Chapter 13
Stade de France held nearly eighty thousand people, and every seat was filled. Poppy had arranged for a private box with a perfect view of the stage, complete with catered food and an open bar.
Even better than the VIP treatment was seeing Chelsea and Leilah.
After a flurry of squealing, hugs, and shrieks, they uncorked a dry white wine and settled into the cushy seats to chat until showtime.
“This is unbelievable,” Chelsea said. “We’re in Paris. At the Poppy Jones concert. In her box. We’re spending the entire weekend with Poppy Jones!”
“She’s been like this since we left Dulles,” Leilah said with an indulgent smile.
Chelsea shrugged. “I’m excited.”
“You should be,” Olivia told her. “It’s exciting. But let’s just alternate wine and water tonight, yeah? We have a long night ahead of us.”
“Noted,” Chelsea said. She gave Leilah a sidelong glance. “Especially because for some of us, this is probably a working vacation.”
Olivia mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key.
“I knew it!” Chelsea said triumphantly.
Leilah lowered her chin and stared at Marielle. “Are you two protecting Poppy Jones?”
“We’re helping her with a problem.” It had the benefit of being true.
“An obsessed fan? A stalker? Paparazzi trying to get nude photos of her?” Leilah guessed in rapid succession.
Marielle shook her head and smiled. “Sorry.”
Leilah huffed. “Well, I’m glad you two are helping her. She’s really very sweet. Even if she is a bit …”
“Ditzy,” Chelsea supplied.
“I was thinking flighty,” Leilah said.
Marielle choked back a laugh.
The lights dimmed. The crowd erupted. Poppy appeared on stage in a shimmer of sequins and stage lights, and for the two and a half hours, she was the brightest light in Paris.
It was impossible not to get caught up in it. The music, the energy, the pure joy radiating from eighty thousand people singing in unison, dancing with abandon, and waving light-up wristbands in synchronization.
Marielle found herself swaying to “Find My Soul.” Singing along to “Heart on Fire.” Laughing when Poppy made a joke between songs. Throwing her arms around her friends and shouting the chorus of “A Girl’s Girl.”
For one hundred and fifty minutes, she almost forgot about explosives and coup plots and assassination attempts.
Almost.
When the concert ended, they made their way backstage through the throngs of departing fans. Poppy’s security team met them and escorted them to her dressing room.
“You were amazing,” Chelsea told Poppy, her eyes shining.
“Thank you,” Poppy, still glowing from her performance high, pulled her into a hug.
“You made a lot of core memories for people tonight,” Leilah added.
Poppy grinned.
They made their way through the crowd to the waiting limo. It was slow going because Poppy stopped every two feet to sign an autograph or smile for a picture.
Once they piled inside the limo, Poppy dropped her mask and flopped back against the seat.
“I’m exhausted,” she admitted. “I just need to do it again tomorrow night, then I can catch my breath.”
Olivia handed her cold bottle of water. “So, would this be a bad time to ask for a favor?” she said in a low voice.
“We’ll talk in the room,” Marielle murmured.
“I need to change,” Poppy announced. “We have midnight dinner reservations at a little bistro I know. Classic cuisine. Not fancy, but so good. Everybody up for it?”
“Absolutely,” Leilah said for all of them.
Once inside the suite, they scurried in different directions to get ready.
Poppy’s voice drifted from the bathroom over music playing from the sound system. She was saying something to nobody in particular about “going full glam” and “showing these French fashionistas how it’s done.”
She emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of perfume and confidence.
“How do I look?” she asked, striking a pose. She wore a one-shouldered black silk dress and had pinned her curls up.
“Very old school glamorous,” Marielle told her.
“Gorgeous,” Olivia confirmed.
“I need help fastening my bracelet, though. It’s in my room.”
“Oh, I can help,” Chelsea offered.
“No, Olivia,” said. “I need you to help me with my makeup. You do the best smoky eye.”
She dragged Chelsea toward the bathroom.
Leilah eyed Marielle. “You go ahead and help her. It’s clear you need to have a private conversation.”
“Leilah, I don’t mean to be—”
“Please. Between my fiancé and my brother, I can take a hint. I know you aren’t being rude. It’s your job. Go,” she shooed them away. “I want to touch up my lipstick anyway.”
“You always look glamorous,” Marielle told her.
“I know.” Leilah laughed.
Inside Poppy’s bedroom, Marielle fastened a chunky diamond bracelet around her wrist.
“Thanks. So what do I need to do.”
“You need to accidentally on purpose run into Brad Hampton.”
“Well, that’ll be easy.”
“It will?”
“Not the accidentally part. He sent a note backstage. He wanted to grab a drink after the concert. I didn’t even know he was in Paris.”
“You told him yes?”
Poppy tsked. “No, I told him no. I have plans with you four.”
“Can you invite him to join us?”
“Sure.” She was already pulling her phone from her gold clutch. “I’ll tell him to try to ditch his Secret Service detail. Can’t make any promises, though.”
They returned to the living room, where everyone else was waiting.
“Ooh la la,” Poppy vamped. “Look at us.”
“We’re pretty hot,” Olivia agreed, fastening her large chandelier earrings.
Leilah frowned at herself in the mirror. “Elle?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you bring boob tape?”
“I don’t leave home without it.” She dug it out of her toiletry bag and tossed it across the room.
“I don’t want to know,” Chelsea announced.
They swished down the stairs and through the lobby to their waiting car. Instead of the limo, it was a sleek black Mercedes with tinted windows. The driver got out and opened the rear door.
“Our ride,” Poppy announced. “Something a bit more subdued.”
Marielle ended up sitting next to a window. She watched the city slide past in a blur of lights and shadows as they wound through the narrow streets, the driver navigating with practiced ease.
Marielle watched the pedestrians, the cyclists, the lovers strolling hand in hand along the Seine.
Normal people. Living normal lives. Unaware of the threats gathering in the shadows.
The car slowed, pulling up in front of a small, unassuming restaurant with a red awning.
“We’re here,” Poppy announced. “Best roast chicken in Paris. Prepare to have your minds blown.”
The ma?tre d’ greeted Poppy like she was a favorite cousin, not a pop star.
“Poppy! Your table is ready. Come, come.”
He led them through the crowded dining room to a semi-private alcove in the back. And there, sitting at the table next to theirs, was Brad Hampton.
He was younger than Marielle expected. Mid-twenties, with his father’s square jaw but softer features. He looked up as they approached, and his face lit up when he saw Poppy.
“Well, this is a pleasant surprise,” he said, standing.
“Brad, imagine running into you here!” Poppy squealed.
And … action.