Holy shit. The guy was Ansel Daily, drummer of the Domestic Noir Plot and more important, Lyric’s ex-boyfriend.
His sun-streaked brown hair was longer, his entire aesthetic a little moreI bought a private island in Croatia and started a cultthan Poppy remembered, but it was definitely him.
“Ibarelyeven tapped her. And you know I drive electric. It’s like, I hit one chick with my car, but I’m also saving the planet and shit. It’s a wash, you know? Nah, dude, I’m at Erewhon. I went a little hard on the”—Ansel sniffed—“espresso martinisat Bird Streets last night, if you catch my drift.” He chuckled. “Yeah, yeah, I’m headed to the studio, just need to grab something to, like, detox or shit. Fuck if I know. Mhmm. ’Kay, dude. See you.” He pocketed his phone and stepped up to the register. “Yeah, gimme a Chagacinno with mucuna and CBD oil and—make sure it’s ceremonial matcha and not the culinary kind. Okay, sweetheart?”
The fresh-faced barista took Ansel’s condescension in stride, scribbling his order down on two cups before punching it into the register. “You can insert your card or tap whenever you’re ready.”
Ansel pulled a black American Express out of his wallet, tapped the card against the reader, hit theno tipbutton, and walked over to the pickup counter, all without so much as a thank-you.
What. A. Prick.
“What can I get for you?”
Poppy schooled her scowl into a smile as she stepped up to the register, placing an uncomplicated order for a Malibu Mango smoothie and tipping double what she normally would to make up for Ansel the Asshole’s lack of gratuity.
She was minding her business, debating whether to try a spicy tuna sandwich or get the poke nachos when, to her right, Ansel snapped his fingers.
“Hey, you.” He snapped his fingers again. “Do I know you?”
Her mouth dropped open. “Did you just snap at me?”
He squinted at her. “I swear you look familiar.”
“I guess I just have one of those faces.” She turned back to the cold bar, done with the conversation.
“No, no, I think I—” He started to laugh. “Oh shit. You’re Cash Curran’s assistant, aren’t you?”
“Publicist,” she gritted out. “I’m his publicist. Not his assistant.”
“That’s cool.” Ansel leaned his suntanned, sticker-tattooed forearms on the counter, angling his body toward her. “So, tell me—how exactly is he enjoying my sloppy seconds?”
A vein in her temple began to pulse, her blood pressure rising. “You know what? You can go—” His phone was in his hand and maybe Poppy was being paranoid, but the last thing she needed was for some video of her telling Ansel Daily to go fuck himself to go viral. “You sound like a sore loser.”
“A sore loser?” He laughed. “That’s cute.” The barista set his disgusting-sounding, CBD-laden Chagacinno down in front of him. “Tell Cash to enjoy his thirty seconds of fame while it lasts.” He turned, only to stop dead in his tracks. “Rosaline.”
“Ansel.” She stopped beside Poppy and smiled benignly, sweetly even. “I heard your tour got canceled. What a bummer for all twelve of your fans.”
Ouch.
“Doesn’t it get exhausting?” He snatched his Chagacinno off the bar. “Always being such a cunt?”
Rosaline gave an effortless shrug and snatched Ansel’s basket off the floor, shoving it into his chest with a smile. “Why do you think I drink cold brew?”
Ansel sneered, his shoulder knocking hard into Poppy’s as he stormed off in the direction of the checkout.
“I cannot believe Lyric actually dated him,” Poppy murmured.
“Ansel might be a mediocre drummer, but he’s a master manipulator and a narcissist.” Rosaline glared at Ansel’s retreatingform. “As embarrassed as I am to admit it, he even had me snowed for a while.”
“Asshole.”
Rosaline hummed in agreement. “And karma’s a bitch,” she said sagely, taking Poppy’s hand. “Let’s go.”
“But my smoothie—”
“We’ll come back for it.” She started walking, pulling Poppy along. “Trust me.”
They joined the line for the register; at least half a dozen shoppers were behind Ansel, whose basket was now empty, his groceries packed into two brown paper bags.
