LOS ANGELES, 2021

I'm going to be fired. There are no maybes about it this time.

As I watch Cynthia Renaud pace her spacious corner office, my nerves are on edge.

Everything I've worked for these past five years is about to come crashing down, and I have no one to blame but myself. Or, more specifically, my hubris.

Well, that and a somewhat successful gossip blog that had over seven million followers on Instagram, YouTube, and TikTok, but no one knew about that until five minutes ago. At least, no one knew it was me who wrote it.

Until my now ex-boyfriend, Dean Sterling shared an Instagram post from the blog, and tagged me as the author, because he was tired of "always coming second to my career." And, did I mention that the post was about my boss's dirty secrets? For example, she always buys a second first-class seat when flying to store her garment bags, her husband is leaving her because he had a gay awakening, and her Birkin bag is a knockoff... Well, you get the idea.

I'm screwed.

"You will never work in fashion again," Cynthia says as if to punctuate my doomed thought spiral.

I wish she wore stilettos. If she wore stilettos, I would have a reason to dislike her. She would be the cliché Devil Wears Prada boss, whose every word is marked by the staccato click of high heels. Instead, she's one of those women who wear sneakers everywhere, and if you didn't know any big names in the fashion industry, you might mistake her for an athleisure fanatic or a regular Lululemon shopper.

"I can't believe you thought you could get away with this." She shakes her head, her blonde locks pulled back into a low ponytail. "You can forget about getting any severance benefits. You're lucky I'm not suing you."

A shudder goes down my spine. How did this all get so out of control? One minute, I had a thriving fashion career at La Mode. Now, I'm about to lose both of my jobs. I see someone live-tweeting my demise right now. I'll be lucky if I walk out of here without the Internet knowing I'm not just the younger sister of Ryder Black—a world-famous pop star—but also the writer behind Muse Unmasked, every netizen's most loved or hated gossip blog.

Yeah. I'm not just going to never work in fashion again. I'll probably never get a job in L.A. again.

"Why are you still here? Do you think your famous brother will save you? Not likely, since you're the one who spilled his secrets." She sneers. "The sheer disloyalty. Your brazen audacity and willingness to sell your own boss's dirty laundry are astonishing. I'm the one who gave you any position or clout at all in this business, Poppy. You should be ashamed of yourself."

I am, but not for the reasons she thinks I should be. No, each word coming out of her Chanel lipstick-coated mouth is just a reminder of the reasons I started my blog in the first place, even if it's now tornadoed wildly out of my control.

"Get out!" she snaps. Jerking one unvarnished fingernail toward the door, she even stomps her Nike-clad foot. "You're never going to work in this industry again. You'll be lucky if you ever work in this city once I'm through with you."

Anger mingles with indignation and surges through my chest. After my ex-boyfriend's fresh betrayal, which still smoulders in my chest, pain and fury make my heart throb in my ribcage, pounding to get out. I don't want to endure another minute of her tirade with mute shame, as if I agree with a single word she's said.

I've been hurt too many times in the last week to just suffer her scolding in silence.

"Well, you'll be lucky if you ever hire another person after I'm through with you!" Probably not the wisest words to slip from my lips when I'm being fired.

But then again, I've never been the best at making wise decisions.

Not wanting to be dragged out by security—that really would be a nightmare—I grab my purse and box of stuff and start high-tailing it out of the door.

What started as a normal day has come tumbling down around my ears.

* * *

The heartache, rejection, and brutal agony that comes with being fired leads me to breeze into my favourite ice cream shop, Scoop, Scoop, and Scoop Some More, and act like I'm not about to spend my meagre savings on overpriced frozen desserts.

Well, it may be overpriced, but at least it's delectable and the cure for most heartache. I lift my hair off the back of my neck, long overdue for a haircut that I can't afford, and start scanning the menu. They switch it up every so often, and I'm excited to see what flavours are in store for me this time. I debate whether I should splurge on a pint—my bank account says no—or just get a double-scoop waffle cone as usual and pray that it tides me over until my next fix. I'm walking past the frozen display cases of dairy delight when I bump smack into...

"Red?"

I whip over to see the only person who would call me that, nearly hitting world-famous pop star, Naoya Sugawa, in the face with my ponytail.

Well, my ponytail would have hit him in the face, if I was wearing heels and not my favourite broken-in cowboy boots, the pair that's among the only things I still have from Kentucky. As it is, my hair only whips him in the collarbone.

"Lucky." Despite my awful day, I can't help the grin that lifts my lips as I take in his appearance.

He looks the same as ever: wearing a denim jacket covered in patches with no discernible theme, his hair dyed the same shade of blue, and he still looms over my five-foot-three frame with his more enviable stature of six-foot-one. If he looks the same, though, why does something clench in the pit of my stomach when seeing him here, now, when I'm at one of the lowest points in my life? I've never felt nervous around him before.

"I thought it was you. It must be my lucky day." He leans his hip against the counter, the same smirk on his face as the one he wore when we first met. "Were you in line?"

The ice cream shop is surprisingly empty despite the hot day. Usually, it's full of tourists or even children's birthday parties from time to time. Maybe Naoya paid the workers to close the store for him. "No, not that there's a line. I'm pretty sure it's just you, me, and Gustav over there."

I recognize Naoya's stalwart bodyguard—he's been working for him for nearly as long as Naoya and I have been friends—standing in front of the counter. He's staring up at the menu with a blank expression, his eyes darting around the shop like an attacker will jump out from behind the counter and bean Naoya in the head with an ice cream scoop.

