Page 6 of Make The Cut

No, that’s not entirely true. My stylist buys all my clothes because if I’m being honest, picking out my own has landed me on worst-dressed lists. Multiple times.

“Cool.” I fiddle with the zipper on the cooler bag. “Hey, what are you doing after this?”

She arches an eyebrow. “I was going to eat ice cream and watchBridgerton. Tell me your plans are more fun. And no, a high school reunion isnotmore fun than period dramas.”

“Oh, I assure you, I’m in total agreement there.” I consider tonight’s plans and decide high school reunions arenoton the agenda. Jake, my old high school friend and the only one whodoesn’tcall because he’s asking for concert tickets or favours, cancelled on me. His wife is having a baby. He’s living a normal life. Me? I haven’t had a serious girlfriend since the seventh grade. “Mind if I derail yourBridgertonwatching? I was thinking we could head down to the pier and eat ice cream there.”

“Well, you’ve made me an offer I cannot refuse.” She grins, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin and pulling a strand of her black, shoulder-length hair away from her face with a grimace. Usually, it’s cut shorter, chin-length and just short enough to show off her dangling earrings. I wonder if she’s been too busy to get it cut. “Mostly because there’s ice cream involved.”

“Good to know how much you esteem my company.” I grab the bag of ice cream and gesture for her to follow me. “Let’s get out of here.”

My bodyguard, Gustav, catches wind of my proclamation and finishes his waffle cone, before getting up to follow us. I wave at him. “You can head home. I think we’ll be fine.”

“You sure?” He glances at Poppy like she might be concealing a pipe bomb in her purse or anthrax in her compact mirror. Even though I’ve been friends with Poppy for nearly as long as I’ve been in L.A., Gustav has never quite warmed to her—or any of the women I spend time with. I’m sure there’s judgment buried deep beneath his stony exterior, but he hides it under a veneer of gruff professionalism.

I know he’s worried since I technically have a stalker out in the wild somewhere, on the loose, whose identity is still a mystery to my security detail, but… Right now, I feel like doing whatever I want to. And part of that is spending time with Poppy.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” With that, he retires for the night, heading off to do whatever off-the-clock bodyguards do. Play video games? Head home to a wife and kids? I’ve never asked him about his personal life, he’s never discussed mine, and we’re perfectly happy with that arrangement. Or lack thereof.

“I have the perfect opportunity for me to change your will, murder you, and make it look like an accident. I’ll say you slipped in a puddle of melted ice cream and hit your head,” Poppy says with a faux-menacing cackle, trying and failing to sound threatening.

A chuckle escapes me. “You shouldn’t have told me that, Red.”

“Let me guess, you were recording me and now I’m going to be hauled off to the police station?” She walks through the door as I hold it open for her. Even if I’m vilified as a playboy pop star, I was raised withsomegentlemanly principles.

“Something like that. Iamabout to have cameras on me seventeen hours a day soon.”

Poppy tilts her head to one side, looking up at me. “Why’s that? I haven’t asked you aboutyourlife in a while. Or, you know, whatever hasn’t made it into the tabloids.”

We get into my car and I pull onto the traffic-congested road.

“I’m filming a talent show calledMake The Cut,” I say.

I haven’t told many people about it yet, worried that it’ll jinx the show, but something about being around Poppy makes me feel, well, reckless. Impulsive. Despite the capricious Casanova persona that I put on for the cameras, I plan out my professional life months in advance. Everything I say or do has been cultivated purposefully for the sake of my career. It’s an exhausting image to craft, which is probably why I feel so inclined to let it drop for her.

“Oh?” She leans closer across the main console, and I catch a whiff of her scent: lavender and honey. “Is it a singing show likeThe Voice?”

“Kind of. It’s more like a fashion and music talent show.” I try to explain it to her. “I’ll be judging the music contestants, and Rose McCartney will judge the fashion ones. The contestants have to work together in pairs to design outfits for music videos and style up-and-coming singers and songwriters.”

I chew on my lower lip. It’s a lot of work, and even as I explain it to her, a sliver of doubt crawls into my mind. What if it’s too much, too ambitious, and something goes wrong? What if I can’t make it work?

What if I’m a failure at the only thing I’ve ever wanted to succeed at?

“Naoya?” Poppy touches my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.” I force a smile, but it drops quickly.

“I’d love to watch the show,” she says. “It sounds like a blast. I’ve been a fan of Rose McCartney since, well,forever.”

“Is it because of her name?” I try to focus on the road, which is still crawling with cars that have moved exactly three inches since I last stepped on the gas pedal. “You know, since you’re both named after flowers?”

I tease her deliberately, knowing she hates it whenever people bring up anything botanical just because of her name. She doesn’t rise to the occasion, however, which disappoints me. There’s something about the way her eyes shine when she’s annoyed that makes me want to see that fire again. If only to distract her from her career woes.

“No, I loved her modelling work. She was always great at Paris Fashion Week. Plus, now that she’s a designer, her stuff is…” She sighs dreamily. “Well, her designs are justgorgeous.”

“Well, if you’re such a fan, maybe I’ll finagle you an introduction.”

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