Page 12 of Make The Cut

“I always am,” he says, with the self-assurance that only a complete jerk can muster. And while I’ve been smeared with my share of labels, I know enough to know that I am nothing like Timothy Jacobson. “I’m so sure about the show succeeding with Rose and you as the judges that I’m willing to make you an offer. I’ve discussed this with your agent, and I’m going to finance fifty percent of the show as long as Rose stays on for the full first season.”

I have to fight to keep my jaw from dropping. “You’re serious?”

I hate that I sound like a kid who’s just been offered a pony ride at the petting zoo. But it’s such a generous offer, that even though I was willing to put up money for the entire show by myself, I’m now wondering if I should take him up on it.

“I’m deadly serious,” TJ says. “I’ll have my production company write you a blank cheque. You’ll get whatever you want for the show to succeed. Sky’s the limit.”

My teeth grind at the thought of taking more than I need to from this man. “I’ll think about it.”

He shrugs. “Suit yourself. Offer expires next week, so don’t think about anything too long.”

With that, he gets up and walks toward the door, as though he lives here and can declare with a simple shrug of his shoulders that the meeting’s over.

Yeah. IhateTimothy Jacobson.

* * *

I bounce a bright blue ball against the door once. Twice. On the fifth time, it recoils just as my office door opens, sending the ball straight into my eye socket. Well, it would if my lawyer didn’t walk in and catch it first.

“Hey, Naoya,” Oliver James greets me. A former athlete—though I’ve never asked him what sport, exactly, he used to play—he has the reflexes of a particularly agile jungle cat. “Nice to see you.”

“Oliver.” I drop my feet from my desk and into a pair of bunny slippers, a gag gift from my mom that I never threw away. “Good to see you, man.”

We’ve never stood on ceremony, but I wouldn’t call us friends.

“I assume you called me here for the same reason that Gustav is pacing the floor outside, looking like he’ll shoot anything that looks at him the wrong way?”

I chuckle. Over the past three months, I’ve become keenly aware of the fact that I have a stalker. She’s sent me weird texts, made new accounts to follow me on Instagram, and has even shown up at a handful of my shows. “You mean, the dedicated fangirl who has shown up to all my events and has even tried to break into my house?”

“I don’t know if I’d call her a fan. Whoever she is…” Oliver shakes his head. “You’re going to need a restraining order against this woman.”

“Trust me, I’d love to have one.” The problem is, no one knows how she looks. She’s always wearing a baseball cap pulled low over her face, and whatever visor or sunglasses she’s wearing must be specifically made to block facial recognition technology, because I have never seen any part of her except for her long, dark hair. And even that could be a wig. “If I knew who she was.”

Oliver sucks in a breath through his teeth. “That may make things more difficult.”

I snort. “You think? I’ll just have to get Gustav to tackle her to the floor.”

“Sorry to say it, but I don’t think it would reflect well on you if your bodyguard went around tackling random women, Naoya.” He shakes his head, running a hand through his dark hair. “You’re just going to have to beef up your security cameras and hire more bodyguards.”

“But Gustav is all I need.” I don’t add that he’s the only bodyguard I’ve had who’s kept all my secrets so far, from my phone calls with my father to my spontaneous ice cream rendezvous with Poppy Black. “It’ll hurt his feelings if I hire more guards.”

“I think he’ll survive. It’ll make his job easier, at least. Think about it and get back to me when you know who this stalker is.” Oliver stands, dusting off his trousers. “Until then, I’ve got to scram.”

He leaves unceremoniously, leaving the door slightly ajar. I grab the ball off the desk and start bouncing it again. If I’m killed in my sleep, I’ll have to blame my lawyer.

Today must be a day for annoying news because a few hours after Oliver has left and I’m jogging through the park, my phone buzzes with a text from my financial advisor.

Do you have time to talk?

What is it?

Instead of replying like a normal person, Henry calls me, the psychopath. Well, most bankers probably suit that description. “I’ve got bad news.”

“I’m all ears.” I stop jogging and lean against a tree, hands on my knees as I talk into the wireless earbuds.

“Do you remember when you insisted on buying a certain stock as a joke?” he says slowly, like his cautious tone and gentle demeanour will keep me from firing him if he’s lost all my money.

“Yes.” I watch as a woman walks by with a stroller.

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