Chapter Fourteen
“What do you have against peanut butter and jelly?”
Poppy finished chewing and reached for her can of cherry vanilla soda. “Nothing.” She hid her smile behind the can. “I guess
I wasn’t expecting this to be your culinary specialty. That’s all.”
“I never claimed to be a chef.” Rosaline crossed her arms. “I am a publicist.”
“A great one,” Poppy agreed, trying not to laugh at how Rosaline was getting up in arms, huffy because Poppy had giggled when
she’d set the plate down in front of her, peanut butter and jelly sandwich cut into two neat triangles with the crusts removed.
She wasn’t laughing at her, she was just . . . amused. And bizarrely touched? Her own mother had never gone to such lengths, more the type to tuck
a five-dollar bill in her book bag than pack her a sack lunch.
“This is Los Angeles,” Rosaline argued. “No one here cooks. Everyone either has a private chef, shops the hot bar at Erewhon,
or orders takeout.”
She was pretty sure that’s what people said about New Yorkers, not Angelinos, and even then, it was a sweeping generalization,
probably not true for a decent percentage of people. The grand majority even.
“Or they know how to make a mean PB she didn’t want to hear about Poppy’s woe is me childhood. It was depressing, too depressing for the casual relationship Rosaline was seeking. The one Poppy was determined
not to ruin, especially not with her too-big feelings and not by talking about her parents, either.
Rosaline looked like she wanted to argue but instead dipped her chin in a reluctant nod. “So you can cook. Tell me, what other
secret talents does Poppy Peterson possess that I don’t know about?”
“I’d hardly call it a talent,” she demurred. “The cooking classes did the heavy lifting, trust me.”
By nature, she wasn’t very talented. Hardly anything came easily or intuitively to her, but what she lacked in natural ability
she made up for with a streak of stubbornness a mile wide, unable to take no for an answer, even when the call was coming
from inside the house. When her own inaptitude was what held her back.
Rosaline rounded the counter and joined her at the bar, sliding onto the high-back barstool beside her. She turned, facing
Poppy, one of her knees slotting between hers. “You should give yourself more credit.”
“You haven’t tried my food,” she joked.
Her hand found Poppy’s thigh and squeezed. “I wasn’t just talking about your cooking, Poppy.” Her gaze had softened, her voice
too, and Poppy didn’t know what to do with the warmth unfurling inside her chest other than steadfastly ignore it.
“But maybe you can sometime.” Rosaline’s fingers toyed with the hem of the borrowed, oversize shirt that hit Poppy mid-thigh. Baby pink and with the name of a barre studio printed across the front, it smelled like the lavender sachets Rosaline kept in her dresser and a little like her perfume too.
“Maybe I can what?” she asked stupidly, not even sure what they were talking about anymore. Rosaline’s touch was distracting,
the way her fingers brushed against Poppy’s thigh wreaking havoc on her ability to focus.
“Maybe you can cook for me sometime,” Rosaline clarified, letting go of Poppy’s shirt and reaching the hand Poppy was resting
on the counter. She flipped Poppy’s hand over and, with the tip of her finger, traced the lines of her palm leaving shivery
tingles in her wake. Her gaze lifted, eyes flitting over Poppy’s face. “Show me what I’m missing.”
“Oh.” Poppy nodded and fought the urge to curl her fingers around Rosaline’s. Hold her hand. “Sure. I could—I could do that.
How do you feel about Indian? I just learned how to make saag paneer. I could make that.”
Rosaline ducked her head and, for whatever reason, smiled at her lap. “I’d like that.”
“Cool.” Poppy nodded then stopped, worried that she resembled an overeager bobblehead.
“You were going to tell me all about the other secret skills you possess,” Rosaline prompted, thumb sweeping an incredibly
diverting arc against the inside of Poppy’s wrist.
She reached for her soda and took a long sip. “I’m training for a marathon. Or, well, Cash and I are training for a marathon.