I sign without reading. Another mistake for the list.
Forty-two minutes later, my phone rings. Unknown number.
My heart tries to exit through my throat. I let it ring twice—I’m not a complete disaster—then answer.
“Miss Gable?” The voice is deep. Unhurried. Like honey poured over gravel. “This is Julian Blackthorne. I believe we have a wedding to attend.”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
Julian Blackthorne. Even his name sounds like it belongs on a leather-bound book or a bottle of expensive scotch. Meanwhile, I’m sitting on my couch in yesterday’s sweatpants with coffee breath and unwashed hair.
“You’re real,” I finally manage. “I thought maybe this was an elaborate scam. Or a fever dream. Or both.”
“I assure you, I’m quite real.” There’s something almost amused in his tone. “Shall we discuss arrangements?”
“Yes. Right. Arrangements.” I scramble for the notebook I’d fallen asleep holding. Papers scatter everywhere. “I made a list. Several lists. And a spreadsheet. And a presentation deck.” I wince. “I might have a problem.”
“I appreciate thoroughness.” He says with no judgment. If anything, he sounds pleased. “Send me everything. I’ll review it before we meet.”
“We’re meeting?” It comes out in a way that is embarrassing—climbing half an octave like I’m fifteen and my crush just looked at me. “Like, in person? Before the wedding?”
“Unless you’d prefer to introduce a stranger as your boyfriend without any prior interaction.” A pause, perfectly timed. “Though I suppose that would add authenticity to the desperation narrative.”
I laugh, surprising myself. “Oh my gosh. You made a joke. I wasn’t expecting jokes.”
“I am a complex man, Miss Gable.”
“Poppy. Please. Miss Gable makes me sound like a Jane Austen character.”
“Noted. Poppy.” Something about the way he says my name makes my skin prickle. Like he’s tasting it. Filing it away somewhere important. “I’m available to meet this week. What’s your availability?”
“My schedule is embarrassingly flexible. Influencer hours mean I can work anytime, which means I’m working all the time, but also never working? It’s complicated.”
Why am I explaining my job to this man? Why can’t I stop talking?
“Thursday evening. Seven PM. I’ll pick you up.”
I blink. “Pick me up? Like... from my apartment?”
“That is typically how one picks someone up, yes.”
“But—” I look around my living room. The ring light in the corner. The stack of PR packages I haven’t opened. The general chaos of a life lived mostly online. “You don’t have to do that. I can meet you somewhere. A restaurant, or—”
“Poppy,” he says patiently, almost gently. “If we’re going to convince your family that we’re in a relationship, we should probably arrive together. And I don’t intend to have our first meeting in a parking lot while you’re trying to find your keys.”
“I wouldn’t—” Who am I kidding, I absolutely would. “Okay. Fine. Thursday at seven. I’ll text you my address.”
“I already have it. It was in your file.”
Of course it was. Of course this mysterious stranger, with a voice that sounds like he’s from old money, already knows where I live. This is fine. Everything is fine.
“We’ll go to dinner,” he continues. “Discuss expectations. Review your materials. I’ll have you home at a reasonable hour.”
“That sounds very...” I search for the word. “Gentlemanly.”
“I find that first impressions matter. I’d like ours to start properly.”
Something warm blooms in my chest. I squash it immediately. This is a business arrangement. He’s being professional, not romantic.
