CHAPTER 14
POPPY
The morning sun has a vendetta against my sleep schedule. It streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows of our suite like it’s being paid to wake me.
Julian is already awake. Of course he is. He’s sitting on the balcony in linen pants and a white shirt that looks crisp despite the humidity, reading something on his tablet. His coffee sits untouched beside him—I’ve noticed he never drinks it, just orders it like it’s a prop.
Which is weird, right? No, it’s definitely weird. But do I ask about it?
I grab my phone and scroll through last night’s comments. The photo I posted of Julian—just his hands on the table, his watch catching the light—has 47,000 likes and counting.
Who IS he???
Poppy you can’t just post mystery man hands and not give us details
The WATCH. The HANDS. The way he’s holding that wine glass.
Three texts from Sage sit below the notifications, sent at 2 AM her time. Classic Sage.
SAGE: Okay I need a full debrief immediately
SAGE: The hand photo is doing NUMBERS and you’re giving me nothing
SAGE: Also you posted that caption at like 11pm your time and then went radio silent. either you’re dead or you’re having the best night of your life. WHICH IS IT?
I type back, still half-asleep.
ME: Not dead. Very hungover. The champagne here is dangerous.
SAGE: POPPY ROSE. It is 4am and I have been WAITING. What happened after the photo???
ME: Honestly? Things got a little blurry after dinner.
ME: I remember the gardens. There were lanterns. Julian was being annoyingly perfect.
ME: And then I woke up in my bed in pajamas with zero memory of how I got here.
SAGE: Oh my gosh did you black out on your fake boyfriend
ME: I did not BLACK OUT!! I just... aggressively forgot some details.
SAGE: Poppy. Babe. Those are the same thing.
ME: The point is, Julian must have gotten me back to the room. Like a gentleman.
SAGE: Or like a serial killer
ME: He’s not a serial killer
SAGE: That’s exactly what someone dating a serial killer would say
SAGE: Anyway how was he this morning? Awkward? Weird? Did you do something embarrassing you don’t remember?
I glance at Julian on the balcony. He’s still reading, perfectly composed, giving nothing away.
ME: He’s acting completely normal. So either nothing happened or I humiliated myself and he’s too polite to mention it.
SAGE: I’m choosing to believe you confessed your undying love and he’s saving it for leverage later
ME: I hate you
SAGE: You love me. Now go get content. That hand photo won’t carry the whole trip.
I slip out onto the balcony. Julian glances up, and something shifts in his expression. Something I can’t read.
“Morning,” I say. “Ready to be internet famous?”
“I thought we agreed on minimal exposure.”
“We agreed on strategic exposure. There’s a difference.” I hold up my phone. “My followers are losing their minds over the mystery man. We need to give them something before they start reverse image searching your watch.”
“Let them search. They won’t find anything.”
“That’s not how this works. The algorithm rewards engagement. Engagement requires content. Content requires you looking good in tropical lighting while I narrate our romantic breakfast.”
His mouth quirks. “Looking good?”
“I’m paraphrasing the comments. They used more emojis.” I open my camera app. “Come on. Ten minutes. Then you can go back to brooding over your tablet.”
“I don’t brood.”
“You brood like it’s an Olympic sport and you’re going for gold.”
He sets down the tablet. Stands. The movement is fluid, like he’s aware of how much space he occupies and how to minimize it.
“Where do you want me?” he asks.
The question should be simple. Professional. Instead, my brain supplies twenty inappropriate answers.
“Table,” I manage. “We’ll start with breakfast. Natural. Candid.”
“Nothing about this is candid.”
“That’s the point. Candid is a performance. The best influencer content looks effortless, but requires planning.” I arrange the fruit plate I ordered earlier. Adjust the angle of his coffee cup. “Okay. Sit there. Look at me like I’m saying something fascinating.”
He sits. Looks at me. His expression doesn’t change.
“More fascinated,” I say. “Less ‘tolerating a tedious meeting.’”
“This is my fascinated face.”
“Your fascinated face looks like you’re calculating compound interest.”
“I am. The resort’s pricing structure is inefficient.”
I lower my phone. “Julian. I need you to pretend you’re not thinking about pricing structures. Pretend you’re thinking about how much you adore your girlfriend who’s trying to get good lighting on this papaya.”
He pauses. Then his hand finds my wrist where I’m bracing against the table, and traces my skin near my pulse.
If he could only feel my pulse, he’d know how much my heart began to race.
Remember he’s acting, I told myself.
“The way you arrange things is interesting,” he says.
“Interesting how?”
