“Is this Penelope Peterson?” The caller’s voice was clipped, professional, and slightly gravelly while still sounding distinctly feminine.
“This is her. I mean,she.” Cash snickered and Poppy flipped him off. She hated talking on the phone, always felt like she was doing it wrong. Like some script existed that everyone else knew except for her. “It’s Poppy, though. Poppy Peterson.”
A soft but not quite silent sigh came over the line and Poppy didn’t know who was calling but she had the strangest feeling that she’d already failed some kind of test. “This is Rosaline Sinclair of Rarity PR. Is now an okay time?”
Shut the front door, no it wasnot.
“Who is it?”
Poppy flailed, slapping a hand over Cash’s mouth. “Shh!”
Rosaline Sinclair—holy shit it wasRosaline Sinclair—let out a disbelieving laugh. “Did you just shush me?”
“No!” Poppy shouted, horrified. “Godno. I—sorry. Definitely not. And now is a great time. I can talk.”
Cash snickered, shoulders shaking with barely restrained laughter. “Can you?” he whispered. “Because I’m not so sure.”
“Asshole,” she mouthed, digging her toes harder into his thigh in warning.
The sound of shuffling papers carried through the phone. “Just to be clear, youareCash Curran’s public relations agent, are you not?”
She wiped the sweat from her hands on her thighs, palms disgustingly clammy. “I am?”
“Are you asking or are you telling me?” Rosaline sounded amused.
“Telling you?” Poppy wanted to punch herself in the face. “I’m telling you. I—shit, is this about the tweet? Because Cash issupersorry about that.” Her words caught up with her and her stomach sank. “And I’m sorry for swearing.”
Cash threw himself dramatically onto the ground, lying face down in the grass. Big baby. Poppy was the one about to get her ass reamed by the scariest publicist in the business, not him.
The line was silent for a beat. “So, he wasn’t serious?”
Poppy winced. “Well, no, not exactly. Hedefinitelymeant what he said. It was more the, uh, method with which he chose to say what he said that he’s sorry about.”
“Hm. Lyric found it... charming.”
Charming?“Seriously?”
“No one is more baffled than I am, trust me.” Rosaline sighed. “Assuming he hasn’t lost interest, Lyric is available for a call Tuesday evening, eight p.m. Pacific. I’ll email you a nondisclosure agreement for both you and your client to sign prior to the call. Upon receipt of the signed agreement, I’ll then email you the meeting ID and text you the passcode separately. Is this acceptable?”
Toto, Poppy had a feeling they were not in Kansas anymore.
“Wow, uh, NDAs and two-factor authentication. I guess I’ve been out of the dating game awhile, huh?”
Poppy laughed to fill the awkward, stomach-churning silence.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” Rosaline said, her voice chilly. “This isn’t a game.”
“No, I know it’s not. I only meant—”
“I know what you meant, but I need you to understand whatImean when I say this isn’t a joke. To be perfectly frank, I would have let your client’s madcap tweet go quietly into the good night if not for the fact thatmyclient requested I reach out on her behalf. If we’re going to proceed, we’re going to do it on my terms. Which is to say, properly. Are we understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Poppy blurted, her voice horrifyingly breathy, the wordsfear bonerflashing through her mind. Ma’am?Ma’am?Someone fucking lobotomize her. “I mean, uh...”
An agonizing beat of silence passed, a pause so pregnant Poppy debated flinging her phone into the pool and herself off the nearest tall object. After another moment, Rosaline delicately cleared her throat. “Good. So, Tuesday?”
Poppy covered the phone with her hand and kicked Cash in the side. “Look alive, Curran. Lyric Adair wants to talk to you.”
“What?” Blades of grass stuck to his cheek when he lifted his head. “Now? Holy fuck, give me the phone.”
