Rosaline held up the pizza as if that answered Poppy’s question. “Can I come in?”
She stepped aside, letting Rosaline pass. Rosaline paused to step out of her shoes and as she did, her eyes swept the room, surveying her surroundings.
“Nice place Curran has.” She studied the giant abstract frescoon the wall with a curious tilt of her chin. “A little modern for my taste, and it could use some color, but it’s hardly the bachelor pad I was expecting.” Rosaline glanced at Poppy over her shoulder and arched a brow. “Or did you decorate?”
She shook her head. “He told me I could change whatever I wanted when I moved in, but it’s not like I plan on living here forever, so I didn’t see the point.”
Rosaline hummed. “I imagine you’d stay in Portland?”
Aside from the four years she’d spent living in Eugene, she’d never lived anywhere else. And that was less than a two-hour drive outside the city. It barely counted. “I mean, Cash is here. My job is here. Unless he decides to go somewhere else, which wouldn’t happen until his contract’s up in another four years, Portland’s home.” She locked the front door. “Lyric isn’t here, by the way. They’re still out celebrating with the team, I think.”
With its twin rooftop patios, outdoor bar, and amazing view of the Willamette, xport rooftop lounge was the Pathfinders’ go-to postgame celebration spot.
“I know.” Rosaline made herself at home in the middle of Cash’s couch. “I was just there. You weren’t.”
“Bars aren’t really my scene,” she said, perching on the arm of the couch.
“I figured,” Rosaline said, voice free of judgment, but also absent of condescension. Like she was just stating a fact. The grass was green, and Poppy didn’t frequent bars.
Poppy chewed on her lip. “So, you decided to come here? Doesn’t your family still live in Portland?”
If she hadn’t been staring so intensely at Rosaline, she might’ve missed the minute pursing of her lips. “My parents do.”
“We could’ve comped them tickets to the game. If you’d wanted.”
Rosaline flipped open the pizza box. “Football isn’t really their thing.” She held out the box. “You want?”
Poppy stole a slice of what looked like Sizzle Pie’s Don Caballero pizza—pepperoni, sausage, green peppers, and onion—and settled in on the cushion next to Rosaline. “If football isn’t their thing, what is?”
It was hard for her to wrap her brain around anyone in this city not having at least a passing interest in the sport, but that probably had more to do with the circles Poppy ran in than reality.
Rosaline stared up at the ceiling, her tongue pressed against the side of her cheek. “I don’t know. Exceptionality?” Her head lolled to the side and whatever she saw on Poppy’s face made her snort out a laugh. “My father founded a green architectural design firm here in the city and was recently recognized with the Progressive Architecture Award for outstanding strides made in the field. My mother is a glass sculptor with permanent collections in the Smithsonian and the Musée des Arts Décoratifs in Paris. My sister Helen is principal cello in the New York Philharmonic, and Bianca’s doing a stint in Berlin as a guest tattoo artist, but before that she attended RISD, got her BFA in painting, and was awarded the Guggenheim Fellowship.” Rosaline paused, frowning slightly. “I think she got the Carnegie Prize too, but I honestly can’t remember.”
“Damn.” Poppy whistled. “And then there’s you.” Renowned publicist to one of the bestselling artists in the world. Talk about an impressive family.
“And then there’s me.” Rosaline lowered her eyes, lashes casting a faint shadow on her high cheekbones, her expression shuttering. “I saw my parents last Christmas, and I’ll see them again in a few months at Thanksgiving.”
She knew anend of discussionwhen she heard one, and she knew better than to press. Families were complicated. No needto tell her that. “So, you came here. How’d you even know where Cash lives?”
“If Curran doesn’t want his address on the internet, tell him to buy his next house under an LLC.”
Not many things rendered her speechless but learning that Rosaline had scoured the county records for Cash’s home address came close. “You realize you could’ve texted me, right?”
“I could’ve. But then I’d have probably missed out on seeing you in those delightful sushi pajamas.”
“If that’s sarcasm, I’m choosing to ignore it.”
“As is your right.” A flush spread down Poppy’s throat as Rosaline’s gaze raked over Poppy from top to bottom in another of those dizzying full-body perusals, the second of the day. “They’re cute.” She grinned. “Very... Delia’s circa 2008.”
Ugh,cutewas even worse thanpretty.
Poppy screwed up her face, feigning confusion. “Very what?”
Rosaline arched a brow. “Don’t be a brat, Poppy.”
Poppy shivered at the soft censure in Rosaline’s voice and plucked a pepperoni off her pizza. “You still haven’t said what you’re doing here.”
“I’m sorry, did I interrupt your big Sunday night plans to,” Rosaline said, squinting at Poppy’s computer screen, “comb through Curran’s mentions?”
