Chapter 5
Juliet
I nibble on my lower lip as I stare down at the text conversation I’m having with Derek, my manager from Foxies. Apparently texting him I QUIT is not the way to actually quit working at his sleazy restaurant.
Juliet: I QUIT
Derek: You had better show up today for your shift.
Juliet: Or what?
Derek: Or you won’t get a reference out of me for your next job.
Juliet: I don’t like bullies, Derek. And I hated working for you. Don’t contact me again.
Derek: Bitch
Blocking his number, I take a deep breath. That went about as well as could be expected. While I don’t like drama, I am glad that I’ll never hear from him again.
At ten a.m. on the dot, the moving company arrives at my old building. I greet them at the front desk in full armor. Red lipstick applied with military precision, hair piled high on my head and held with a clip, heels that say don't test me, and a pair of high-waisted wide-leg sailor pants.
"You're the Monroe move?" the lead guy asks, checking his paperwork.
"That's me. Everything's labeled and inventoried. Handle the boxes marked 'fragile' like they contain nuclear material."
The movers take one look at me and don't question a single instruction. They just move. Exactly like I need them to.
Jessa is here helping, which means she's hovering around the edges making anxious commentary while I orchestrate this entire operation like a general commanding troops.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" she asks for the fifth time this morning. "I mean, it's not too late to back out. We could say you got food poisoning or something."
"Jessa." I give her a look. “Is this about me paying rent? Because I already promised I would pay to keep my bedroom open for when I return in a few months.”
She shakes her head. "It’s not about that. I just feel terrible about getting you into this mess."
"You feel terrible? I'm the one who has to live with him."
She winces. "Maybe it won't be that bad. Maybe he's different now."
“He’s fucking late.” I give her a prim look. "I’ll bet he’s exactly the same."
I tell myself this is strategic, nothing more. A carefully calculated PR move to salvage Hunter's reputation and prove my own worth to the team management. But the real reason my stomach keeps twisting into knots isn't the cameras or the inevitable media attention we'll get. It's him.
He just rubs me the wrong way. I can’t forget for one second that Hunter Huxley is the same man who once humiliated me at a college party in front of half the journalism department.
The one who changed the trajectory of my career, of my entire life, by telling a journalist his inner thoughts about me.
Juliet Monroe? She’s not really my type. Probably not anyone’s.
Two days later, I found out I had been passed over for an internship position that I was all but guaranteed to get. And my face splashed across the “Interviews With Student Athletes” section, coupled with his hurtful statement, sealed my decision about him.
It’s not Hunter’s fault that Jared decided to print what would obviously in retrospect be off the record conversation. But Jared didn’t trick him into saying those awful things about me. He’s a fucking asshole.
Everything is perfectly in place by the time Hunter arrives. An hour late, of course. Because why would he respect the schedule he asked for when he can just show up whenever he feels like it?
He strolls in wearing aviator sunglasses, gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips, and the smug indifference of a man who knows he can get away with murder.
His dirty blond hair is still messy from sleep, and he's got that just-rolled-out-of-bed look that somehow works on him in ways that deeply annoy me.
There's stubble along his jaw that suggests he couldn't even be bothered to shave for moving day.
Jerk.
"You're late," I say, crossing my arms and giving him my best disapproving stare.
He pulls off his sunglasses and gives me a slow once-over, his gaze traveling from my heels to my face with deliberate slowness. "Traffic."
"It's Sunday morning."
"Church traffic."
"You don't go to church."
"How would you know?"
I gesture at his entire appearance. "Lucky guess."
He smirks like he finds my entire existence amusing. "Do you sleep in slacks?"
I'm wearing perfectly appropriate but dressy pants and a crisp white blouse, thank you very much.
Nothing about my outfit warrants that kind of commentary.
But I refuse to rise to the bait. I have better things to do than get into a fashion argument with someone wearing sweatpants to his own fake engagement.
Then he mutters, just loud enough for me to hear, "Let me guess. You get dressed in your room. With the door locked. Even when you’re home alone and there’s no one else to see."
I turn sharply, heat flashing up my neck. "Excuse me?"
He shrugs like he didn't just say something completely inappropriate. "Nothing."
