Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
I pull back enough to really look at her, my hands still at her waist, thumbs resting at the familiar curve of her hips. “Okay,” I murmur. “What’s wrong?”
Her gaze drops, landing on my collarbone instead of my eyes, like it’s easier to focus on there than to look me in the eyes. She takes a beat before she looks up at me again. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”
“Because you’re here in my house in the middle of a workday.”
That faint smile appears, quick and fleeting, a reflex more than an emotion, but vanishes like it was never meant to stay. She shifts her weight slightly and I feel my body brace without me consciously deciding to.
“Fair enough. I had a meeting with Patrick today.”
The way she says it changes the air. It feels weighted, like whatever she’s getting ready to say has consequences.
I nod once, keeping my expression blank even as my mind starts running through possibilities. My hand stays warm at her waist as I prepare for whatever comes next.
“And Cherry,” she adds, like it’s an afterthought.
That name surprises me, a familiar annoyance resurfacing. My brows lift slightly before I can stop them. “Really?”
“I ran into her in Patrick’s office. Apparently, she’s heading up some Wildfire social committee. Wives. Partners. Events. Visibility.”
I can picture it instantly. The posture, her smile, the way she’d frame it like a gift. A small snort escapes me before I bother filtering it. “You don’t have to paint the picture. I got it.”
Juno watches my reaction closely, just observing my reaction. “She wanted to meet and I agreed. She thought it might be ‘interesting for the documentary.’”
“Let me guess,” I say with a quiet laugh, already knowing the answer. “She was delightful.”
“Vapid,” Juno replies.
That makes me smile—real this time, and Juno joins me in the moment of levity.
But then she hesitates, a softness slipping into her expression. “And… telling untruths. She said some things about you that were wrong.”
I don’t ask what. I don’t need to. Cherry’s version of me has never mattered, and it still doesn’t. “Did it bother you?”
Her answer comes immediately, firm and unambiguous. “No. But it told me exactly who she is.”
I tilt my head slightly, curious despite myself. “Which is?”
“A woman who mistakes attention for intimacy.”
I’m not surprised Juno got to the truth of that woman as quickly as she did. “You’re not wrong.”
And as I say it, I realize this isn’t the part of the conversation that brought her here.
It’s the runway.
She studies me for a beat, then shakes her head. “Honestly, it was more amusing than anything. I wanted you to know.”
“I appreciate that,” I say. And I do. There’s no heat in my chest, no irritation. Cherry feels like a ghost from a life that doesn’t belong to me anymore.
“And,” she says, looking a little sheepish, “I was also a bit curious as to the type of woman that you were with, so I might have been poking at that too.”
That would probably piss off any other guy, but I find it endearing because that means Juno is invested in whatever we have. While we haven’t labeled it, I like her way more than I should and I’m digging the fact she’s wondering about the type of man I am in a relationship.
“Just so you know,” I say, pulling her in a little closer. “Cherry is not the type of woman I’m attracted to. I’m more into the artistic, smart woman who wants to expose injustices and who does that thing with her tongue that drives me wild.”
Juno laughs and smacks my chest, but then the smile shutters. She shifts her weight. “There’s… more.”
That tone. That’s the one.
I straighten slightly. “Okay.”
“I told Patrick,” she says. “About us.”
There it is.
I blink once.
Then twice.
“Wow,” I murmur, trying to envision how that went down. “I was definitely not expecting that.”
“I’m sorry,” she says, the apology tumbling out like she’s been holding it in since the moment it happened. Her hands lift, then fall, fingers threading together briefly before separating again. “We were having a regular meeting, then he started talking about how much he trusted me and that my work reflected honesty, responsibility, credibility, and the guilt that I was having a relationship with one of the subjects of my film hit me hard, and I couldn’t not tell him, you know?”
She exhales at the end, shoulders dipping, eyes searching my face. Like she’s expecting judgment or disappointment or some version of anger and she’s already rehearsed her defense against it.
Instead, I chuckle.
Not because it’s funny—but because it’s so her.
“That’s quite a mouthful,” I say, shaking my head. “Now I know how to get you to fess up… start questioning your integrity. Noted.”
The tension breaks enough to let her blink in surprise. Her brows knit together, her body still coiled like she’s not sure the floor is solid yet.