Page 27 of Make The Cut

Then again, the way Poppy fiddles with her chopsticks or how her lips tug into a tiny smile when she sees me looking over at her probably has more to do with my confusion than Alvin’s question.

“We’re not—” Poppy says, right at the same time that I put my hand over hers to keep her from dropping her chopsticks again.

“Two weeks,” I say, shooting her a wink. She did start working for me at roughly the same time. “It’s been so fun, hasn’t it,honey?”

“A blast.” She tries to pull her hand out from under mine, but I interlace our fingers instead. Poppy shoots me awhat are you doinglook.

I fully ignore it in favour of rubbing my thumb over the back of her hand. I knew she was short, but how is it possible for someone’s hand to be this small? And why do I care?

Poppy leans toward me and hisses, “Why are you lying to the chef about our relationship status?”

“Because,” I say, “no publicity is bad publicity.”

Her shoulders soften from their tense posture. I’m only giving her the answer she should have expected, after all. I’m a playboy who uses women and gets used by them, for fame or a good time or some combination of the two.

But why does it feel like a betrayal when she lets me hold her hand, thinking I’m only using her as fresh meat to throw at the paparazzi sharks?

We watch Chef Alvin flip shrimp in the air and then land one perfectly on Poppy’s plate. She looks delighted, letting go of my hand to clap at the culinary display. My hand feels empty and cold without hers in it, even amid the bustle and conversation of the other diners.

I reach for my glass of wine instead of her hand, but as my fingers close around the stem, someone walks behind me, shoving my chair into the table.

Poppy and I stare in horror as the wine glass tips forward onto the orange flames currently dancing on the stove.

The chef doesn’t notice my clumsiness until it’s too late, and he gives a yelp as one of the flames licks his sleeve. I’m glued to my seat, unable to do anything but stare helplessly at the inferno I’ve created.

This wasnotthe kind of publicity I intended to create.

Guilt sinks in my stomach and my eyes search the premises for something that can help.

A dozen pairs of eyes fall on us, the restaurant now silent as I register camera flashes and filming in my periphery. Poppy jumps up from her seat and runs toward the corner of the room where a fire extinguisher lies. By now, poor Alvin’s trying to beat the flames out with a dish towel, and his expression of indignant pain sears into me (no pun intended).

“Stand back!” Poppy yells as she sprays white foam onto the blaze.

I get up from my seat, unfrozen by her quick thinking. So much for trying to impress her or anyone. I’ve made a mess of the whole night, and it’s only our first episode of the series.

Our fellow diners start clapping. The back of my neck ices over as I wonder if Mitchell and Brett are still filming and if they caught the whole debacle on camera.

“I’m so sorry,” I finally manage to say to Chef Alvin. “I’ll… I’ll recompense you for the jacket. And the damages.”

He brushes some foam off his charred sleeve, his expression exasperated as he turns off the griddle. “No harm done.”

Poppy sets down the fire extinguisher. “I can’t believe that just happened.”

“Do you think dinner is over?” I lean over to whisper, my nose skimming the shell of her ear. She smells like lavender and honey, something sweet and delicate—a surprisingly delicate scent from a woman who seems to present herself as tough-as-nails, bouncing back after every trial that comes her way.

“Considering our chef is being ushered out to receive first aid, yes.”

Mitchell interrupts us to ask if the sushi restaurantmade the cut. I fight the urge to roll my eyes; after all, I’m the one who named the show and now I have to live with the consequences.

“It was great until Naoya lit our chef on fire.” Poppy shoots me a grin, and I don’t know whether to accept her smile as a balm to my ego or to fire back with a witty quip.

“We need to go tootherJapanese restaurants before we can truly determine which one makes the cut,” I say.

“Oh, because people justloveseeing celebrities eat expensive food on camera.” Poppy rolls her eyes.

“You agreed to eat with me tonight. Come on, was it as bad as you’d thought it would be?”

She shudders. “Worse.”

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