Fangirl

Chapter 22

AMY

Today is a Jake and me day, and I can’t wait.

The past few days have been… strict. For him, mostly.

Ever since that first dinner out, where I ordered a starter and a main, and he stuck to grilled chicken and broccoli, I haven’t had much appetite for restaurants.

He laughed it off, said it was part of the job, but something about it dulled the fun.

So I stayed in after that and let him do his thing while I worked on my book or curled up watching TV.

But his photoshoot was yesterday, which means today, he says he can indulge. I’m not sure what that actually means in Hollywood-star lingo, but I’m willing to find out. Honestly, I’m just happy to spend a day together. Something normal. Something that feels like… us.

That said, “normal” dies a quick death when I walk into the living room, wearing comfy wide-leg pants and sturdy shoes, only to find Jake in full incognito mode: baseball cap pulled low, dark sunglasses, and the kind of body language that screams, “Please don’t look at me.”

“Ready?” he asks, like we’re off to the shops for milk.

I stare. “Are you… James Bond?”

“They haven’t offered,” he says, deadpan, “but now that I’ve tasted British goodness, I’m far more open to it.”

I roll my eyes, pretending to be unaffected, but my stomach flips, and my skin heats at the barely veiled innuendo.

He smirks, lowering his sunglasses just enough to look at me properly. “Hmm… you look a little flushed, Fangirl. What’s on that brilliant mind of yours?”

I groan. “Nothing. Come on, superstar—show me your world.”

He grabs my hand and presses a kiss to the back of it, the gesture unexpectedly tender. “I have to try and hide, love. If I don’t, we won’t get a moment of peace. I’m sorry.”

I nod, but the ache in my chest isn’t irritation—it’s sadness, not for me, but for him. It must be exhausting to always be recognized. Never having a moment just to be.

I stand on my toes and press a soft kiss to his mouth. Because truth be told, what can I really say? I can’t fix it. Can’t shield him from the world that loves him loudly and invasively.

But I can be here now, and it’s all that matters.

“So what do you want to do?” he asks as he takes the driver’s seat.

I shrug. “I’m following your lead. Show me LA through your eyes.”

He looks at me for a second too long, like he’s reading something I haven’t said aloud. Then he nods once. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

We drive for a while—past palm-lined streets bathed in sunlight, winding along coastal roads where the ocean winks at us like a shared secret.

Eventually, he pulls into a barely marked turnoff, no bigger than a driveway. The only sign is a matte black panel etched with one word in understated lettering: Drift.

No valet. No crowd. No obvious entrance.

Just a winding path that leads to a quiet structure made of pale stone, driftwood, and glass that catches the light like water.

It doesn’t look like a restaurant. It barely looks like it wants to be found.

But when we step inside, it’s like breathing in calm. The interior hums with muted tones—soft linen, smooth concrete, and handmade ceramics. Every table faces the sea. The scent of rosemary, sea salt, and citrus lingers in the air.

“This place…” I whisper, taking it all in. “Is this even open to the public?”

Jake grins. “Not exactly. It’s membership-only. Kind of a hidden gem.”

Of course it is.

I huff a soft laugh. “Right.”

“I thought we could grab breakfast here. Wait till you see the terrace—it feels like you’re sitting on the sand.”

“No, yeah—it’s beautiful.” I glance toward the ocean-drenched patio, already feeling the sunlight on my skin.

He starts to lead me out, but I hesitate. “Actually, do you think we could get a table under one of the umbrellas? I’m sorry—it’s just some of my meds make me really sun-sensitive.”

Jake stops immediately. “Yes. Absolutely. We can head back inside if that’s better—”

“No, no. It’s fine,” I say quickly. “A bit of shade, and it’s perfect.”

“You’re sure?”

I smile, settling into the warmth of his concern. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

We sit. A server hands us menus, all hand-pressed linen with gold lettering, like we’re about to order sacred scrolls, not breakfast.

Jake leans back, sunglasses on, looking effortlessly Hollywood. Meanwhile, I open the menu and nearly choke on my own tongue.

Sun Blush—grapefruit juice—sun-kissed and poured over ethically sourced ice—$24.

Avocado toast with smoked sea salt & truffle honey—$28.

Charcoal-infused coconut yogurt parfait with wild-foraged berries & bee pollen—$24.

