Juniper shrugged out of her jacket, dropping it over the chair as she sat. “I almost didn’t. Got halfway here and thought, ‘What if he’s actually a creep who just flirts with bookstore clerks and disappears again?’”
I grinned. “If I were trying to disappear, I wouldn’t have ordered you coffee.”
She looked down at the drink I’d nervously placed at her spot. Read the label. “You remembered my order.” A smile teased the edge of her lips. “I didn’t eventellyou. That was months ago.”
“I’m notcompletelyhopeless,” I said, sliding back into my chair. “Just mostly.”
CHAPTER 11
Ishould have trusted my gut and stayed home.
The restaurant was nice — too nice, maybe. One of those airy, industrial-modern places with vintage filament bulbs and a menu full of words likeaioliandlocally sourced. The kind of place you don’t go to unless you’re trying to make an impression.
Hell, I’d lived here most of my life, andI’dnever been here. Even on my nicest dates, I’d never even attempted this stuffy place.
He was already there when I arrived, standing beside the table like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. Ansel Barlowe, ex-blockbuster heartthrob, looking like a man who hadn’t slept in twelve hours or decided on a single emotion.
He smiled when he saw me. Too wide. Too relieved.
I should’ve turned around right then.
But I didn’t. I sat. I took the coffee he’d ordered for me. I smiled, because Iwantedto believe this wasn’t a terrible idea.
It was fine at first. Awkward, a little stilted, but fine — maybe evensweet. We talked about books mostly — safer ground. Hemade a joke about the title on display near the register, and I laughed even though it wasn’t that funny. I asked about the movie, and he said something vague about long hours and being out of shape and learning choreography for the first time in a decade.
He still hadn’t told mewhatmovie he would be in. And I would not be the one to drop the ‘your current role is one of the most important stories to me’ on him while we were on a date.
Was this a date?
Then — God help him — he said it.
“I think it’s kinda perfect,” he said, stirring his drink with a straw like a twelve-year-old. “The whole… bookstore girl meets washed-up actor thing. It’s almost too on the nose. Like something off Netflix. We should sell the rights before it actually happens.”
I blinked. “Before what happens?”
“You know. Before we crash and burn,” he said, laughing a little, like it was obvious. “Or fall in love. Either way, it’s a solid third-act twist.”
My stomach dropped.
“You think this is abit?” I said, sharper than I meant to.
He paused, eyebrows drawing in. “No, I didn’t mean — I was joking.”
I pushed my chair back a little. “You’re sitting here — after showing up out ofnowhereyesterday — afterstillnot remembering to tell me the name of the film you’re shooting, and now you’rejokingabout optioning our lives like we’re in some tired romcom?”
“Juniper, I didn’t?—”
“I’m not a plotline, Ansel,” I snapped, and I hated how my voice shook. “I’m not some meet-cute footnote in the comeback tour of your washed-up career.”
He flinched. Visibly. “Jesus.”
“I should go,” I said, already halfway to standing. “This was a mistake.”
Moments later, I sat behind the wheel of my car, hands pressed to my eyes. I was trying everything I could to keep the tears in. I’d left Ansel at the table without so much as a glance back. But it didn’t matter. All I could see was Joel.
Joel, with his condescension dressed up like concern. Joel, who made me feel small in every room we shared. Joel, who told me — more than once — that I wasluckyanyone noticed me at all.
And here I was, again. Falling for the exact same shape of man. Letting myself be a novelty in someone else’s story.
