Page 38 of Make The Cut

His hair is faintly damp, dripping on the collar of his t-shirt, and I wrap my arms around his waist, grazing the muscles of his back. He smells familiar, but it’s a scent I never want to forget.

All too soon, he lets go of me. My heart beats faster than it should.

“Thanks,” he says. “Do you mind if I open it?”

I nod. He asks the same question every year that I’ve known him, but the answer is always the same. “Go ahead.”

He pulls out the first small gift, a new patch for his jacket. It’s a microphone with his initials on it, and I embroidered it myself, so the stitching is slightly crooked.

“Help me put it on,” he suggests, sliding his denim jacket over his shoulders.

I’m about to protest that I could have just easily put it on his jacket when he wasn’t wearing it, but who am I to protest? Deep down, I want an excuse to touch him. I step back. “Hmm. Where should I place this?”

I choose a spot near his right bicep, peeling off the adhesive on the patch and sticking it on before awkwardly patting his arm. His bicep is firmer than I expected, and I quickly pull away to keep from groping him.

Naoya digs deeper into the bag. “A… scarf?”

A lump forms in my throat and my stomach twists itself into knots. “You can tell me if you hate it.”

“No, I’m just… surprised.” He looks down at the green, blue, and purple scarf. “Where did you get this?”

“I… knitted it myself.” Why is that so hard to say? Why am I so worried he’ll tell me the scarf is hideous, throw it in my face, and then light it on fire? Or maybe switch the order of the last two, but still? “To match the colours of the show.”

“Poppy, it’s lovely,” he says, immediately wrapping it around his neck. “I… I appreciate it.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Great. So, what birthday festivities did you plan?”

“Ah, I’m glad you asked.” He takes a step closer to me. “We’re going gambling.”

* * *

When Naoya Sugawa saidgambling, I pictured Vegas casinos or maybe Bacchanalian debauchery. Instead, we’re standing in the blazing Nevada sun, boiling in the desert heat, and staring at horses galloping at dizzying speeds across a racetrack.

“Why of all things to do, do you enjoy betting on horses?” I snap. I get cold sweats when I watchHeartlandever since a horse bucked me off when I was eight. I amnota horse girl.

“Remember how the tabloids said I was in rehab?” he says, having to lean in and whisper to be heard over the thundering hooves.

“Yeah,” I shout back.

“Well, it was kind of true.”

I frown. “You have a gambling addiction?”

“Nah, but I did party too hard.” He scratches the back of his neck. “There issometruth to what the tabloids say, after all.”

I chew on my lower lip and, being surrounded by horses, despite it being my worst fear, also reminds me of home. The faint scents of horse and hay remind me of Kentucky. I wonder what my mom would think of me spending time with Naoya Sugawa, a world-famous celebrity, who’s been to rehab twice, and has a father who cheated on his mother—though that’s no fault of his, of course—and is… is looking at me with an expression I can’t discern that makes me want to fall into his arms and never leave.

Or maybe I’m just losing it because of the horses.

My heart rate ratchets up as he leans in closer to be heard above the crowd placing bets. His hand brushes my face as he tucks my hair behind one ear and whispers, “Are you regretting your decision to come here?”

“Well, if you had mentioned there would be horses involved, I wouldn’t have shown up.” I scan the racetrack. People are betting on each horse, cheering for their favourite when he surpasses the others, and generally behaving with such rowdiness that Idofeel like I’m back home, not that I ever went to the Kentucky Derby.

“Come on, Poppy. I brought you here to get over your fear,” he says, grabbing my hand.

I almost jump out of my skin at the warmth of his hand in mine, even on such a hot day like this one with the sun beating down on us. I wish I was wearing a hat. I wish I was wearing gloves like a Regency character, because then—Then, I wouldn’t feel each callous on Naoya Sugawa’s fingertips as they brush the back of my hand, or the firmness of his grasp, or how his larger hand perfectly engulfs my smaller one like it was made to hold mine. Like he was made to hold me.

I swallow.He is a player. Who’s been to rehab. Twice. You may be friends, but that is all you’ll ever be. He’s not interested.

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