Matcha-chia soufflé bowl, topped with artisanal granola, rose petals & spirulina pearls—$26.

And my personal favorite: Zen garden omelet, made with duck eggs, shiso leaves, heirloom tomatoes… and intentions—$29.

I blink. Intentions. Like a side of optimism, maybe?

I can’t help it. I let out an actual, audible scoff.

Jake peeks over the rim of his sunglasses. “Is it okay?”

I drop the menu onto the table and give him a look. “Do you actually come here?”

He pauses, then smiles just a little too late. “Sometimes. With producers. Clients.”

Not for fun, I think, but I don’t say it.

He leans forward like he’s trying to read me. “Would you rather do something else?”

Yes.

But I smile instead. “Let’s just eat. I’m starving. I want that… omelet of intention.”

He laughs, easy and warm, and the tension melts for now.

“You don’t like it,” he says as he spoons his yogurt parfait—charcoal-infused, topped with what looks like a petal and a prayer.

If this is his idea of indulgence, I’m not sure how he’ll ever survive our carb-on-carb Indian takeaway nights back in London.

Yes, please, I’ll have the rice, the chips, and the naan, preferably while wearing fluffy socks and binge-watching some murder mysteries.

“I like you,” I say instead, stabbing my zen garden omelet like it insulted my family. “The food? Jury’s still out.”

He chuckles again, but there’s a flicker in his eyes. A shift. Like maybe he’s finally starting to see it. That this world of curated dishes and private coastal spots doesn’t quite fit me.

“I just wanted to take you somewhere nice,” he says, quieter this time.

And I get it. I really do.

“I know,” I say, softening. “And it is. But… I asked you to show me LA through your eyes. Not your agent’s eyes. Not a magazine’s idea of you. You. What you love. What you miss when you’re away. What you’d do if no one was watching.”

He’s quiet for a beat, then glances down at my plate.

“Still hungry?”

I blink at the miniature omelet—what I suspect is one solitary duck egg pretending to be a meal. “Starving.”

He stands and drops a hundred-dollar bill on the table without blinking. “Okay. Come on. Let me take you somewhere better.”

We leave Drift and head toward a much busier, louder part of town. As we pull up, I instantly perk up.

“This place,” Jake says, grinning now, “makes the best breakfast burritos in the entire city.”

Oh yes. Now we’re talking.

We line up side by side on the sun-warmed pavement, and even with his hat pulled low and sunglasses on, I feel the shift around us. The buzz. The recognition. People glance and whisper.. Pretend not to take pictures.

Jake sighs.

I brush my fingers lightly against his, grounding us both.

And he looks at me, not the crowd, not the cameras, but at me. And something in his shoulders loosens.

We get to our spot at the front, and the choices are unreal—like, eighteen different burritos, and every one of them sounds like it could either be a life-altering experience or a complete digestive disaster.

“Jesus,” I mutter, squinting at the chalkboard menu. “What even is a Hangry Cowboy?”

Jake chuckles beside me. “It’s a risk.” He leans in, brushing my arm. “Would you allow me to pick for you?”

“Please. Yes.” I drop my shoulders in relief. “Save me from this burrito identity crisis.”

He smirks. “I got you, Fangirl.”

He turns to the guy behind the counter like he’s done this a hundred times. “One Canadian and a Firestorm for me.”

The guy nods. “You got it.”

I blink. “Wait. Canadian?”

“You like sweet and salty,” Jake says casually, sliding his card into the reader. “And you apologize when you bump into furniture. It fits.”

I laugh. “And Firestorm is what, your edible midlife crisis?”

“I’m a man of spice and self-destruction,” he deadpans. “Let me live.”

I chuckle, and we step to the side to wait. It doesn’t take long before a few people start approaching him, shy, hesitant, and clearly fans. I don’t mind. It’s part of the job. Part of his life. And honestly? I like seeing it, the way people light up just being near him.

What I love even more is the way he glances at me through it all. How he keeps his hand in mine, tugging me closer when someone gets too near. When I try to pull away to give him space, he simply tightens his grip.

And my heart? Yeah, it melts a little.

He signs a few autographs and takes some photos, all with that easy charm he wears so well. But the second our order’s ready, he turns to me like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

“In or out?” he asks.

“What do you usually do?”

“Walk to the park down the road,” he says. “Find a spot in the shade. Sit for a bit.”

