Page 15 of Make The Cut

“I’m sorry,” I repeat as Naoya turns around to face me, no longer acting like a wild bear is attacking us instead of a teapot spilling. Servers come over to help clean up the mess, and I awkwardly stand there and cringe. “I guess I won’t be getting her autograph now, huh?”

“You probably don’t want it anyway, she has illegible penmanship,” Naoya says with a wave of his hand.

My eyes narrow. “Hey! She is anamazingfashion designer, and aren’t you about to work with her?”

“Right. You’re going to see her soon enough, then. You’ll have a chance to grovel at her Louboutin-clad feet when you’re on set.” He shoots me a wink that assures me he’s joking. “Rose isn’t usually like that. She’s just wound up because—“

“Poppy!” Sasha bounds toward me, side-stepping tables and disgruntled patrons of the tea room. “Poppy, I’m sorry, but there’s been a work emergency and I have to go.”

I frown. “But, don’t you want to meet—“

“I’m so sorry, but I have to run or Cynthia Renaud will have myhead.” She squeezes me into a hug, slaps some bills on the table, and then dashes out the door.

I stare sadly at my forlorn teapot. “Well, I guess I’m having tea by myself.”

Naoya casts a glance at Rose. She’s still talking to the man who grabbed her elbow. “Want to be alone, together?”

“Your date won’t be mad?” I raise an eyebrow at Rose. Then again, she didn’t seem like the jealous type.

“Mydatewill probably be fine without me.” He slides into the seat that Sasha vacated before sliding the bills across the table. “I’ll take care of it.”

My insides warm and I tell myself it’s just from the tea as I sit across from him and stare into his brown eyes, shaded by his shock of blue hair.

Working with Naoya Sugawa while being his friend may be harder than I thought.

Chapter Seven: Poppy Black

I pull up my Twitter account forMuse Unmaskedand take a deep breath.

I told myself I would deactivate all my accounts, and I sent my last tweet asMusea week ago. However, part of me wants to pick up my digital pen again. To let the world know that I’m still there. This blog has been a part of my life for so long that I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t constantly dropping hints of veiled gossip. It all started as a gig when I was bored at work. Now, it’s spiralled into a Frankenstein’s monster that I can’t control.

Closing the Twitter app, I throw my phone across the room. There’s no point in writing anything now. Even opening the tweet bubble and seeing the character limit wracks me with guilt about my last conversation with Ryder. Our argument was one of the worst we’ve ever had since we moved to L.A. together for college.

Part of me knew I would hurt him. Yet another part of me, some jealous, toxic part of me, was whispering in my ear. Telling me that I was justified in writing the things I did about him since he was famous and I wasn’t. He made it in L.A. and got the career of his dreams, while I stayed atLa Modebeing yet another fashion assistant, an unknown grunt able to be bossed around by Cynthia Renaud and her ilk.

Our last words to each other still drive a knife into me.

I fling myself onto the couch, staring at the ceiling of my brother’s luxurious condo. A minimalist ceiling fan spins rapidly, and expensive furniture surrounds me, all hand-picked by the top interior designer in L.A.Blockysculptures and cold concrete flooring make the apartment seem more like a museum than a home.

I rest my laptop on my stomach and stare blankly into the black mirror of its screen, my frizzy hair and tired eyes reflected at me.

“Hey, Poppy. Catch.” Ryder tosses a Heineken at me.

I involuntarily shriek as the can almost hits my laptop. Fortunately, I manage to catch it. “Hey! You could’ve hit me in the face.”

“But I didn’t.” He flops onto the other side of the sleek leather sectional. “Why are you here, Pops?”

I roll my eyes at the nickname that I’ve always hated from him. “I just wanted to ask you about the wedding. Are you coming?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” he deadpans. “No! I’m not going to my ex-girlfriend’s wedding. That’s just weird. I’m sure Skye and Leo don’t want me there either.”

I start typing out an RSVP response for him on their wedding website but give up halfway through. “Here. I’m going to drink my beer and you can finish writing the reply to their wedding.”

He picks up my laptop off my torso and I straighten up, crossing my legs and cracking open the can.

Just as I’ve finished slugging half of the alcoholic beverage, Ryder freezes and stops typing, his fingers stilling on the keyboard. “Poppy?”

“What?” I glance over at him.

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