Page 3 of Make The Cut

“You used the wordsartorial, so I had to prove my intellectual prowess to you.” He shifts his weight on the pedestal where he’s standing, mirrors on either side of him. “Did I pass?”

“The test was in your head, so only you can decide that.” I finish hemming the pants and gesture for him to step off the raised platform. “Spin around. I want to see how that looks.”

It’s a fashion miracle. They look like a normal pair of pants and not like he’s drowning in fabric. He must think the same because he lets out a low whistle. “Poppy whatever your last name is, you’re a genius.”

“Thank you. Please tell my boss, she thinks I’m incompetent. And she’ll probably fire me once she finds out what happened to her dry-cleaning.” I stand up, dusting off my bare legs and wincing at the carpet burns on my knees. I should’ve worn jeans instead of a sundress today.

He tilts his head to one side, facing me in the mirror. “What happened to her dry-cleaning?”

“Pepper, the dastardly cat.”

“Hmm.” He sniffs the air with a dramatic inhale that would make me laugh if I wasn’t busy being disgusted by the havoc that one cat can wreak on a workplace. “I see. Or should I say, Ismell?”

I cringe. I’ve probably also acquired that particular aroma by now. “Yep.”

“Well, then what are we waiting for? I’ll distract your boss while you get this dry-cleaning… set on fire? Done again? And I’ll pay for it, too.” He pats his back pocket like he’s looking for his wallet. “Oh, right, that’s in my shredded pants.”

“That’s too generous…” Then again, the amount that it costs to do Cynthia Renaud’s dry-cleaning is probably how much I make in a day and I was hoping that money could go to grabbing a drink with my roomie and best friend, Skye. Or even hanging out with my even-more-reclusive brother, Ryder, who Skye just started dating. “But if you’re offering, I’ll take it. Wait, what’s your photoshoot for?”

He quirks a grin as he hops off the pedestal, still a head taller than me. A grin quirks up one side of his mouth and something inside my chest melts. I was right. His dimpledoesdeepen when he smiles. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

“Uh…” Hedoeslook familiar. “Dog food commercial guy?”

Naoya’s laugh is deep and hearty and makes the remnants of my icy heart thaw. “Yeah.”

He starts singing the dog food commercial jingle and I can’t tell if I want to give him a microphone or start dancing along.

“You’re a singer?” I say.

Just as he’s about to respond, the door to the fashion closet bursts open. “Pepper! Come back here!”

We both turn our heads to see Olive chasing after her calico cat. Naoya mutters something that sounds like,not my circus, not my monkeys. As he grabs his destroyed pants, I point him in the direction of the back door to keep him from getting attacked again.

A scrap of paper flutters out of his ruined pants pocket as he makes a mad dash for the exit. I’m right behind him and pick it up.

Naoya Sugawa is giving a concert to kick off the weekend.Beneath it are an address and time.

I tuck it into my pocket. I guess I know what my Friday night plans are now.

Chapter One: Poppy Black

LOS ANGELES, 2021

I’m going to be fired. There are nomaybesabout it this time.

As I watch Cynthia Renaud pace her spacious corner office, my nerves are on edge.

Everything I’ve worked for these past five years is about to come crashing down, and I have no one to blame but myself. Or, more specifically, my hubris.

Well, thatanda somewhat successful gossip blog that had over seven million followers on Instagram, YouTube, and TikTok, but no one knew about that until five minutes ago. At least, no one knew it wasmewho wrote it.

Until my now ex-boyfriend, Dean Sterling shared an Instagram post from the blog, and tagged me as the author, because he was tired of “always coming second to my career.” And, did I mention that the post was about my boss’s dirty secrets? For example, she always buys a second first-class seat when flying to store her garment bags, her husband is leaving her because he had a gay awakening, and her Birkin bag is a knockoff… Well, you get the idea.

I’m screwed.

“You willneverwork in fashion again,” Cynthia says as if to punctuate my doomed thought spiral.

I wish she wore stilettos. If she wore stilettos, I would have a reason to dislike her. She would be the clichéDevil Wears Pradaboss, whose every word is marked by the staccato click of high heels. Instead, she’s one of those women who wear sneakers everywhere, and if you didn’t know any big names in the fashion industry, you might mistake her for an athleisure fanatic or a regular Lululemon shopper.

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