Chapter Eleven #2
sharp eyes that had her shrinking in her seat.
Poppy had one job tonight—make sure things went off without a hitch.
It was a job, one that she’d only recently convinced Rosaline she wasn’t a total hack at.
What they were doing off the clock was meant to alleviate the stress of the job, not add to it.
In trying to be professional, Poppy had overcorrected and now Cash was upset and he couldn’t go out on the carpet all gloom and doom because the gossip blogs would smell blood in the water and spin a story about how his relationship with Lyric was on the rocks and—
“Curran,” Rosaline didn’t quite snap, but her tone was demanding enough to make Cash sit up straighter, looking at her with
wide eyes. “Apologize to your best friend.”
What. “Rosaline, we don’t need to—”
Rosaline’s hand was on her wrist, just resting there, but the touch was unexpected, making the words dry up in her throat.
“Just do it,” Rosaline said in that same take-no-prisoners tone. “Tell Poppy you’re sorry for upsetting her.” One of her brows
rose. “Mean it.”
Cash wiped his palms on his thighs and blew out a breath, eyes lifting and meeting hers, stare beseeching. She fidgeted, the
fingers of the hand not snared by Rosaline tapping tunelessly against the leather seat. “I’m sorry for not listening to you
and for saying what I said when you told me not to talk about it,” he said, eyes flickering briefly to Rosaline before returning
to hers. “I was a dick for—I was a dick. No excuses.”
Tears welled up behind her eyes, which she blinked back as fast as she could, refusing to let them fall and ruin her makeup
moments before she stepped out onto the red carpet and into a sea of celebrities and photographers. “Apology accepted. And
I’m sorry for being a neurotic hard-ass.” She offered him a shaky smile. “It’s only because I care.”
His shoulders sagged in relief and Lyric, who’d been watching the whole scene play out with big, sad eyes, ran a hand soothingly
up the middle of his back. “Don’t worry. Cash knows he needs a firm hand sometimes.”
Lyric’s lips curved impishly and the tension in the limo broke.
“Ugh.” Poppy tipped her head back and groaned. “Brain bleach. I need brain bleach immediately.”
“Not that this conversation isn’t riveting,” Rosaline cut in dryly, fingers stroking the fragile, sensitive skin of Poppy’s
wrist, making her shiver. “But we’re here.”
Cash clapped his hands together. “Game time, babe.”
Lyric booped him on the nose. “I think you mean showtime, baby.”
“Open the door before I throw up all over my suit. It’s dry-clean only,” Rosaline demanded, voice strained, sounding as nauseated
as Poppy felt.
Cash stepped out of the limo first and immediately turned, offering his hand to Lyric, who beamed up at him as she took it,
her smile as bright as the cameras that immediately flashed.
Poppy was closest to the door, logically she should’ve stepped out next, but she didn’t, couldn’t. Not until she did something
first.
As if sensing her hesitation, Rosaline looked at her curiously. “Poppy?”
“Thank you,” she said. “For doing what you did. I know I messed up . . .”
Rosaline’s fingers banded around her wrist, her grip gentle but firm. Just right. “You think Lyric and I don’t fight sometimes?”
She’d also worn her hair down tonight and it fell in perfect, Old Hollywood–style waves around her shoulders, swaying when
she shook her head. “Of course we fight. Let me tell you, back when we lived together?” Her lips drew to one side, quirking
in a rueful little smile. “But we always get over it. Because we love each other. Cash was going to come to you, with his
tail between his legs, and apologize eventually. I just nudged the inevitable along.”
“Sure, but the way he felt was written all over his face as clearly as a billboard. He was going to step out on that carpet, and everyone was going to assume there was some sort of trouble brewing in paradise.”
People loved to assume. Especially if those assumptions made for a good story. Even more so if they made them money.
Rosaline nodded emphatically. “You’re right. They absolutely would have.” She nudged her knee against Poppy’s and smiled.
“Which is why part of our job is crisis management. And it’s always better to—”
“Prevent fires than have to put them out.” Poppy shut her eyes. “I know that. Like I said, I—”
“If the next words out of your mouth are some variation of messed up, Curran’s not going to be the only one in need of a firm hand,” Rosaline warned, slightly tightening her grip on Poppy’s wrist.
Her breath caught and beneath Rosaline’s fingers, her pulse sped.
“Or maybe you’d like that.” Heat pooled low in her gut at the scorching look Rosaline sent her, low lids and a smile that
promised Poppy would love and hate what Rosaline did to her in equal measure.
She had to swallow before she could speak and even then, her voice still came out strangled, high and thready. “Maybe I would.”
Rosaline exhaled sharply, seemingly as affected by the promises she was making as Poppy was.
She gave Poppy’s wrist another squeeze. “You’re the one who helped me realize that we should be working together.
You drop a ball, I pick it up. And it goes both ways.
Not that I believe you dropped a ball. I think—” She paused, pressing her lips together like she was choosing her next words carefully.
“Your feelings on the matter are valid. If you don’t want—”
“Um.” Cash ducked his head into the limo and Rosaline instantly let go of Poppy’s wrist. Poppy tried not to let the snub sting
and failed. Miserably. “Not to interrupt what looked like a”—he threw Rosaline a cheeky smile—“riveting conversation, but are you two going to, you know, do your jobs?”