Page 24 of Make The Cut

“I don’t blush.”

“That’s a shame. You’d look good in red.”

I clear my throat, remembering his similar words the first time we met. Ignoring his constant flirting is harder than I’d thought it would be when I agreed to this job. I thought I was immune to Naoya Sugawa’s romantic advances since I’ve known him for so long, but apparently, his charm is like glitter or a terrible hangover: impossible to shake off.

“The tabloidsactuallysay that you’re a partying player who can’t commit to any woman and has more women thronging to him than Leonardo DiCaprio,” I mutter as I move the tape measure to circle his biceps, which are alarmingly defined.

“And do you agree withthoseassessments?” Something darkens in his gaze as he looks down at me.

I focus on taking the rest of his measurements and not breathing in his scent. He smells like something fresh and intoxicating. Lemongrass? Sandalwood? How is it that I’ve known him for so long but still can’t be sure of how he smells? One of these days, I’ll have to sneak into his house and steal his cologne. Then again, Gustav would probably take me down before I got up the driveway. “I don’t know. Youarebeing awfully flirty.”

“This is just how I talk.” He shrugs.

“Maybe you should talk less, then?”

“Now you want to silence me?” He shakes his head with a faux-rueful look. “If you wanted to shut me up, Red, you wouldn’t have tosayanything.”

I try to ignore the implications of his words. Even if I was interested in dating anyone, I amnotinterested in falling for a player like Naoya Sugawa. We’ve been just friends for the past seven years and I’m pretty sure we can manage to be just friends for another seven. Not to mention, he’s my boss. For another… I’m pretty sure that though the tabloids exaggerate, there is no denying that Naoya Sugawa goes through women faster than he does temporary tattoos. Or maybe at the same rate since hehasbeen known to change his tattoos to match whatever girl he’s dating at the time, like a romantic Easter egg, leaving his fans guessing who his next lucky conquest is.

“Great. I won’t warn you when I grab the duct tape, then.” I step back from the pedestal, all too glad to be finished taking his measurements and being in such proximity to him. “My work here is done.”

Just as I’ve finished inputting his measurements into my notes app, he steps down, towering over me. IknewI should’ve worn heels today. “Not so fast, Red.”

“What do you mean,not so fast? You have an awards ceremony in a week that I need to prep for, remember?”

“Yes, but you also agreed to do the YouTube series with me. Mitchell just texted. We’re going to hit up all the best sushi spots in the city and decide which onemakes the cut.” He leans against the dressing room mirror, planting one hand next to my head. I hold my tape measure to my chest as if it’ll provide some flimsy shield against his too-persuasive persona.

“What if I told you that the extent of my experience with sushi is California rolls?” I try to form a smile, but I’m too overwhelmed by his presence. Maybe there is more truth to the one E! News reporter who said that being around him was like being swarmed by a cloud of very charming bees. I feel like I’m in a Bugs Bunny cartoon waiting for an anvil to drop on my head.

“Come on, Poppy, I’ll compensate you. I’ll even show you how to use chopsticks. You can finally get my expert tutoring.” A smirk curves one corner of his mouth.

“I know how to use chopsticks,” I lie. Usually, Ryder and I break them apart for sword fights—well, as kids, we would. Now? I don’t even know what we’d do. “I don’t need your help.”

“No, but I need yours and I’m asking nicely. You don’t have plans, do you?”

I sigh. Ididagree to do whatever this YouTube series entailed, and it’s not every day that a handsome pop star asks you to have dinner with him. “Fine.”

* * *

The limo ride to the first sushi restaurant Naoya’s assistant suggested shouldn’t feel like it’s three hours long.

But for some reason, Naoya brought his guitar and has given his beloved musical instrument its own seat next to him. Each turn of the aggressive driver causes his thigh to press against mine. The coarse material of his jeans presses against my bare calf, and I have to tug my skirt towards my knees to keep from regretting this ride.

I clear my throat ten minutes into the drive. “So, why sushi?”

Naoya turns from looking out the window. “Mitchell suggested it after doing an Instagram poll. How could I refuse my adoring fans?”

I roll my eyes. “I thought you were going to say it’s because of your dad.”

“No, Red, I do many things because of my father, but picking a restaurant to go to is not one of them.” He turns back toward the tinted window, clearly unwilling to continue the conversation.

“Have you been here before?” I accidentally prod him in the side with my elbow as the driver makes another screeching turn.

“What?” Naoya finally turns and looks at me. Confusion is written plainly in his brown eyes; clearly, I startled him from a train of thought far, far away from here.

“The restaurant.”

His shoulders stiffen. “I don’t go to a lot of sushi places in L.A..”

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