Page 22 of Make The Cut

“You poached my stylist?” Poppy didn’t tell me that Rose offered her a job. Why didn’t she? We’ve never really kept secrets from each other before.

“I pay her more than you’re paying her,” Rose says with a sniff, tossing her blonde curls over one shoulder.

“You can’t justhiremy stylist as your employee. I hired her first.” My voice rises and I feel a strange surge of… possessiveness in my chest over Poppy. I sound whiny and petulant, like a child fighting over a toy. Poppy can make her own decisions.

“Yes, but she’s in fashion. Or at least, shewasworking atLa Modeuntil her boss had that whole blow-up. As for me, I’ve never liked Cindy Renaud. So, don’t you think it’s better that Poppy works forme? I mean, I have a thriving fashion line. I can help her go places in L.A. Think about it.”

Before I can respond, she pats me on the head like a puppy, her height matching mine in her four-inch heels, and walks away.

The show is starting, but all I can think about is my life’s drama.

As the show’s pilot airs, I sit next to Poppy on a chaise longue, trying to ignore the uncomfortable sensation in my stomach as I think of Rose’s offer. It probably would be better for Poppy to work for Rose than for me, but I can’t deny that selfishly, I want her to myself.

It’s not my decision to make, anyway. If Poppy wants to work for Rose, she can do that.

Poppy plucks a handful of popcorn from the bowl sitting on my lap. I’ve barely touched the buttery stuff, too consumed by watching the opening sequence of the show.

Twelve contestants…

Six weeks…

The opportunity to work for Los Angeles’s brightest stars…

At the end of the show, one contestant from each side will take home one million dollars and the opportunity to create a new album or design a fashion line with their celebrity mentors.

“You should make merch for the show,” Poppy whispers suddenly.

I turn to her, startled. “What?”

“Merch. You know, hoodies, t-shirts, hats? It would help generate buzz for the show. Plus, I could design it,” she offers.

I peel my gaze off of her and back to the screen. “I’ll talk to Rose about it.”

Even if Rose has been absent from a few meetings, crying wedding planning as her excuse, the showisat least a sixty/forty arrangement between us. Maybe sixty-five/thirty-five since she got engaged, but still.

As I watch the first contestants appear onstage to talk about their backgrounds, what kind of music or clothing they like to make, and, in the singers’ cases, sing a few bars, Poppy’s idea percolates in my mind. Itisa good idea, and I’m ashamed that I didn’t think of it first.

It seems like hiring Poppy Black might be one of the few good decisions I’ve made in these past few months.

But now I have to figure out how to keep her around.

Chapter Twelve: Poppy Black

“You’re soboring, Poppy. Your hobbies can’t just be knitting and reading,” Sasha complains as she types something into yet another dating app.

She lies upside down on my couch, her hair tied into a bun after I told her that it was skimming the floor that I haven’t swept in weeks. Cheeto dust and crumbs crunch under my cute mint green- and peach-striped rug when I return to the living room holding an iced coffee. Well, more like a cup of ice filled with full-fat milk and a splash of espresso.

Sasha and Colette have conspired against me. Introducing them at the watch party has led them to become new BFFs. They’ve even gotten it into their minds that, because my ex-boyfriend, Dean, (a.k.a. Traitorous, Dishonest, Jerkface Who Shall Not Be Named) turned out to be a turd, it’s their responsibility as my friends to find me a better love interest.

No matter how many times I try to explain to them that I’m done datingforever.

Or at least until I’m not working twenty-hour days running around the set ofMake the Cutas Naoya’s stylist and Rose’s assistant. While I’m grateful to–and still somewhat in awe of–Rose’s offer to take me under her wing and thrust me back into the fashion industry, I don’t appreciate the fact that I’ve slept maybe three hours every night this week.

“I’m not…”yawn… “Boring.”

The insult lands and burrows somewhere next to my heart, lodging between my ribs like an uncomfortable splinter every time I breathe. I feel the sting ofboringall too keenly, and I’ve spent a lot of time, wardrobe money, and makeup on not lookingboring. But the idea that I mightbeboring—unremarkable, ordinary, unnoticeable next to my talented brother—is an ache that neither Sasha nor Colette knows about.

“You’re not?” Colette arches one well-pencilled eyebrow at me. She lounges on the emerald-green velvet futon in my living room, looking infinitely chicer than I do when I’m sitting on it. With her black flared-leg jeans, form-fitting white blouse, and a swipe of red lipstick, she looks ready to eat croissants in Paris or stroll onto the cover ofVogue. “Could’ve fooled me.”

---