CHAPTER 5
POPPY
The moment I’m through my door, I text Sage.
ME: I need you to come over immediately
ME: Bring wine
ME: Actually I have wine just bring yourself
ME: EMERGENCY
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
SAGE: It’s 11pm on a Thursday
ME: I KNOW
SAGE: I’m in my pajamas
ME: I DON’T CARE
SAGE: This is about fake boyfriend isn’t it
ME: SAGE
SAGE: On my way
SAGE: Don’t start without me
I don’t start without her. Instead, I pace my apartment like a caged animal, replaying the entire evening in my head.
How he looked at my bookshelf. The way he said charming like he meant it.
His description of humans made it seem as if he wasn’t one.
I’m spiraling. I know I’m spiraling. But the spiral feels justified because something is off about Julian Blackthorne, and I can’t figure out what.
My buzzer rings fifteen minutes later. I hit the button without checking, and Sage appears at my door in flannel pants, an oversized UCLA sweatshirt, and slippers shaped like dinosaurs.
“This better be good,” she says, pushing past me. “I was two episodes deep into a murder documentary.”
“It’s good. It’s weird. I don’t know what it is.” I grab a bottle of red from the counter and two glasses. “Sit. I need to debrief.”
Sage collapses onto my couch, tucking her dinosaur feet beneath her. “Okay. Start from the beginning. What did he look like? Was the photo accurate?”
“Better.”
“Better?”
“Sage, he’s—” I pour the wine too fast, nearly spilling. “He’s beautiful. Like, offensively beautiful. Like someone designed him in a lab to make women question their life choices.”
“Okay, so, hot. We knew he’d be hot. The app isn’t going to match you with a gremlin.”
“It’s not just that. It’s the way he moves.
So precise. So deliberate. Like he’s aware of every inch of space his body takes up.
And he’s still. Not normal stillness. He stood in my living room and he didn’t fidget, didn’t shift his weight, didn’t check his phone.
He just... existed there. Like a statue. ”
Sage takes her wine. “Maybe he does yoga.”
“Preston did yoga. Preston could not stand still to save his life.”
“Fair point. What else?”
I sit beside her, pulling my legs up. “He said he saw Casablanca when it first came out.”
Sage chokes on her wine. “What?”
“He corrected himself. Said he meant on Criterion, the restoration. But that’s not what he said first. He said when it first came out.”
“Casablanca came out in, what, in like the forties or something, right?”
“Nineteen forty-two. I looked it up.”
“So either he’s a time traveler or he misspoke.”
“That’s not the only thing.” I take a long sip. “He mentioned a restaurant. L’Ermitage. Talked about it like he’d eaten there last week. So I looked it up.”
“And?”
“It closed in 1991.”
Sage pauses. “You know, there are restaurants still open at the L’Ermitage hotel.”
“Yes, but I’m positive he meant the restaurant that closed in ’91.”
“Okay. That’s weird.”
“Right?”
“But also—rich people are weird about restaurants. My cousin works in private equity and he still talks about Per Se like it’s a religious experience even though he went once five years ago.”
“This was different. He said before your time like he was... I don’t know. Like he was speaking from somewhere further away than five years.”
Sage sets down her glass. Studies me. “Poppy. What exactly are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just saying there’s something off about him.”
“Off how? Off like ‘serial killer’ or off like ‘eccentric billionaire’?”
“I don’t know!” I throw my hands up. “Both? Neither? He’s polite, almost old-fashioned. He pulled out my chair at dinner. He walked on the outside of the sidewalk when we left the restaurant. He called me Miss Gable at first like we were in some sort of period drama.”
“That’s... kind of sweet?”
“He also said humans at one point. Like ‘humans have always craved connection.’ Like he was giving a TED talk about a species he’d been observing.”
“Maybe he’s just awkward.”
“He’s not awkward. That’s the thing. He’s incredibly smooth.
Too smooth. Everything he says sounds rehearsed, but rehearsed in a way that’s so natural you almost don’t notice.
Except I did notice because he kept slipping.
Like the rehearsed version kept glitching and something older was showing through. ”
Sage is looking at me with an expression I can’t read.
“What?” I ask.
“You’ve spent, what, three hours with this guy?”
“Something like that.”
“And you’ve already got a full psychological profile, oh, and a wild conspiracy theory.”
“It’s not a conspiracy theory—”
“Poppy.” She leans forward. “You like him.”
“What? No. I hired him. It’s a business arrangement.”
“You like him and it’s freaking you out, so you’re looking for reasons why he’s secretly a weirdo so you don’t have to deal with the fact that you have feelings for him.”
“I don’t have feelings. I have observations.”
“You have a crush and you’re in denial.”
“I absolutely do not—”
“You kissed his cheek.”
I freeze. “How do you know that?”
“Because you have a tell. You always fidget with your necklace when you’ve done something impulsive. You’ve been touching it since I walked in.”
My hand drops from my collarbone. I hadn’t even noticed.
“It was just a thank you,” I mumble. “He was being nice, you know. He—he didn’t make me feel pathetic. And more importantly, he took the whole thing seriously. Even after I gave him a list about how to be a rich guy—even though he’s obviously super rich.”
