A friend.

As I sit across from Poppy Black, waiting for her response while she digs her spoon into a cup of mint ice cream, I wonder if I've ever actually had a female friend. I'm not sure. Usually, something always goes awry. One of us gets attached and before I know it, I'm either fending off clingy, emotional girls or trying to get them to agree to my one-and-done terms.

"Right." She nods, spooning ice cream into her mouth. "We're friends."

Friends. I am friends with Poppy because, with her, it's different. It being the usual hubbub about fame, celebrity, and the fear of my secrets being sold to the press (even if she was just exposed for having a celebrity gossip blog). Maybe because she's half-in, half-out of my world, being the sister of an equally famous person (Ryder Black), or because the way we met was on equal footing when neither of us was famous enough to account for all sorts of strings. When I met her, I was a starving artist who bought clothes so I could wear them once and then return them so that I could pay my rent. Now, I have no trouble buying clothes or paying rent.

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 watch Bridgerton. Tell me your plans are more fun. And no, a high school reunion is not more fun than period dramas."

"Oh, I assure you, I'm in total agreement there." I consider tonight's plans and decide high school reunions are not on the agenda. Jake, my old high school friend and the only one who doesn't call 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 your Bridgerton watching? 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 with some gentlemanly principles.

"Something like that. I am about 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 about your life 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 called Make 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 like The 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 just gorgeous."

"Well, if you're such a fan, maybe I'll finagle you an introduction."

Her blue eyes widen as I glance over at her. Poppy is still resting her fingers on my shoulder, and I don't want her to drop her hand or her smile. "Really? I'd love that!"

I don't know why I offered. Maybe just to see her smile. Usually, I'd never make any offers to a girl, not wanting her to get the wrong idea about her place in my life. But Poppy and I are friends. And our friendship has been unconventional from the start, when we met because a cat clawed my pants off and relieved itself on her boss's dry cleaning, therefore cementing my fear and hatred of cats forever. It also established our friendship for just as long.

"Of course." Traffic starts moving again; honking, cursing, and vape smoke fills the air. I'm glad I didn't put in the effort to roll my windows down. "We did date before."

"Oh, then I'm never getting an introduction, then. She probably hates you."

I heave a melodramatic sigh. "She knew what she was getting into when she got–"

"Into your bed?" Poppy shakes her head, dropping her hand from my shoulder. It shouldn't feel like a rejection, but I feel the loss of her hand more keenly than I want to admit.

"I was going to say when she got into a relationship with me. But I'm glad you're one step ahead of me, Red." I shoot her a wink.

"You're a scoundrel." She huffs, struggling to put her hair up into a ponytail. "A real rake."

"I don't know what that means."

"Oh, please. Don't pretend you haven't seen Bridgerton." A glossy black strand slips from her grasp and she blows it out of her face with an annoyed grimace. I fight the urge to tuck it behind her ear, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel instead.

"I can't tell you. It'll ruin my reputation with the ladies if they find out."

"Oh, of course." Poppy rolls her eyes, her hair finally up and out of her face. "I'm not going to ruin your reputation as a playboy. Not like I can still blog about your TV-watching habits, anyway."

The bitterness in her voice seeps into the atmosphere of our relaxed, teasing drive, poisoning the air like a toxic chemical spill. I take one hand off the wheel and poke her in the arm. "I'm sensing some lingering resentment over your blog."

"Mostly over my ex-boyfriend for telling people I was the one running it. I can't believe I ever trusted him." A strangled gasp forms in her throat, like she's trying to suppress a sob.

I've seen Poppy Black upset. Determined. Happy. Furious, even.

But as I cast a sidelong glance at her, clapping a hand over her mouth like it will hold the emotions in, I realize I've never seen her sad. Vulnerable. Never seen her with her armour of fashionable, lighthearted, carefree bravado. Not like this.

Sensing that she doesn't want to talk about it, I clear my throat and get ready to change the subject. "How's Ryder doing?"

"Speaking of reasons I can't trust men..." Surprise replaces the sharp bitterness in her tone. "I didn't know you cared about my brother."

"I don't." We've been at each other's throats since he believes I stole his song years ago, back when his career was just starting. "But it's polite to ask after your friend's family."

"I wish I could tell you, but I probably know less than you do." She gives an artful shrug that says it all: indifference, resignation, a glimmer of sorrow. "We got into a huge fight and haven't spoken since."

Curiosity rears its long-dormant head in my chest. From what I've heard, Poppy and Ryder haven't always been the closest of siblings, but I didn't think their relationship was that bad.

"Why?" I stomp on the gas pedal as a red light approaches.

"He found out that I'm writing a gossip blog and that I may have kinda, sorta spilled his secrets there." Her voice rises to a high-pitched squeak of sheepishness.

I remember the last post on her gossip blog that I read: something about Ryder's new haircut, another line about my tattoos, and another about Alina Rostova's return to DJing. I don't know if there was anything so bad about her brother that would cause him to hate her.

Then I recall the last thing she let slip about Ryder Black: that he had some kind of financial scandal. Before that, it was the thing about him stealing his ex-girlfriend, Skye Holland's, credit card to buy a guitar. Then, there was the news about him going to rehab—which turned out to be to visit his older brother who had a drug problem. "Do you regret it?"

"Yes and no." She shifts in her seat and makes to roll the window down before remembering— "Naoya, why is it that you're worth millions but you still drive a car with a hand crank for rolling down the window?"

"It makes it harder for my passengers to escape." The truth is, I just prefer the nondescript, low-key, beat-up vehicle that keeps the paparazzi from suspecting I'm inside. It's a relief not to be recognized by fans or paparazzi when I already feel like my every move is always being scrutinized. "Well? Do you regret telling your brother's secrets to the entire world?"

"It's complicated." Her shoulders sag along with the rest of her, as she sinks deeper into the passenger seat like she's trying to burrow into the leather and never come out again. "I don't—"

I grab her hand and give it a squeeze. I don't know what regrets she's fighting or what sadness is trying to drag her down, but I don't want to let it win–not if I can do something about it.

Fame is paradoxically lonely. It pushes out all the people who'll never understand your life and makes thousands of people think they know you better than anyone else. Right now, I think Poppy and I could both use each other's friendship more than ever. So I retract my too-pointed question about her brother.

"You don't have to talk about Ryder. I was just curious."

Curious to know how it feels to betray others instead of being betrayed, for once.