Page 68 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

In person, Poppy Carrie was an impossible mixture of normal and extraordinary. She turned up wearing jeans and boots, a cream cashmere-silk sweater, and Audrey Hepburn sunglasses—nothing about her at all to scream “famously beautiful person.” Except looking at her for too long made it hard to breathe. She had this dreamy, summery English loveliness, all corn-gold hair and eyes like freshly turned earth, and this shy scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. There was definitely a trace of Nik around her cheekbones and in the generosity of her mouth.

She’d come from LA, with her…boyfriend? A six-foot-something hunk of weathered manhood called Colt Dawson, who had a ranch out in Montana, and did stuff with horses for Hollywood. Apparently they’d met on the set of Madame Bovary. I got all this from the internet, frantically googling something I could say to Colt as we sat together in the waiting room because we were giving Nik and Poppy time to talk.

Colt himself had said exactly zero words. And was occupying his chair with a degree of stillness I usually only associated with the deceased.

I, of course, was wriggling. Topics flitting in and out of my brain like moon-drunk moths.

“Soooo,” I said, “did you vote for Trump?”

“Nope.”

“Oh yay. I mean, I guess I thought you might have what with being, well, y’know, all with the horses and the big sky and things.”

“Nope.”

“Not that you have to explain your beliefs or your politics or your opinions or anything to some random English guy you just met in a hospital waiting room.”

“Didn’t plan to.”

“Well.” I wheezed anxiously. “Good talk.”

Eventually, we were allowed back in. They both looked a little tearful, but in a happy sort of way. Then Poppy smiled at me, and I tried not to die.

“It’s Arden, isn’t it?” Her voice was softly musical, deep but light somehow, and it was so nice to hear another English accent.

Nod. Nod nod.

“I’d love a cup of tea? Do you want to come with me?”

Oh. My. God. “Y-yes. That would be really nice.” Great. I sounded like a robot. “There’s a Coffee Central near the lobby. They do hot and cold beverages. And muffins. And smoothies. And pastries sometimes and I’m not being paid to advertise them or anything.”

“Perfect.”

She slipped her arm through mine and we made our way downstairs, this new reality, where Poppy Carrie touched me as she might a friend, quietly dissolving what was left of my brain.

OMG, Arden, say something.

Actually: check that. You aren’t allowed to say anything ever.

“How are you finding America?” she asked.

“Oh. Um. I’m not sure. It still feels unreal.” I smiled—yep, I smiled at Poppy Carrie and she smiled back. “I mean, Boston looks like I built it last week in Sim City.”

She laughed. “But you know in American terms, it’s ancient.”

“It is?”

“Yes.” She lowered her voice to an awed whisper. “Nearly four hundred years old.”

I put a hand to my brow. “No!”

“And, compared to somewhere like New York or Washington, far less artificial than it could be. Like Oxford, Boston was essentially designed by cows.”

“Hey, I’ve seen the Charles. The only cow fording that is a giant space cow.”

“Well, they do say everything’s bigger in America.”

We’d made it to the coffee place and I hadn’t passed out or embarrassed myself too badly. Actually, apart from occasional flashes of OMG Poppy Carrie, I was feeling fairly comfortable. She vaguely reminded me of Nik. Well, if he was way prettier and way more charming. But she had his appreciation for the absurd—which might have been why they both gave every impression of liking me.