“Precise. You’ve repositioned the fruit three times, each time by millimeters. You’re creating an aesthetic that appears effortless, but is rigid.”
I stare at him. “That’s... actually kind of romantic? In a weird, observant way?”
“I notice things about you.”
His hand is still on my wrist. His fingers are cool—cooler than they should be after sitting in the tropical sun in the Bahamas. He must have some poor circulation.
“Yeah. I’m getting that.” I raise my phone again. My hands are steadier now. “Okay. Say something that would make me laugh.”
He thinks about it for a second. “Oh, I have it. Your sister’s fiancé is a managing director at a firm that’s about to be investigated for securities fraud.”
I almost drop my phone. “What?”
“You said to say something that was funny. Make you laugh, correct?”
“How is someone being investigated for securities fraud funny?”
“Hum—I mean, the comedians I have seen always point out something bad about someone else to get people to laugh.”
“Not like that. That’s just terrifying.” Something about the way he said it is gnawing at me. “Is that true? Is he being investigated?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know that?”
“I know things.” He picks up a strawberry. Studies it. “Should I be concerned about your sister’s financial future?”
“Should you—Julian, you can’t just drop that Chris is a criminal and then ask if you should be concerned.”
“I didn’t say criminal. I said investigated. There’s a difference.”
“Oh, well, that’s much better. I’ll include that in my maid of honor toast.” I sit down across from him. Forget about taking the photo. “Is Violet in danger?”
“Financially? Possibly. Physically? No. He’s not that kind of criminal.”
“There are kinds?”
“Many kinds. Chris is the boring kind. Offshore accounts. Shell corporations. Nothing creative.” He sets down the strawberry. “I can have my legal team look into it if you’re worried.”
“Your legal team.”
“I employ twenty-three lawyers. They’re very good at what they do.”
“Which is?”
“Making problems disappear.”
The way he says it—casual, certain—sends a chill through me. But it also warms me up. Because he’s offering to protect Violet. Offering to use his resources to help my family.
My family who he only met yesterday.
“Why would you do that?” I ask.
“Because I don’t like seeing you worried.”
“But this is fake, right? You don’t have to care about my sister’s financial security.”
He looks at me. “Who says I’m faking it?”
The air between us shifts. Becomes dense.
My phone buzzes. Violet’s name flashes on the screen.
VIOLET: Beach day! Everyone’s meeting at 10. Bring your mysterious boyfriend. Mom wants to interrogate him properly.
“We have a command performance,” I say. My voice sounds strange. “Beach. Ten AM. Interrogation included.”
“I’ll prepare my answers.”
“You’re not nervous?”
“Should I be?”
“My mother once made a grown man cry by asking about his investment portfolio.”
“I have an excellent investment portfolio.”
“That’s not the point. The point is she’s terrifying, and she will find your weakness and exploit it.”
Julian stands. Crosses to me. Crouches down so we’re eye level. “Poppy. I’ve negotiated with venture capitalists who eat companies for breakfast. I’ve sat across from CEOs who’ve built empires on other people’s failures. Your mother is formidable, but she’s not the scariest thing I’ve faced.”
“What is?”
He pauses. Then goes to say something and pauses again. “You know, we should probably get ready. I bet there will be plenty of photo opportunities at the beach.”
He’s deflecting. I know deflection—I’m fluent in it. But I let it go because we have a performance to prepare for.
We’re down on the beach by 9:50. Vi hates it when people are late to things, even though she’s the one who is always late.
The beach is perfect. White sand. Turquoise water. Palm trees swaying in the breeze.
My family has claimed a section near the water. Violet and Chris are there with my mother—and my ex and the homewrecker. Preston is wearing board shorts that cost more than my rent. Serenity is in a white bikini that makes her look like a yoga instructor descended from the clouds.
She’s filming. Of course she is.
I watch her position Preston against the waves, angling his jaw toward the light. “Okay, babe, now look contemplative. Like you’re thinking about your morning meditation.”
Preston arranges his face into what I assume is meant to be contemplative. It looks more like he’s trying to remember if he left the stove on.
“Perfect,” Serenity says. “Now let’s do one together. Couples content!”
She hands the phone to a passing resort employee, positions herself against Preston’s chest. They smile. The smiles look rehearsed—which bugs me since I could never get him to do that for me.
What really annoys me is how she is laying her head on his chest. That’s how I laid my head in our photos together. She’s not only stealing my man, she’s stealing my moves!
Which I really shouldn’t care about anymore. I have Julian now—and he’s looking mighty sexy in those black swim trunks. Black swim trunks and nothing else.