Page 26 of Make The Cut

A protective instinct surges up in me. “You good?”

“Great.” Her tone is too bright, too cheery. She fiddles with the chopsticks in front of her before knocking them to the floor and letting out a curse I’ve only heard from her lips before. “Oh, son of a motherless goat.”

I chuckle and get off my stool to grab the chopsticks as she does the same.

“Ouch!”

I realize I’ve bumped my forehead against the bar, too busy searching her face to see why she looks so uncharacteristically nervous. The girl I met so many years ago—that bright-eyed, bushy-tailed intern who helped me when I had my pants torn to pieces—has changed.

Now it’s her turn to be worried as we both straighten, each holding one chopstick. She bites back a laugh as we rest the chopsticks on the table and a waiter hurries to bring her another set. “You good?”

“I’m just worried that they’ll catch this moment on camera.”

“We did,” confirms Mitchell, who’s been standing there with a boom mike next to Brett, the cameraman he hired for this endeavour. We both have microphones clipped to our collars, a reminder that in Hollywood, someone’s always watching. Always waiting to turn your life into content to be consumed and dissected and shredded into kindling.

“I think you’re going to bruise.” Unexpectedly, Poppy reaches out to touch my face, her fingers caressing my temple. “Does that hurt?”

“Not at all.” Not with her touch against my skin, her fingertips gentle as if the moment is one she’s scared of breaking.

“Good.” She returns her hand to her lap and looks down, away from me as she searches for something in her purse.

I don’t know why I find myself disappointed by her pulling away. I’ve been on dates with dozens of girls at this point. Why should one girl—who I even consider a friend, for Pete’s sake—dropping her hand from my face leave me feeling so cold?

Another mystery plaguing me is why I finally told her about my father. I’ve never told anyone about that before. So why is she making it so easy to open up to her? It must be because I’ve lulled myself into a false sense of security, telling myself she’s a friend. That must be it. Sheisa friend. She’s helped me in countless ways since we met, and I’ve done the same for her. Friends just do each other favours, and that’s what this YouTube series is. Another one on our long list of favours.

The chef starts making small talk, asking us how we’re doing tonight, and I want to focus on making conversation and not seeming like a spoiled, arrogant, and diva-like pop star. But all I can think about is how a part of me wishes this was a date.

Just as I’m surveying the menu and about to order, Mitchell taps me on the shoulder and tells me he’s ordered the Ultimate Date Night combo for us: Wagyu beef and eight shrimp. I arch an eyebrow at that, but it’s too late to argue with him or cause a scene. All I can do is sit back, relax, and give over control of my evening to the whims of my producer.

As I deftly pick up a slice of beef, I see Poppy drop her chopsticks and throw her hands in the air, having given up on using the utensils. I scoot my chair over to hers and extend a hand. “Here.”

“What?” The stubbornness in her eyes makes me want to laugh. “I can do it myself.”

The fact that she’s abandoned them suggests otherwise, but I don’t say that, biting back a smile.

“I’m sure you can, but there’s nothing wrong with admitting when you need help.” I place the chopsticks back in her hand and carefully adjust their position so that she can move the top one up and down, using the bottom as an anchor. “Try that.”

I try to ignore how it felt to brush my fingers against hers. After all, I’ve touched far more than a girl’shandbefore.Poppy is my friend. Why does everything feel so different now?

“Thanks.” She fidgets on her seat, carefully lifting the food to her lips and chewing. “Wow, this is some really good steak.”

“What’s the verdict?” Mitchell asks.

I jump in my seat. I almost forgot we were being filmed. For a moment, with my hand over Poppy’s, I had convinced myself this was a date. That she wasn’t just here because Rose is too busy to make it. That she’s not just here because she’s working for me. That she’s not just working for me because we’re friends who do each other favours sometimes.

I had convinced myself that I might have something real in my life. But I need to remember it’s all for the cameras.

“It’s great. I like the marbling on the beef.” I nod and try to sound like I know what I’m talking about. I do know something, even if what I know is unwillingly forced upon me by my father.

“It’s a new experience.” Poppy swigs her water and fans her face. I can’t help but laugh at her spice-induced agony—if only because she makes it look socute. “No one warned me that it would be spicy.”

I chuckle. “Can’t handle the heat?”

“I can handle it just fine.” The way she’s staring longingly at her now-empty water glass suggests otherwise, but I wisely keep my mouth shut. Poppy Black is not a girl you want to tick off.

The chef starts preparing the next course and Poppy watches in rapt fascination. I remember her comment about only eating California rolls and wonder if that was actually true. Then again, she’s from Kentucky and showed up to work in cowboy boots, so that’s probably got at least a kernel of truth.

“So, how long have you two been dating?” the chef asks. I read his name tag: Alvin. Well, Alvin, I can’t decide whether to thank you for the assumption or leave a measly tip for throwing my feelings for myfriendinto confusion.

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