Sage pauses. “You know, there are restaurants still open at the L’Ermitage hotel.”
“Yes, but I’m positive he meant the restaurant that closed in ’91.”
“Okay. That’s weird.”
“Right?”
“But also—rich people are weird about restaurants. My cousin works in private equity and he still talks about Per Se like it’s a religious experience even though he went once five years ago.”
“This was different. He said before your time like he was... I don’t know. Like he was speaking from somewhere further away than five years.”
Sage sets down her glass. Studies me. “Poppy. What exactly are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just saying there’s something off about him.”
“Off how? Off like ‘serial killer’ or off like ‘eccentric billionaire’?”
“I don’t know!” I throw my hands up. “Both? Neither? He’s polite, almost old-fashioned. He pulled out my chair at dinner. He walked on the outside of the sidewalk when we left the restaurant. He called me Miss Gable at first like we were in some sort of period drama.”
“That’s... kind of sweet?”
“He also said humans at one point. Like ‘humans have always craved connection.’ Like he was giving a TED talk about a species he’d been observing.”
“Maybe he’s just awkward.”
“He’s not awkward. That’s the thing. He’s incredibly smooth. Too smooth. Everything he says sounds rehearsed, but rehearsed in a way that’s so natural you almost don’t notice. Except I did notice because he kept slipping. Like the rehearsed version kept glitching and something older was showing through.”
Sage is looking at me with an expression I can’t read.
“What?” I ask.
“You’ve spent, what, three hours with this guy?”
“Something like that.”
“And you’ve already got a full psychological profile, oh, and a wild conspiracy theory.”
“It’s not a conspiracy theory—”
“Poppy.” She leans forward. “You like him.”
“What? No. I hired him. It’s a business arrangement.”
“You like him and it’s freaking you out, so you’re looking for reasons why he’s secretly a weirdo so you don’t have to deal with the fact that you have feelings for him.”
“I don’t have feelings. I have observations.”
“You have a crush and you’re in denial.”
“I absolutely do not—”
“You kissed his cheek.”
I freeze. “How do you know that?”
“Because you have a tell. You always fidget with your necklace when you’ve done something impulsive. You’ve been touching it since I walked in.”
My hand drops from my collarbone. I hadn’t even noticed.
