She snorted.
Poppy (12:09 a.m.):You mean they know better than to fuck with you.
Rosaline (12:10 a.m.):Hey, you said it, not me.
Rosaline (12:10 a.m.):Obviously, it’s up to you if Curran does press, but I think you mightbe right about it being overkill. Always leave them wanting more is usually my motto.
Poppy (12:11 a.m.):Great minds??
She might consider arranging an exclusive like Rosaline had for Lyric, but only so Cash could plug the LGBTQ+ youth sports foundation he was starting here in Portland. No matter what, she’d be putting Cash through his paces, making sure he was prepared for anything a red-carpet correspondent might throw at him. Better to be overprepared and underwhelmed than the alternative.Thatwas Poppy’s motto.
Poppy was in the middle of drafting a reply toOutmagazine—they had a history of reporting favorably on Cash—when her phone buzzed against her thigh.
Rosaline (12:20 a.m.):What are you wearing?
Well,ho-ly shit.
Poppy smiled. Fuck email. Her night just got a lot more promising.
Her Taco Bell hot sauce pajamas were far from sexy, but that was easily rectified. She wiggled her shorts down her legs, kicking them across the room, and unbuttoned the short sleeve matching top, leaving her in a pair of—well, they weren’t her best underwear, but they were black and bikini-cut and maybe a little basic but inoffensive. And it wasn’t like they were going to stay on for long.
She fluffed her stack of pillows—Cash gave her so much shit for sleeping with a veritable mountain of them and, oh my godthis was not the time to be thinking about Cash. She straightened her duvet, trying to make it look like she hadn’t spent the better part of the day working from bed, and attempted to arrange herself artfully across the covers with her shirt splayed open, revealing most of her stomach but still keeping her breasts covered. She opened her camera, flipped it over to selfie mode, and held the phone up, trying to get as much of her body in the shot as possible while keeping her face out of it because she wasn’t a total moron. She snapped a few pictures from a couple of different angles because options were always nice and then opened her gallery.
Maybe not the best near nudes she’d ever taken, but for a spur-of-the-moment photo shoot, not bad. They were... far from artistically erotic. More tastefully slutty, exactly the vibe Poppy was going for. Why bother with pretense when they both knew what was about to happen?
Before she could get too nitpicky and start tearing herself apart, finding flaws in the softness around her middle or her skin, which wasn’t perfectly smooth, Poppy picked her favorite shot and sent it to Rosaline.
She settled further into the pillows and trailed her fingertips along the waistband of her panties, shivering at her own teasing touch. Right now, a thousand miles away in LA, Rosaline was probably looking at the picture Poppy had sent. Any second now, she was going to text back and god, Poppy didn’t know what she wanted more—Rosaline’s words or a picture in return, which, knowing Rosaline,wouldbe artistically erotic. Black and white, maybe, to complement all that inked skin. Both would be perfect. She dipped her fingers beneath the cotton and exhaled sharply, heat stirring low in her gut, a heavy sort of pulsing that made her hips shift restlessly against the bed.
Her phone rang and she jerked her fingers out of her underwearlike she’d been caught with her hand in a cookie jar. Her heart hammered and she fumbled the phone, nearly dropping it, laughing as her hands shook, struggling to switch over to speaker.
“Hi,” she answered, as breathless as if she’d sprinted a mile, blood pumping just as hard. “Not that I’m complaining, far,farfrom it, trust me, but I wasnotexpecting this.”
“That,” Rosaline said, clearing her throat, “makes two of us.”
Poppy swept her fingertips up and down the valley between her breasts. “Like I said, I’m a big believer in show, don’t tell.”
“I was asking what you were wearing to the World Music Awards, Poppy.”
Her breath left her in a rush, cheeks filling with heat. “Oh.” Fuck. Poppy was so stupid. “That’s—wow, okay. Sorry. Um. I—I haven’t decided yet. I’ll probably go to Nordstrom downtown. Buy something off the rack. Don’t want to—” Her voice cracked and she squinched her eyes shut. “Stand out.”
If there was a God, if they were merciful at all, they’d strike Poppy down now and put her out of her misery.
Rosaline let out a strangled-sounding laugh. “Poppy.” The way she said her name managed to be both soft and full of reproach. One more contradiction to add to the ever-growing list. “Do youreallythink I give a damn about that now? I want to talk about that picture.”
She seemed bound and determined to give Poppy whiplash. At the very least keep her on her toes.
Poppy gnawed on her thumbnail. “Did you... like it?”
“Did Ilikeit?” Rosaline laughed, a little mean in a way that sent a shiver down Poppy’s spine. “I like sunrises and kittens and horror movies. But that picture you sent? No, Poppy, Ididn’tlike it. You want to know why?”
She didn’t wait for Poppy to answer.
“Because,” she said. “You’re there, and I’m here, and do you know how fucking expensive it is to charter a flight at such short notice at this time of night?”
Poppy choked on a laugh. “I know I’m hot and all, but there’s no need to buy any carbon credits on my account.”
“I beg to differ,” Rosaline said loftily. “But I suppose the next best alternative would be if you told me what you were doing dressed like that.Undressed like that?”
