I looked at my watch. “Maybe a few more minutes out here,” I said.
“But we have to go on in fifteen minutes, to introduce Guillaume. Don’t you think we’d better have a glass of champagne first?”
I shrugged. “Just give it a few more minutes,” I said. “Not everyone is here.”
Poppy looked confused for a second. She glanced at the list. “We’re only missing five people.”
“I might as well wait.”
Poppy looked at me strangely and shrugged. “Well, I’m going inside. Suit yourself.”
Ten minutes later, Gabe still hadn’t arrived. Surely he’s coming, I thought in frustration. But where is he? And more important, why is it bothering me so much?
I sighed and got up from the table, leaving one of the PR assistants in charge in case anyone—like, for example, Gabe—showed up late.
Inside, the reception was in full swing, and it looked even more perfect than I had anticipated. I grabbed a glass of pink champagne off a tray that went by on the arm of a tuxedo-clad waiter and drank half of it down in one sip, trying to relax. There were roughly a hundred journalists in the room and, glancing around at their faces, I could see that most of them looked content. And why shouldn’t they be? There were endless trays of hors d’oeuvres being carried around the room by a fleet of servers, and there were flutes of pink champagne, glasses of Beaujolais, strong mojitos, and Riche-tinis—a specialty drink of champagne, vodka, crème de cassis, and Sprite that Poppy and I had created for the event.
I shook a few hands as I made my way toward the stage to find Poppy. None of the reporters knew they were in for an impromptu concert in a few moments, and I could hardly wait to see their faces when the man of the hour took the stage.
“Were you waiting for someone in particular?” Poppy asked quietly as I slipped behind the curtains to the backstage area. She was standing by herself with her glasses on, reading over the scribbled remarks she planned to make later.
I shook my head and tried not to blush.
“You’re not developing a crush on one of the journalists, are you?” she asked.
“No!” I exclaimed defensively.
Poppy looked at me carefully. “I told you to be careful with these French guys,” she said. “They’ll just break your heart.”
I nodded and tried not to look guilty. It’s not like I was falling for Gabe or anything. “I know.”
Poppy took off her glasses and slipped them back into her case. Then she ran a hand through her hair and shoved her notes into her bag. “You ready?” she asked.
“Ready when you are.”
She nodded, and together we walked out in front of the curtain onto the small stage.
“Hello, everybody, and welcome,” Poppy said into the microphone. The chatter around the room quieted, and a hundred pairs of eyes came to rest on us. I smiled politely as Poppy continued. “Thank you so much for being here today for an event that we at KMG are very excited about. We’re thrilled to launch Guillaume Riche to the world with the debut of his new album, Riche, which hits stores Tuesday.”
There was a smattering of applause, and Poppy looked momentarily troubled. I assumed she’d been expecting more.
“Of course you’ve all probably heard ‘City of Light,’ the debut single from Guillaume’s album,” she continued. There was more applause this time, and a few whoops and catcalls to boot. Poppy smiled at this. “Of course as you all know, one-on-one interviews with Guillaume begin tomorrow. Print journalists are in the morning; TV reporters are in the afternoon. You should have received your interview time in your checkin packet. Please plan to be in the media suite thirty minutes prior, and make sure you check in with either Emma or me.”
There were nods around the room, and the buzz of chatter started up again softly, as if some of the reporters had decided that Poppy wasn’t saying anything of real value. I shot her a look, and she nodded.
“But before I bore you with more details,” she continued. “I’d like to introduce you to the reason you’re all here tonight.” She paused dramatically, and the chatter faded again as the reporters looked at her expectantly. “Ladies and gentlemen . . . I give you France’s greatest export, Guillaume Riche!”
There was a collective startled gasp, and then the clapping began. A moment later, the curtain rolled back and revealed Guillaume’s backup band. They started to play the first chords of “City of Light,” and the room exploded into applause and cheers. Poppy grinned broadly at me as she stepped down and joined me beside the stage.
“They love him!” she whispered.
“How could they not?” I said back, watching as Guillaume, looking deliciously sexy in tight leather pants and a black button-down shirt, emerged from the other side of the stage with a wireless microphone in hand. The cheering and whistling went up an octave, and the applause thickened. Guillaume smiled at the crowd and waved.