Page 56 of Make The Cut

“Who’s the girl?” I gesture toward his chest, toward the now-hidden flower tattoo. He must have gotten it after I helped him pick out his clothes that day when I showed up to his apartment and he was shirtless. “Who the heck is the girl, Naoya? Who’s the girl you’re dating?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re keeping a secret from me and I want to know what it is.” I take a deep breath. “I haven’t kept anything from you, Naoya. I told you when I went on dates. Is it a girlfriend? You can tell me, you know.”

He’s silent, staring out the windshield as a police car whizzes by.

“Who is it? Rose McCartney?” I sit in the dark silence of the car, not bothering to face him. If I do, I’ll look like I care about his answer, and I’m already a mess on the inside. There’s no need for him—the only friend I have left—to see the true extent of my brokenness. “I know you get a new tattoo every time you get together with a new girl—”

I’m shocked into speechlessness when Naoya flips on the car light, turns toward me, and yanks the collar of his shirt down. “Damn it, Poppy, does this lookanythinglike a rose to you?”

A dozen answers leap through my mind as I stare at the tattoo right above his heart, but none of them slip onto my tongue. I reach out to trace the contours of it, the swooping, graceful black lines that decorate his skin. My pulse thrums through my fingertips, or maybe it’s his heartbeat that I feel.

When I finally answer him, my voice is shakier than I want it to be. “It looks like a flower.”

Daisy? Lily? Petunia? I’ve never been a big flower girl, which is ironic considering my name.

“It’s apoppy,” he snaps, dropping the fabric of his shirt. “It’s a poppy, and I loveyou, you blind idiot!”

I’m too shocked to do anything but let gravity pull me forward. The red string of fate tugging us together for the past decade drags my mouth to his.

This kiss is both devastatingly familiar and gut-wrenchingly foreign. I know how his hands look on piano keys or guitar strings, but I never imagined how they would feel on my skin. His scent, which I’ve smelled countless times before, seems different now that it’s wrapping around me.

Tasting his lips feels like coming home, yet the heat of his hand splayed on the small of my back like a brand through my dress feels like entirely uncharted territory. His fingers brush my cheek before they hook under my chin, pulling me closer across the console between the two seats. The car is tiny, yet an abyss separates us, filled with impassable questions and fears that I don’t want to think about right now.

My fingers wrap around his bicep and my other hand strokes the soft, silky strands at his nape, the hair that I know is half-blue, half-black without even looking at it. A vulnerable part of him that no one else gets access to. A low groan breaks free in his throat, and I want this moment to last forever, terrified it will slip away.

The scent of him, something intoxicating and invigorating all at once, makes my head swim. I’m terrified of moving closer even as I can’t stay away, the pounding of my pulse warning me that this kiss and even he might dissolve into a dream, like sand when you try to hold onto it.

Beep!

We pull apart, startled by the sudden noise, and I realize I’ve hit the horn with my elbow.

“Sorry,” I say reflexively, reaching for my usual bravado and finding it melted away by his mouth on mine.

“Don’t you dare apologize,” he whispers, his voice raspy, his eyes dark in the glow of the streetlights. I want to crawl inside his gaze and live there. What would it be like to be the woman at the centre of his mind? “Red, you’re perfect.”

My cheeks flame. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Naoya Sugawa

I must be on some kind of drug that I’ve never tried before—not even before I went to rehab—because I’ve been smiling so much that Gustav asked me if I got a new kind of Botox that freezes your face in a clownish grin.

But sadly, while my romantic life has me floating on a new high, my professional life might be going down in flames.

One of the contestants stole the other’s original song, and I have no idea how to handle this situation without looking like a hypocrite.

After all, everyone knows me asthe guy who stole Ryder Black’s demoand I’m not sure my reputation could handle a second blow of being called a hypocrite for punishing or eliminating this contestant when I’ve committed the same sin.

But if I don’t eliminate him, I’ll be nothing short of weak. Pathetic. Spineless.

I don’t know which one is worse.

As I pace my dressing room, considering my woeful options, a knock sounds on the door. I spin around. “Who is it?”

“Me.” The sound of someone clearing their throat reaches my ears. “I mean, Poppy. Can I come in?”

“You’re always welcome here, Red.”

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