Page 49 of Make The Cut

“Andyouare slurring your words.” I try to push her away from me, but she resists, apparently having more muscle than her Pilates and jogging regimen would suggest. “Get off me before your fiancé sees us together and decides to light me on fire. Or throw a shotgun Vegas wedding.”

Rose sighs, ignoring my words. “I can’t believe he didn’t come with me to the MTVs.”

“Your fiancé?” That’s news to me. I thought they were hopelessly, possessively, passionately in love—the infatuation of the MGK and Megan Fox kind. Sickening to everyone but themselves. “Why didn’t he show up?”

I think the guy’s some kind of B-list actor, or at the very least someone with enough family money to match Rose’s self-made enterprises.

“We got into a fight,” she says with a huff. “He accused me of still being in love with you. As if!”

As if. I always knew our relationship was a brief, mutually beneficial, almost clinical fling—but to hear her say it, to dismiss everything we might’ve had with two short words stabs something in me. Gouging out a piece of me that was still dreaming of a white picket fence and a family that I never had—a family I thought I had before my father wrecked it.

No, Rose confirms for me what I always knew: I am incapable of being loved for anything other than what I can provide. Fame. Money. A good time. Notlove, not affection, not stability, not a future—just a cold transaction.

“As if,” I repeat with a dry laugh. “Let go of me, Rose. The paps are watching us.”

“Why?” she says, her voice a tired whine. “You never complained before.”

“Before you got engaged to another man, or before we broke up because you had to fly to England for London Fashion Week?” I should’ve stayed home instead of coming to this event, even if everyone said it would be good publicity.

“Didshegive you this?” Rose asks suddenly, fingering the scarf around my neck.

I jerk away. I don’t want her to touch Poppy’s scarf or any other part of our friendship. “None of your business.”

“I saw her knittingsomethingon set. So cute.” She smirks. “Does she know you’re in love with her?”

“Don’t you have something better than talking about things that you know nothing about?” I keep my voice cold. “Then again, you’re just a model so that’s probably everything.”

Normally, I’d never hit that low. Rose may be many things, but she’s not a dumb blonde. Nor is she a superficial, ditzy Barbie—nor is any model, for that matter. But I just want her to leave me alone.

“You’re a jerk.” She huffs, straightens, and tosses her hair over one shoulder. “I can still back out of this TV show, Naoya.”

“And I can still sue you into oblivion, and where would your business be then?” I shrug.

Deep down, I know I’ve overstepped, and I’ve made a mistake. She may not forgive me so easily. Rose McCartney holds grudges for longer than even Ryder Black does.

Maybe she holds them as long as I do.

Chapter Twenty-Five: Poppy Black

Rose McCartney cozies up to Naoya Sugawa on live TV at the VMAs after being spotted without her ring! Is her engagement on the rocks?

An endless stream of headlines surges toward me as I scroll through Instagram. Speculations, rumours, and gossip abound, all the netizens buzzing about Naoya Sugawa’s relationship status, Rose McCartney’s engagement, and whether this is a stunt for their show. I’m glad I don’t work in publicity, because this would be a PR nightmare.

I throw my phone back into the cup holder as the light changes from red to green and step on the gas pedal. (Yes, I’m guilty of distracted driving, but that’s only because I’ve set a notification to alert me every timeMake The Cutis mentioned on the internet). Only, the car moves a handful of feet before stopping again. Why, oh why, did I decide moving to Los Angeles would be a good idea?

Because your older brother was moving here and you followed him like an idiot.

Because it was either that or spend the rest of your life as a waitress in a crappy diner that is frequented by high school kids and bickering middle-aged couples.

But, really, why didn’t I move to, like, New York or something? Even if the winters would be more brutal, at least I would be able to hop on the subway or into a taxi without feeling like I’m in the world’s slowest car chase.

My phone rings, and I grab it, pinning it between my shoulder and ear because my truck is old enough to lack Bluetooth. And a myriad other contraptions.

“Poppy?” Rose’s voice reaches my ears, sounding surprisingly… vulnerable. Like she’s about to cry. What if she and her fiancé really did break up? Maybe there’s more truth to the gossip than I thought. “Where are you right now?”

I clear my throat. “I’m on my way to the set, why?”

“That fashion contestant, the girl, Colleen—“

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