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)
She looks startled. “You’re not… mad?”
“Mad?” I repeat, genuinely confused by the question. I step closer, gently grasping her at the hips again. “No. It was the right thing to do.” I scrub a hand over my face, the smile still there, softer now. “Guess that makes it official.”
Her head tilts, curiosity cutting through the last of her unease. “Official?”
“Yeah… like, we’re official. If the head honcho knows, I guess it doesn’t matter who knows. Although I don’t think we should flaunt it.”
Her gaze drifts for a moment, unfocused, thoughtful. I can practically see the wheels turning, recalibrating timelines and implications and ethical frameworks. This is how her mind works—always mapping consequences before emotion.
“I hadn’t thought about that,” she says, her eyes hazed over in contemplation.
“Well, it’s food for thought now.” I reach up and tug gently on her hair, enough to pull her attention back to me, back into the room. “Did Patrick freak out?”
She shakes her head, the tension easing out of her shoulders. “Not even a little. He asked if it would interfere with the film.”
“And?”
She doesn’t hesitate. “I told him the truth. That I don’t think it will, but I can’t promise you won’t be part of the narrative.”
That last line settles between us, quiet and honest.
And instead of feeling exposed, I feel the opposite.
Trusted.
That gives me pause.
I don’t love the spotlight. Never have. I don’t need people speculating about my life, my choices, my relationships. But I look at Juno—open and unflinching—and the usual resistance doesn’t hit the same way.
“As long as it’s not salacious,” I say slowly. “And as long as it’s honest.”
“It would never be anything else,” she says.
I nod. “I trust you.”
Juno holds my gaze, an unspoken message passing between us that feels… important.
Then I step closer.
“Come here,” I murmur.
She does.
The kiss starts gently, but it doesn’t stay that way. Her hands slide into my shirt and mine find her ass, pulling her closer until she’s flush against me. The kitchen suddenly feels very small and I calculate how many steps we need to take to reach my bedroom.
We’re smiling against each other’s mouths when the front door opens. “Okay, I swear,” Birdie’s voice calls out, “if I forgot the—”
She stops dead in the doorway.
Juno freezes but I don’t, lazily turning my head toward my sister.
Her eyes flick from me to Juno to the unmistakable way my hands are still on her hips.
Then she grins. “Sorry to interrupt. Don’t mind me.”
Juno groans softly and leans her forehead into my chest. “Busted.”
I chuckle. “Not really.”
She lifts her head, eyebrows pinched together.
“You’re not the only one who got guilted into spilling the truth. I told Birdie about us.”
“Oh,” Juno murmurs, taking in the fact that two people now know that we’re seeing each other. She nibbles on her lower lip, and I wait to see how she’ll process my sister being in on the truth.
She looks up at me, then her eyes slide to Birdie. “Since you know everything,” Juno drawls, sliding her hands up my chest to clasp behind my neck, “then you won’t mind if I kiss your brother, will you?”
Birdie wrinkles her nose. “Ew… gross. I’m out of here.”
She pushes past us down the hall to her room and Juno and I share a very brief laugh before our mouths find each other again.
CHAPTER 23
Juno
Los Angeles was good to me once—bright, busy, full of momentum—and I’d learned how to live inside it. I spent four years here for college, moving from a small Midwest town after high school. When I arrived for the first time, my expectations were crushed because I’d expected everything to be beautiful and glamorous like on TV, and in reality… it was another big city with smog.
Still, I really enjoyed my time here, minus the traffic.
I’m standing barefoot on plush hotel carpet, the balcony door cracked open enough to let in the faint hum of traffic and the warmer-than-Portland air. The team arrived a few hours ago for this extended road trip, and we have the day to ourselves. My hair is curled loosely, makeup nearly finished except for mascara, which I keep forgetting to apply because my attention is fixated on the door.
Waiting.
Crosby, who has been in a team meeting, texted a little bit ago that he was on his way and he’s due to arrive any moment.
I smooth a hand down the soft black dress I changed into after my shower—simple, unfussy, the kind of thing that can shift from afternoon wandering to a nice dinner without effort. I don’t usually overthink what I wear around him, but tonight… I want to look like myself.
And I want to look pretty because this is sort of our first date.
My phone pings and I nab it off the dresser. It’s a text from Evan. We’re heading to West Hollywood. You sure you don’t want to come?