I’ve got a spectacular rack. I heard you.”
Rosaline chuckled, low and throaty, and all the hair stood up on the back of Poppy’s arms. “It’s up to you, but I personally
like the idea of us being in the same city for more than twelve hours.” She paused. “Not that I didn’t enjoy our call last
week, but you’re not the only one who’s a fan of show, don’t tell. If you know what I mean.”
“Oh.” Poppy’s stomach erupted into a flurry of butterflies. “You could’ve led with that.”
“I’m saying it now. So? Are you coming or not?”
God, Poppy hoped so. “I’m not flying private.”
Wednesday, October 17
Poppy (8:18 a.m.): Landed! I’ll text you when I get to the hotel.
Cash (8:22 a.m.): text me from your uber
Cash (8:23 a.m.): share your location
Poppy (8:25 a.m.): Okay, Mom.
??You started sharing location with Cash Curran??
Cash (8:26 a.m.): ??
Poppy (8:59 a.m.): Bag secured and I’m in the car! The driver just asked if I want to see pictures of her grandkids. I’ll text you after I get
checked in.
Cash (9:00 a.m.): kk
Poppy (10:55 a.m.):
Poppy (10:55 a.m.): Holy shit. Cash. Look at this room!
Poppy (10:56 a.m.):
Poppy (10:56 a.m.): Look at the view! I can see all of the Hollywood Hills from my balcony.
Poppy (10:57 a.m.):
Poppy (10:57 a.m.): Look at this bathtub! Sorry. I love you, but I live here now ?
Cash (11:00 a.m.): damn that’s a nice tub
Cash (11:01 a.m.): how’s the gym
Poppy (11:02 a.m.): Of course that’s what you care about.
Poppy (11:03 a.m.): And it’s nice. Plenty of cardio machines.
Cash (11:05 a.m.): good. can’t have you slacking off on marathon prep
Poppy (11:06 a.m.): Yes, coach ??
Cash (11:08 a.m.): what time is richard gere picking you up
Poppy (11:09 a.m.): Richard Gere????
Cash (11:10 a.m.): you’re staying in the pretty woman hotel pop-tart
Poppy (11:10 a.m.): ??????
Poppy (11:12 a.m.): She’s picking me up in a little under an hour and I need to shower off the plane first so ??
Cash (11:13 a.m.): have fun. don’t do anything i wouldn’t do
Poppy (11:14 a.m.): Considering your track record, that should be a piece of cake ??
Cash (11:15 a.m.): ??
At exactly 11:59 a.m. on the dot, a mint-colored Chevrolet Corvette that appeared to be in mint condition pulled up to the
curb outside of the Beverly Wilshire.
Poppy slid into the passenger seat with a smile. “Nice car. 1956?”
With one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the gleaming silver stick shift, Rosaline peered at Poppy over the top
of her bright green Bottega Veneta cat’s-eye sunglasses. She looked like an Old Hollywood starlet, curls pinned in place beneath
a white silk scarf. “Hello to you too. And I’d say good guess, but I don’t think it was, was it?”
Rosaline’s lips twitched in a smile, and it would’ve been so easy to stretch across the small gap between the seats and find
out if they were as soft as they looked.
If kissing were on the table, and it wasn’t.
An ache formed in the tender, fleshy spaces between Poppy’s ribs, but she ignored it, leaning forward and stroking the dash
reverently. “Didn’t they only make something like one hundred and fifty of these? In this color, I mean. Cascade green with
beige coves?”
Rosaline’s brows rose, impressed, and Poppy’s smile broadened into a satisfied grin. “One hundred and forty-seven, actually.
And only one hundred and eleven with a special high-lift camshaft and dual four-barrel carburetors.”
She whistled. No wonder she could feel the engine’s purr in her bones. “Nice.”
Rosaline waited for Poppy to fasten her seat belt before flipping on her left blinker. “I didn’t take you for a car enthusiast.”
She wasn’t. Not really. “My dad loves cars. Classic ones, mostly.”
That she knew anything at all about cars beyond the basics was a credit to her desperate desire to find common ground with
her dad, even if it meant forging it herself. After school, she spent time in the detached garage, curled up in a rusty old
lawn chair, poring over back issues of Car and Driver magazine while her dad tinkered around until Mom yelled at Poppy to do her homework and leave her father alone.
“He a collector?”
“Eh, not unless you count a 1972 Thunderbird he bought off a guy in Coos Bay that turned out to be a total lemon. But he and Dillon—my brother—used to fly to Pennsylvania every fall for the, uh, what’s it called?” She snapped her fingers. “Antique Auto Club of America Eastern Meet, I think?”
“Did you ever go?”
“Um, no.” She hoped she was the only one who could hear the decades-old disappointment in her voice, which she tried to cover
with a breezy shrug. “It was more of a father-son thing.”
Even though Dillon didn’t know the difference between a carburetor and a clutch plate and had once fried the electrical system
in his Kia Forte by trying to jump-start it with the battery connected backward. No hard feelings.
“You know, there’s a big roadster show every February in Pomona.” Rosaline made a left onto Beverly Drive. “Maybe next time
you can come with me.”
Poppy turned, seat belt strap biting into the side of her neck. “Wait—really?”
She cursed Rosaline’s sunglasses for making it impossible for Poppy to see her eyes. To gauge what she was thinking. All she
saw was surprise splashed across her own face reflected in the mirrored lenses.
“I usually drag Lyric with me,” Rosaline said, by way of explanation. “She couldn’t care less about cars.” She downshifted
as the light ahead turned red. “Are you hungry?”
What she really wanted to know was what it meant that Rosaline had invited her to something that was four months away, but
sure. “I could eat.”
Erewhon was just around the corner. Overpriced and overhyped as the luxury supermarket was, the weather was perfect for a quick picnic on the grocery store’s patio and the hot bar meant they’d have a plethora of options to choose from.
And Poppy honestly wouldn’t mind trying one of those smoothies she kept seeing all over TikTok.
The ones made famous by the likes of Hailey Bieber and Bella Hadid and boasted benefits like boosted energy and perfect skin.
Inside, Poppy had to take a second to get her bearings, the store almost as cramped as it was colorful, niche overpriced organic
items filling the aesthetically pleasing, Instagrammable shelves.
“Meet you at the café?” Rosaline asked, reaching past her for a basket, fingers brushing Poppy’s hip in the process, the touch
of her hand fleeting, gone before Poppy could press into it the way she wanted, the way she would’ve if she’d had the chance.
If they weren’t in public, where anyone could take a picture and post it on the internet. “I just need to grab something first.”
Rosaline disappeared down one of the too-narrow aisles to the left and Poppy set off in the opposite direction.
There were items here she had never heard of. Pure luna sea moss gel and purified reverse osmosis hyper-oxygenated water.
Truffle-infused hot sauce and hump fat made from the humps of wild camels, which was apparently an actual thing people ate.
Supplements and adaptogens and—what the hell were nootropics? She snapped a few pictures of the most bizarre items to send
to Cash before joining the line for the café behind a guy who looked a little like Jesus. If Jesus were white and wore $750
Ferragamo slides and Loewe pave crystal sunglasses indoors and talked too loud into the latest model of an iPhone.
“Can you believe the bitch is actually suing me?”
Holy shit. The guy was Ansel Daily, drummer of the Domestic Noir Plot and more important, Lyric’s ex-boyfriend.
His sun-streaked brown hair was longer, his entire aesthetic a little more I bought a private island in Croatia and started a cult than Poppy remembered, but it was definitely him.