"Do you want some of my ice cream?" Naoya asks, straightening. That gets my attention.

I step closer to him. "What did you get?"

He shows me his insulated cooler bag. I spy mint chocolate chip, maple walnut, butter pecan, and chocolate peanut butter.

"You have a thing for nuts," I say, taking the mint chocolate chip.

"Well, I have been accused of being..." He brushes his hair off his nape and spins around to show me his latest tattoo, of a peanut wearing a top hat and monocle. "Seriously nutty."

I laugh. It's even more ludicrous than his dancing bear tattoo years ago.

Somehow, his presence always manages to cheer me up since the fateful day so many years ago. We've kept in touch, always running into each other at some event and texting each other, since we're loosely connected through my best friend, Skye, who briefly worked as his publicist.

I danced with him at Skye and Leo's wedding, where he appeared as somebody's plus-one. I see him sometimes at award shows for my brother, Ryder, though the two of them are less than friendly. I consider him a friend, though oddly enough, news of our friendship has never reached the media or my brother or even Skye. Gustav's bald head must constantly refract light away from the flash of the paparazzi's cameras.

Yet even then, there's no reason I haven't told my friends or family that I have more than a casual relationship with Naoya Sugawa. I don't know why, but I want our friendship to be something I keep entirely to myself.

"I didn't think you did your grocery shopping, Tats." I pick up one of the wooden spoons and he guides me toward a small table in the corner where we won't be seen from the windows. His bodyguard is still choosing a flavour from the menu.

"This is for a, uh, high school reunion party of sorts, but between you and me, I'd rather not go. My best friend was supposed to be there tonight too, but his wife went into labour and he had to cancel."

I definitely wouldn't want to go to a high school reunion, so I can sympathize. "Well, I'm glad you're buying ice cream for a celebratory reason, at least. Though were you planning to poison everyone who has a nut allergy?"

"Yeah, then I could save all the ice cream for myself." He chuckles. "Why are you here? Do you have a party?"

"No, I got fired today." I raise the pint like a champagne glass at a wedding. "I'm surprised the news hasn't splashed all over Twitter yet."

"I don't check social media much, so I wouldn't know." He pulls out his phone from the pocket of his ever-present denim jacket. At least, it's always slung over his shoulders in paparazzi pictures or whenever I see him, famed for its numerous patches. There are BuzzFeed articles dedicated to every decal on his jacket. One is of a black and white flower, another is one that I gave him as a gag gift for his twenty-fifth birthday. It says Cat Haters of the World on it.

"Wow. I thought you'd be on there all the time, reading your fan mail."

He rolls his eyes as he opens Twitter. "Oh, I see, yep. Muse Unmasked creator has been unmasked. Poppy Black, sister of Ryder Black, has been revealed as the writer behind the popular gossip blog... Wow. That's what got you fired?"

"That, and my ex-boyfriend." I sigh. "He revealed to the whole world that I'm the one who wrote that blog because he was jealous about how I didn't spend enough time with him. That, and I didn't give him free Ryder Black concert tickets."

"Being a Ryder Black fan should've been the first red flag," he says, but the mockery in his tone doesn't reach his brown eyes. They're warm, and sympathetic under the blue strands of hair falling over them. I've never asked him why he always dyes his hair the same shade of blue. It's been that colour since we met. "Do you want help finding a new job?"

"I don't know..." My shoulders slump as I open the pint of ice cream. "She told me I'd never work in fashion again, and for all I know, she could be right."

"You have your gossip blog." He nudges me under the table, his foot brushing mine. It shouldn't make me feel like a spark of electricity is jolting through my veins, reviving me from my sluggish state. But it does.

"I never wanted that to be my career... It just got out of control, you know? Like a giant, flesh-eating plant or something." I shrug and take a bite of minty freshness mingled with the sweetness of chocolate and the faintly bitter aftertaste. "I've created Frankenstein's Monster. In a blog."

"Well, I'm sure a lot of celebrities would agree that it's a monster," he says.

I look up from my ice cream and gently punch him in the arm. "And here, I thought you liked it when I exposed the scandals of your arch-nemeses and wrote glowing news tidbits about your life."

"I'm not sure if I'd call it news tidbits when you have a running column tracking all my temporary tattoos, but I won't say I complained about that." Naoya leans back in his chair. "You have always had a flair for the dramatic."

"Thank you," I say with a melodramatic bow. At least, as melodramatic as it gets when you're sitting down. "But you're the one who helped me with the blog."

"And I'll miss your weekly tally of how many temporary tattoos I've had and speculations on how many more I will have in the future. I'm the one who sent you anonymous hot tips about my tattoos, you know." He grins, and my heart does a strange twist.

"Oh, it was pretty obvious when the email address was Naoya Sugaawa's Biggest Fan 479 at gmail.com," I say with a giggle.

Overhead, the air conditioning hums as it kicks in, sending gusts of cold air down my spine. In my haste to get out of the office, I left my box of stuff in my truck and came directly to Scoops, but now I wish for my comfy UCLA hoodie.

Naoya sees me shivering and shrugs off his jacket. "Here."

"Thanks." I wrap it around my shoulders, silently revelling in the warmth and his aroma as the soft, worn denim wraps around me. Tracing my fingers along one patch on the sleeve, I touch the insignia of a black and white flower. "Who knows, maybe now that I'm infamous, the next news headlines are going to wonder who I am to you."

"A friend," he says, running a hand through his hair and revealing another tattoo, this one of a potted plant next to his right thumb. "That's what I thought we'd been for the past seven years. Right?"