Page 19 of Make The Cut

I extend my hand. “Let’s be friends, then.”

I could use more of those.

Dashing into the back closet, I rummage around until I find one of the sewing kits in a heavy cardboard box, still plastic-wrapped. I haul it out to her and remove her old, damaged kit from the room.

“Can I see some of the designs you have?” I ask her, bouncing on the balls of my feet.

“Sure! But, it’s not exactly finished yet… I just have a few things drawn up.” She guides me toward her area of the set, where a mannequin, several bolts of fabric, and pins are scattered around. “This is the dress I was thinking that Tati could wear.”

Each of the musicians has been assigned a stylist-slash-designer to create an outfit for their musical performances. If either of the pair is cut, the other has to choose between going home with them or pairing up with another musical contestant. But then, both fashion contestants would have to split the prize money.

Tati is a singer with a beautiful voice who sounds great in ballads, with a deep, rich tone that reminds me of Adele. Her collaboration with Colette will be breathtaking, because from the sketches that Colette is showing me…

A gorgeous gown of plum silk wraps around the mannequin, swooping gracefully over the bodice, and revealing the skin just an inch below her collarbone. In the design, the dress has drooping cap sleeves, a long, trailing skirt, and thousands of tiny beads.

“Wow,” I breathe. “I love it.”

“Really?” Colette’s green eyes light up. “But what would you change about it?”

I bite my lip. I’m no fashion expert, but I have seen and worked with hundreds of beautiful, expensive pieces over the years, so I’d like to think I know alittleabout fashion. But this gown is so gorgeous that I can’t imagine altering a thing about it. Except—

“Do you think you would add ruching to this side, here? That way—“

Her eyes light up. “I knew it was missingsomething. But I just couldn’t think of what to add there.”

My heart settles back into its place. “Happy to help.”

Chapter Ten: Poppy Black

Nude lip? Check. Hoop earrings? Check. Little black dress with red accents? Also, check.

I’m all ready for the biggest night of my life: the pilot episode ofMake The Cut. My name will appear in the credits as Naoya’s stylist.

I, Poppy Black, am going to a watch party for the first episode of a talent show that I helped to work on. All I can do is pray that it becomes a success. Or else my career will be going down the drain with it.

I grab my clutch, and my keys, and take a look in the mirror, before hopping into my truck. (Yes, I drive a truck in Los Angeles. No, I will not help you move apartments). As Naoya once said to me,you can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl. Or something like that. I’m pretty sure we were half-serious and half-insulting each other at that point, and also slightly drunk. At least, I was. I’ve never actually seen Naoya consume any alcohol or so much as breathe in the direction of a vape, though I have read countless tabloid articles about him going to rehab.

Taking a deep breath, I start talking to myself in the rearview mirror as I back out of my driveway. “You’re going to do great, Poppy Calliope Black. This is going to be a great party, you’re going to meet so many people who will help you with your career and not judge you for your recent blow-up with your former boss, and everyone is going to have a good time. The end.”

Blowing out a long exhale, I step on the gas and make it to the party venue—Naoya’s house—in record time. The traffic gods must be smiling down on me. When I pull up outside his mansion in the Hills, the windows are aglow and I can see the silhouettes of people talking and dancing. Faint chatter spills through the crack in the door along with the sound of clinking glasses. The episode must not have started streaming yet, because when I walk into the house—after Gustav gives me a too-thorough pat down that makes me feel like I’m in the TSA line—I don’t see anyone clustered around Naoya’s enormous flatscreen. Instead, they’re milling around with drinks in their hands.

The guest list includes all the contestants who have appeared on the show so far, plus various celebrities who have been invited. It should be the perfect networking opportunity, but I’m not looking for anyone other than a friend.Nota boyfriend.

I take another deep breath and scan the room for Sasha, who agreed to come to the party as my guest after I assured her it would be fun. If I don’t find her, well, I pat my clutch, which is large enough to hold my Kindle. At least I know for sure there will beonehappy ending tonight.

I’m about to beeline toward Sasha, who’s standing near the drinks table, holding a red Solo cup (I hadn’t realized people outside of frat boys and high schoolers were still drinking out of those at parties) and glancing down at her phone. But just as I walk toward her, a familiar-looking redhead catches my eye. Colette. I wave.

She walks toward me and gives me a French double-air kiss on both cheeks. “Now the party can get started!”

Holding a champagne glass and wearing kitten heels with a black slip dress, she looks effortlessly chic and French.

“It’s so good to see you, Colie,” I say. Since I helped her out with her sewing kit, we’ve become friends of sorts, even if our friendship is probably slightly unethical (none of the other contestants are getting outside help, but I’m nottechnicallyworking for the show as much as I am working for Rose and Naoya individually).

“I’m so glad you’re here. I don’t knowanyone.”

“You’re in luck, I’ll introduce you to my friend. Sasha!”

She spies us and peels herself off the drinks table. “Poppy! And you must be Colette.”

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