He's teasing. I know that. But there's heat buried in the jab, something that suggests he's been thinking about my morning routine in ways that make my skin prickle. It throws me completely off balance. I'm sure that was exactly his intention.
That's when it hits me, in a sickening wave of realization.
I won't have a single moment to myself while living with him.
No lazy Saturday mornings in oversized t-shirts and messy hair.
No wandering around in pajama pants with yesterday's makeup still smudged under my eyes.
No breaks from being perfectly composed and camera-ready.
This version of me, the polished and unbothered professional, is the only one he'll ever see. And I'll have to wear it like a second skin for the next five months. Jessa already teases me for wearing lipstick twenty four hours a day. Now I’ll have to deal with Hunter’s snide little remarks, too. The thought is exhausting.
Can I back out of the deal now? Sure, the movers have already taken half the boxes out of my apartment. But it’s probably not over till I’ve moved in with him…
Hunter jerks his head, motioning for me to follow him inside my now-empty room. The last of the boxes disappear down the hall. I rub my temples, a headache starting to bloom behind my eyes, and crouch to pick up a stack of loose hangers I forgot under the bed.
Before I can reach them, Hunter steps past me and grabs them first. No comment. No snide remark. Just picks them up, loops them on one finger, and sets them in the hallway.
I blink at him. “Thanks.”
He shrugs. “Didn’t want you to break a nail. You look like the kind of person who’d sue.”
It’s said with a smirk, but not a mean one. Which is maybe why I don’t immediately snap back.
Instead, I glance over at him. He’s reaching to adjust a stack of boxes, arm flexed, shirt riding up just enough to flash a sliver of skin. Just a hint of the V-cut under his abs. I look away immediately, like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t.
God. No.
No, no, no. I am not that girl. I don’t care how hot he is, or how good he looks when he lifts heavy things like it’s nothing. I do not get flustered over sweatpants and biceps and a hint of hip bone.
I’m just tired. That’s all. Tired and overwhelmed and overly aware of the fact that I’m about to live with a man I can’t stand in an apartment that isn’t mine.
A man who just picked up my hangers without making it feel like a favor.
I don’t say anything. I don’t look again. But I feel the shift in the air like static before a storm. I follow him like he’s a puppet master, pulling at my strings. I feel so helpless around him. Only him. Why is that?
He closes the door and looks at me. My breath stills.
“What?” I prompt.
"Before we do anything else," he says, suddenly serious. He pulls a small velvet box from his pocket. "We need to make this look real."
My heart does something stupid when I see the ring box. It's ridiculous. This is fake. A business arrangement. But there's something about the moment that feels bigger than it should, more significant than I want it to be.
As stupid and trite as it sounds, I have always imagined someone that really loved me and wanted to commit to me being the one to propose. Most little girls have the same fantasy, I think.
He opens the box and my breath catches in my throat.
The ring is absolutely stunning, almost otherworldly.
A huge marquise-cut emerald sits at the center like a sliver of green fire.
Sharp, vivid, impossibly clear. The color shifts between deep forest green and brilliant emerald depending on how the light hits it.
It's held in place by delicate tulip-shaped prongs that give the whole piece an almost vintage, fairy-tale feel.
The band itself glitters with tiny white diamonds, tapering gently toward the center stone like a secret drawing your eye to the main event.
It doesn't shout for attention. It beckons. Regal, romantic, and just a little dangerous. Like a promise wrapped in velvet and thorns. I’m literally rendered speechless.
When he takes my left hand and slides it onto my finger, I suck in a breath. The fit is perfect, like he somehow knew my exact ring size. Which makes me irrationally angry. I don’t want him getting things right. I don’t want to feel chosen by someone who’s only pretending to care.
The weight of it feels substantial, real, important. It's exactly the sort of ring I pictured in my mind's eye when I was dreaming about fairy-tale weddings and happily ever after endings.
How could he possibly know that? How could he pick something so perfectly suited to tastes I've never shared with anyone?
In the midst of a very unspecial moment, there's a bit of magic tucked inside. And I frankly don't know how to handle it.
The romantic part of my brain, the part I've been trying to silence since Patrick, whispers that maybe this means something. Maybe he put thought into this choice. Maybe he sees me as more than just a convenient solution to his PR problems.