“It probably sounds better in French,” Poppy gasped between giggles.
Marielle picked up the nearest flocked velvet pillow and lobbed it at Poppy.
A knock at the door interrupted their laughter. “Room service.”
“Let me check it out first,” Olivia whispered, already moving toward the door.
She peered through the peephole, then opened the door just wide enough to see the server. After a brief exchange, she stepped back and allowed a young man in a crisp white jacket to wheel in a cart laden with silver domes and an ice bucket.
He set up the spread on the dining room table with practiced efficiency, uncorked the champagne, and left with a dignified bow and a generous tip.
They loaded their plates with delicacies and carried them back to the seating area along with the bottle of bubbly and three fluted glasses.
“To girls’ weekends,” Poppy proposed a toast.
“And successful missions and safe returns,” Olivia added.
“And the truth coming out,” Marielle chimed in.
They clinked glasses and turned their attention to the food.
Marielle spread brie on a pear slice and popped it into her mouth.
“Do you have to rehearse or anything?” Olivia asked. “For your show?”
“Mmm, of course.” Poppy slurped down an oyster before answering. “Three hours tomorrow afternoon.”
Good, Marielle thought. She trusted Poppy, but only so far.
“Olivia and I will meet with Hanna while you’re rehearsing and find out if she knows anything,” she offered.
Poppy frowned. “I want to talk to her myself.”
“I’m sure you do. But for now, this is what we’re comfortable with.” Marielle gave Olivia a sideways look to make sure they were on the same page.
Liv nodded and took a swallow of champagne. “Get us whatever chatter you want us to ask her about.”
Poppy opened her mouth to object, then seemed to think better of it. “Fair enough. You can take the first crack at her. But I want you to record it. And if you don’t get me anything I can use, I meet with her myself.”
“We can work with that,” Marielle said.
“If you agree to implement tighter security measures,” Olivia added. “Starting now.”
“What kind of measures?” Poppy bristled.
“The kind where you don’t post anything that anyone could use to pinpoint our location. The kind where we vary our routes and timing. The kind where we assume we’re being watched at all times.”
“I am being watched at all times,” Poppy pointed out. “And I’m on tour. I have to post content. My fans expect?—”
“Your fans will understand a little mystery,” Marielle interrupted. “Post throwback photos. Behind-the-scenes footage from rehearsals after the fact. Take a shot of the Eiffel Tower tonight, and post it tomorrow. Just don’t go live on social media and don’t post anything with real-time location data.”
Poppy threw up her hands. “Fine. Radio silence on the current location. But everyone knows I stay in this suite when I’m in town. That’s unavoidable.”
“We understand you’re a celebrity,” Marielle told her. “You can keep your Pop Tarts happy without painting a target on us.”
“Wait,” Olivia said. “Chelsea and Leilah are flying in tomorrow afternoon, right?”
“Yes. They land at Charles de Gaulle at three,” Marielle confirmed.
