Page 38 of Never To Be Mine

“See? He actually eats what he preaches. That’s how you know he’s legit.”

“Salmon and veggies. My man practices what he sells.”

“This is why I trust B Well. Hollis doesn’t just talk the talk, he walks the walk.”

“That’s how he gets those abs so chiseled. Drool.”

I read through a dozen more variations on the same theme. People were analyzing my dinner like it was evidence in a court case. Examining what was on my plate to determine whether I was authentic or full of shit.

“Fuck,” I murmured, feeling a wave of relief. And dread.

I set my phone down and rubbed my face. It was a double-edged sword of being in the wellness space. Everything I ate and drank and even how I looked became part of my brand whether I wanted it to or not. I couldn’t grab a street dog without someone questioning my credibility. Couldn’t have a beer without commentary about empty calories.

Not that I particularly wanted a street dog. I genuinely liked eating healthy. Drinking? Well, a man should be allowed a few pleasures in life. But it would be nice to have some privacy.

I picked up my phone again and opened my messages. I needed to send Juno the flight details. I had told her assistant not to make travel arrangements.

I typed: Flight leaves at 9 tomorrow morning.

Then I deleted it. Too abrupt. Made it sound like an order.

I tried again: Hey, just wanted to confirm—our flight tomorrow is at 9 a.m. Let me know if that works for you.

Delete. Too casual. Too familiar.

Third attempt: Sending you address for the hangar. Plane leaves at 9 a.m. See you then.

I stared at it. That was better. Friendly but professional.

But why did I care so much about the tone of a simple text?

I knew why. Because part of me was actually looking forward to this trip. Which was insane, considering she’d made it abundantly clear she could barely stand to be in the same room with me.

But she was a firecracker. She didn’t hold back. Didn’t soften her opinions to spare my feelings. When she looked at me, she didn’t see Hollis Blackwell, son of famous parents, guy with a million Instagram followers. She just saw a guy she thought was full of shit, and she had no problem telling me exactly that.

I smiled. It was refreshing. Annoying as hell but refreshing. Juno was a lot of things, but she wasn’t fake.

And then there were those curves. The way her hips swayed when she walked in those heels. During the interview, I’d forced myself to keep my eyes on her face and not let them wander to places that would definitely earn me a slap.

I shifted on my couch, feeling my body respond to the memory.

“Stop it,” I said out loud.

I was so close to my goal. The last thing I needed was to complicate things by thinking about Juno Young in ways that were very unprofessional.

This meeting with PriceCo could change everything. If we landed this deal, I could hit that million-order target. Then Young at Hear would let me use one of their bottling plants. I would be able to meet the demand that had been building for my drinks.

I couldn’t fuck it up by letting my dick make decisions.

My phone buzzed in my hand. I looked down at her reply.

Confirmed. I’ll be there.

That was it. No pleasantries. I felt weirdly disappointed.

I tossed my phone onto the coffee table and stood up, walking to the windows that overlooked the beach. Tomorrow would be a test. Could I keep my head in the game? Juno was only a distraction if I allowed her to be.

I needed to focus on the brand. Ignore the comments about chemistry that I’d told myself were just people reading too much into a staged interaction.