“And?”
“And he smelled really good. Like cedar and old books. Which is a weird combination, but it so worked.”
Sage grins. “You’re screwed.”
“I’m not screwed. I’m going to a destination wedding with a professional fake boyfriend. That’s all.”
“A professional fake boyfriend you want to kiss for real.”
“I kissed his cheek.”
“This time.”
I drain my wine glass. Sage refills it without being asked.
“Okay,” she says. “Let’s game this out. Best case scenario: he’s exactly what he seems. Rich, handsome, albeit a little eccentric. You survive the wedding, Preston chokes on his own jealousy, you part ways with your dignity intact.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Worst case scenario?”
I think about the stillness. The slips. The way he looked at me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve.
“He’s hiding something,” I say. “Something big. And I get in over my head.”
“And the secret third option?”
“What’s the secret third option?”
Sage smiles. “He’s hiding something, and you get in over your head, and you like it.”
“That’s not—”
“Four days in the Bahamas with a mysterious hot rich guy who looks at you like you’re interesting and makes you forget about your dirtbag ex?” She raises her glass. “Some people would call that a vacation.”
I don’t respond. Because she’s not wrong. Something about Julian makes me want to dig deeper, even though every instinct tells me I won’t like what I find.
“Tell me about the dinner,” Sage says. “The actual conversation. Not the weird stuff.”
I think about it. The backstory we built—the art gallery, the three questions, the answer he gave about being afraid of being forgotten. The way he leaned forward when I talked about my work, genuinely curious. The way he called what I do remarkable without a trace of condescension.
“He listened,” I say. “Really listened. Not the way Preston listened, where you could tell he was just waiting for his turn to talk. Julian asked questions and then actually cared about the answers.”
“What kind of questions?”
“About my content. How I build connection with my audience. He called it ‘parasocial relationships at scale’ and made it sound like a compliment.”
“Parasocial relationships at scale,” Sage repeats. “That’s... um, very specific phrasing.”
“I told you. He talks like he’s studied humanity from the outside.”
“Or like he went to business school.”
“Maybe.” I pick at the label on the wine bottle. “He also said money becomes scenery after a while. When you have enough of it. Like he was talking about decades, not years.”
“Rich people have a different sense of time.”
“Do they, though? Or do they have the same sense of time and just more of everything else?”
Sage doesn’t answer. We sit in silence for a moment, the wine warm in my chest, the questions still circling.
“What did he say about Preston?” she asks finally.
“That he was a fool. That leaving me wasn’t an upgrade.” I pause. “He sounded angry when he said it. Actually angry. Like Preston had personally offended him.”
“I got to say I like this guy—even if he’s just a good actor.”
“Maybe he was faking it.”
“But you don’t think so.”
“Honestly, I don’t know what I think.” I lean my head back against the couch.
“All I know is that I hired him to pretend to be my boyfriend. That this is supposed to be fake. I realize that once it’s over, he’ll disappear and I’ll go back to my regular life and this will be a weird story I tell at parties. ”
“But?”
“But when he looked at me tonight—when he said I was interesting and that Preston was a fool—part of me wanted it to be real.”
Sage reaches over and squeezes my hand.
“That’s not pathetic, Poppy. That’s human.”
“He’d probably have something to say about that. Some sort of observation about how humans need validation.”
She laughs. “Probably.” She glances at her phone. “It’s midnight. I have a nine AM meeting that I’m going to hate.”
“Go. I’m sorry I dragged you out.”
“Don’t be.” She stands, stretches. “This is the most interesting thing that’s happened in months. I’m living vicariously through your disaster.”
“It’s not a disaster. It’s a business arrangement.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” She heads for the door, then stops. “Hey. When you figure out what’s off about him—and you will, because you’re you—promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Careful how?”
“I don’t know. Just... careful.” She opens the door. “Some mysteries aren’t meant to be solved.”
“Since when are you philosophical?”
“Since I started watching murder documentaries at eleven PM.” She blows me a kiss. “Text me updates. Constant updates. This is so much better than watching Netflix.”
The door closes behind her.
I sit on my couch, wine glass in hand, staring at the window where the city lights bleed through the curtains.
Julian Blackthorne. Thirty-two years old—allegedly. Six foot two. Speaks four languages. Doesn’t golf, doesn’t yacht, has wine opinions that might not be boring. Collects art. Saw Casablanca when it first came out.
Something’s off.
I’m going to figure out what.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number.
JULIAN: Thank you for this evening. I enjoyed it more than I expected.
I stare at the message. Read it twice.
More than I expected.
That makes two of us.
I type back without letting myself overthink it:
ME: Same. When do I get to see you again.
JULIAN: I will be out of town on business for the next couple of weeks. How about when I get back?
ME: It’s a date
It’s a date!?! What the heck was that?
JULIAN: I’ll be counting down the days.
Three dots. Then:
JULIAN: Sleep well, Poppy.
No one has told me to sleep well since my grandmother. The formality of it should feel strange. Instead, it feels like something else.
Something that might be the beginning of a very bad idea.
I turn off my phone. Finish my wine. Go to bed.
I don’t sleep well at all.