Of course it would be her.
It wasalways her.
From that drunk meet-ugly. From the convention snafu. From the accidental book delivery run-in. From the time she wrapped her fingers around my arm and kissed me, just to get a sleazy young kid off my back.
Jesus Christ, I would die for this woman.
And now… now I’m back in her orbit — again — and Idon’twant to scare her. I don’t want to ask too much. But I also don’t want to be the guy who walks away just because the timing’s messy.
So I smiled. I flirted. I made it sound easy.
Fake dating. Low stakes. Good optics.
But every word of it was real.
Every look. Every touch. Every part of me that still remembers the sound of her laugh when she forgets to be guarded.
She doesn’t want to be someone’s headline. I get that.
But she’s already the story I can’t stop telling, over and over again. In my head, in my dreams, in mock reports in the mirror when I’m asked about “the new girl” for my movie.
The trailer smelled like makeup wipes and stale coffee. I honestly… don’t even remember driving here. Walking up to the door.Settling myself down in the trailer.
I was on autopilot… because of her.
Every single thought I’d had was ofher. I was royally fucked.
Someone had left a script on the counter. A half-eaten protein bar. My costume jacket was draped over the back of the couch like a skin I wasn’t ready to step into yet. My next call time wasn’t for hours.
Didn’t matter. I wasn’t going anywhere.
The only place I wanted to be… I needed to keep my distance from.
I sank down onto the padded bench, elbows on his knees, phone in my hands. The screen was still lit up from the call log.Publicist. Missed call. Four texts. All variations of ‘we need to get ahead of this’and ‘this could spin out’and ‘you need to get control of the narrative.’
As if I could control any of it. As if any part of this felt remotely like a narrative I’d written. The irony made my stomach turn.
Because Iusedto know how to play a role. Say the line. Hit the mark. Smile for the camera and thank the interviewer and sign the Funko Pop with a little heart. I knew how to be charming. Uncomplicated. Shiny enough to market and just real enough to sell.
But Juniper wasn’t a role.
She was…
God. She washerself.
And the way she’d looked at me today — guarded, bright, pissed, funny, hurting — it undid something in me. Like I’d seen through the armor and caught a glimpse of the woman underneath.
Now she looked at me like a stranger with bad timing. I rubbed a hand down my face. “Fake dating,” I muttered, bitterly.
What the hell had I been thinking? That she’d say yes? That it would be cute, like some PR rom-com? That she’d pretend to fall for me until maybe — hopefully — she didn’t have to pretend anymore?
God, I was such afucking idiot.
