Page 69 of How to Blow It with a Billionaire

“I’m so sorry, but can I be really annoying?” Poppy was saying to the barista, who frankly looked as though her being annoying at him might be the highlight of his life. “Can I have a cup of boiling water, and a tea bag separately, and some milk in a jug? I know you must hate me right now but some rather terrible things have happened to tea out here.”

“N-no, that’s fine.”

Poppy seemed blissfully unaware of the fact she could probably have asked for a black chicken to be sacrificed in a pentagram of blood, and would have received the same answer. “What about you, Arden?”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.”

“Please. My treat.”

Ahhh. What was I possibly supposed to say? I couldn’t enter into a battle of British politeness with Poppy Carrie. That was insane. “Gosh. Thank you. I’ll have a strawberry smoothie.”

A few minutes later we were settled into a corner and I was trying not to slurp my drink too noisily—which was borderline impossible because I swear to God someone had left half a banana in there. No offense to Coffee Central.

“I just wanted to thank you,” said Poppy. “For taking such good care of Nik.”

I squirmed. “It wasn’t a big deal.

“You don’t have to downplay it. Having you here has helped him a lot. And I’m so glad you called me.”

“I’m glad I did too. I mean, I’d do anything for Nik but I’m not…I mean…this has all been a bit overwhelming.”

She nodded, stirring her tea. “I can imagine. Which is partly why—and I hope you won’t feel I’m trying to take something from you—we’d like it if I could officially replace you as Nik’s next of kin. You’ve been wonderful, Arden, but really it should be me, not you.”

“Oh God, that’s fine. I’m not trying to keep your brother from you.”

“I never thought that for a moment.”

“Honestly, I only agreed because it seemed funny. We never actually thought I’d have to do any next-of-kinning.” I grappled non-euphemistically with my banana and then gave up, as it had lodged itself immovably in the straw. “We got superdrunk once and made a pact to get married if we both turned thirty-seven and weren’t with anyone else. I wouldn’t hold him to that either.”

She gave me a mischievous grin. “You’re very cute. What if he tries to hold you to it?”

“Well, he’s hot and funny and clever and nice. So I’d say yes, obviously.”

“Can I come to the wedding?”

“You’re welcome at any and all of my queer, hypothetical weddings.”

There was a brief pause.

“I’m so glad Nikki has a friend like you,” she said softly. “We haven’t kept in touch since I left home and, obviously, this isn’t how I would have wanted to reconnect. But I’ve thought about him a lot.”

“From what he said, he feels bad about how things went before.”

“That was partially on me. He was, in his confused, teenage way, trying to protect me. And I was—I suppose I still am—very angry.”

I stared at her—so composed in her cashmere, with her tea. “You don’t seem like an angry person.”

“Therapy. And”—she gave a slightly wry smile—“Colt, oddly enough. He understands wild things. Sometimes he just takes me out into the middle of nowhere and I scream until there’s no screams left. Then we lie in the bed of his truck and watch the sun set and the stars come out.”

“That sounds way better than therapy.”

“And there’s always action movies.” She made an absolutely ferocious face and mimed firing what I presumed was an automatic weapon. “Eat this, motherbitches. Very cathartic. Especially if you have an unholy vendetta against blue screens.”

I burst into rapturous applause. “And the award for best motherbitches goes to…”

“Now you know why I’m an actor not a writer.” She put down her gun. “But you are, aren’t you? Nikki said you were a journalist?”

“Well, I’m working on it.” I was doing it again. I took a breath, and went on. “Actually, I’ve had a piece accepted by Milieu.”