“I know,” I said. I hated how small I sounded.
Kellogg looked me up and down, like he was assessing a half-scratched car for resale. “Alright. Three-day recess.”
“What?”
“You’re not helping anyone like this. Go home. Drink water. Do whatever your tortured little method brain needs.”
He pulled something from his back pocket — a scribbled-on memo. “Actually. No. Don’t do that.”
He held it up.
It was a book title.Thebook title.
“Production wants you reading this,” he said. “Maybe this will get you back out of your own head. Some indie bookstore downtown’s got it in stock.”
I stared at the paper. My heart did something awful in my chest.
“Three days,” Kellogg repeated. “Then I want fire. Or I recast.”
CHAPTER 13
It was too damn early for this.
The coffee hadn’t kicked in. My sweatshirt was on inside out. My manager had begged, and I — idiot that I was — had said yes before realizing I’d have to deliver a book to a random rental all the way across town before the sun had even finished rising.
And for what?
Because someone from the production team offered double what Figments usually charged for a courier? Fine. Whatever. I’d drop the book, get back in my car, and forget this ever happened.
The address was stupidly nice. One of those barely lived-in hills houses with glass walls and drought-resistant plants and a driveway made of some fancy fake cobblestone.
I didn’t even knock. Just rang the bell and shifted from foot to foot, holding the bag as though it was something fragile instead of just a signed first edition and a handwritten note from the director saying, ‘Read this before you ruin the rest of the shoot.’
I was halfway through a yawn when the door opened. And the world — stopped. He was standing there barefoot. Hoodie tuggedon crooked. Hair, a sleep-mussed mess. Eyes half-lidded and then — wide, sharp, awake in an instant the second he saw me. “Juniper?”
My mouth fell open. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” A pause. “I didn’t know it was for you,” I said quickly, holding the package out like it burned. “It was a delivery order. Someone from your production called last night and paid a stupid amount of money to have it on your doorstep by nine. Guess what shift I pulled.”
He took it from me slowly. Gently. Like he was afraid I might vanish if he moved too fast. “Right,” I muttered, already turning away. “Anyway. It’s here. It’s done. I’ll go.” But of course he said my name. Soft and low and familiar in a way that made my chest ache.
“Juniper—”
“Nope.” I didn’t let him finish. Icouldn’t. I kept walking. The gravel crunched under my boots. The wind picked up.
But I’d barely made it to the gate before I heard the door creak open again.
“Wait — would you just — Juniper,wait.”
I stopped. Of course I did. But I didn’t turn around.
“I’m not here for you,” I said, sharper than I meant to. “I’m only here because someone paid extra.”
A beat. Then —
“I didn’t know they’d sendyou.”
I turned then. He was standing barefoot in the doorway, one hand still on the edge, as if he needed something to hold on to.
“I didn’t know they were sendinganyone,” he added, as if that made it better. “But since you’re here…”
