I don’t respond. Instead, I pull up my notes app and add a new entry under the wedding checklist:
Don’t fall for the fake boyfriend.
I stare at the words. Laugh at myself. Delete them.
As if that’s even a possibility. Julian Blackthorne is a service I’m purchasing, nothing more. A very expensive, very attractive service with a voice like sin and a mysterious job he won’t tell me about. A man who insists on picking me up like we’re in a 1950s movie. A man who says things like “I find that first impressions matter” without a trace of irony.
This is a business arrangement. I’m going to remember that.
I’m definitely going to remember that.
CHAPTER 4
JULIAN
Her building is a walk-up in Silver Lake. Third floor. No doorman.
I stand on the sidewalk for thirty seconds longer than necessary, studying the bougainvillea climbing the stucco, the succulent garden someone’s planted by the entrance, the way the evening light turns the Spanish tile roof golden. Marcus waits in the car behind me, patient as always. He’s been my head of security for over fifty years, though his official title is “Driver” for situations exactly like this—when I need protection without the appearance of it. Tonight, I almost brought someone else from the team. Someone whose presence wouldn’t require explanation if Poppy noticed the same face too often.
But Marcus insisted. He wants to assess her himself.
I haven’t been nervous in decades. Possibly longer. Nerves require uncertainty, and I’ve spent two centuries eliminating uncertainty from my life.
And yet.
I check my watch. Six fifty-three. I told her seven. Early is eager. Late is rude. On time is—
I’m stalling.
The buzzer panel is old, the kind with handwritten names slipped behind plastic. Hers says “P. Gable” in neat block letters. Practical. No flourishes.
I press the button.
Static. Then: “Hello?”
Her voice sounds different through the speaker. Smaller. More uncertain.
“It’s Julian.”
A pause. “You’re early.”
“I can wait in the car if you prefer.”
“No, no—come up. Third floor. Fair warning, the stairs are a nightmare.”
The door buzzes. I push through into a tiled courtyard with a dry fountain and stairs winding up the side of the building. The steps are terracotta, worn smooth in the centers. I take them slowly, not because I need to, but because I’m cataloging everything. The potted lemon tree on the landing. The wind chimes outside someone’s door. The muffled sound of music through a window—something acoustic, melancholy.
This is where she lives. This is her world.
By the time I reach the third floor, I’ve learned more about Poppy Gable than her Spellbound profile told me. She lives modestly despite her income—the building is clean but not luxurious. She chose character over convenience. She doesn’t need to impress anyone with her address.
I find this more interesting than I should.
Her door is already open. She stands in the frame, and I stop.
The photo didn’t capture her. Couldn’t have. Because the photo was static, and Poppy Gable is anything but.
She’s wearing a linen jumpsuit the color of sand. Her hair falls in waves that look effortless but probably took an hour. She’s holding a laminated card in one hand and her phone in the other, and her expression cycles through surprise, panic, and forced calm in the space of two seconds.