“That sounds perfect. Let’s do that.”

We walk in companionable silence, the city humming around us. I take my first bite and nearly groan. The maple-glazed bacon? Unexpectedly divine.

“You okay?” he asks suddenly.

I nod, cheeks full. “This burrito is life-changing.”

He chuckles. “I meant about the fans. The attention. I’m sorry if it felt like too much.”

I swallow and shake my head. “Don’t apologize. I knew what I was signing up for. Well, mostly. And honestly? It’s worth it.”

He gives me a crooked grin. “Not a deal-breaker?”

“Absolutely not.”

He exhales loudly. And I realize then just how much it matters to him. How much I matter to him.

I open my mouth to tell him that this, the real him, burrito in hand, baseball cap low, thumb stroking the back of my hand, is everything I want.

But he beats me to it.

“So,” he says, slightly too casual, “you excited to spend the day with Mariana Jones tomorrow?”

Ah. That. I try not to visibly flinch.

Not exactly my idea of fun. She’s intimidating as hell, polished and poised, a woman who eats girls like me for breakfast. But Jake had come home beaming when he told me about it two days ago, like it was this amazing opportunity. So I smiled, nodded, and agreed.

And now, there’s this little voice whispering at the back of my mind, the one I try to ignore but can’t quite shut out: Why does he want this? Why does he want me to be her project?

“You know, I’ve been meaning to ask you wh—”

We’re interrupted before I can finish. Two girls, stunning, all legs and lashes in matching yoga sets, giggle their way over to us. At first, I think it’ll be like at the café: sweet, polite, and brief.

It’s not.

“Oh my god,” one of them gasps. “Are you Jake Hollander?”

The second one doesn’t wait for a reply. She slips between us like I’m invisible, her shoulder catching mine and sending me stumbling back. My burrito slips from my fingers and hits the ground with a soft splat.

They’re on him in seconds, laughing, preening, reaching for their phones.

“I was an extra on your film last year!” the first one gushes, pressing in close. “You were soooo nice.”

Jake doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even blink. “Move,” he snaps, physically stepping between them and me. He shoves one back, not violently, but enough that she stumbles and flushes crimson.

Her friend is already filming.

“What the fuck is wrong with you people?” he barks.

I place my hand on his arm, trying to ground him, and keep my voice calm. “Jake. It’s okay.”

But it’s not, and we both know it.

The girl straightens, eyes narrowing at me. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she says, not sorry at all. “I didn’t see your… sister? Cousin?”

Jake’s jaw locks, his eyes flashing, but I squeeze his bicep—a silent plea to let it go.

Too late.

“Girlfriend,” he bites out, his voice like gravel.

The phone swivels toward me like a spotlight. Heat rises to my cheeks as the girl arches a perfectly shaped brow.

“Can we take a picture?” she asks, still undeterred. Still clueless.

Shameless.

“No,” Jake says, flat and final.

She pouts, stepping closer like it’s a negotiation. “Come on. Just one—”

“I said no.” His voice cuts like glass. “Walk. Away.”

For a second, she stalls. Then her friend tugs at her arm, muttering, “Let’s go. You’re embarrassing yourself.”

The first girl whips around, fury igniting. “Embarrassing myself? Who do you think you are, asshole? You can’t talk to people like that. Just wait ’til this hits socials.”

Jake’s expression darkens. “Oh, I’m sure the world’s dying to meet a bitch like you.”

“Jake!” I hiss, my heart sinking. I already know how this will be twisted. How the headlines will write themselves.

“It’s not worth it,” I say quietly but firmly, my hand still pressed to his arm.

The girls stalk off, whispering loudly, and Jake exhales through his nose like he’s forcing down the urge to chase after them.

I kneel, scooping up the remains of my burrito and tossing them into the nearest bin.

He watches me with his jaw still clenched.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “That was…”

“Not your fault,” I interrupt gently, brushing invisible crumbs from my hands. “But maybe we’ve had enough LA for one day.”

He nods, looking wrecked. “Yeah. I think you’re right.”

He reaches for me, just a soft touch to my arm, tender and grounding.

And I flinch. Not because of him. Not because I’m scared.

Because I’m overwhelmed.

Too many voices. Too many eyes. Too many tiny cuts that finally started to sting.

And still, I want to reach back. I want to choose him anyway.

He pulls his hand back immediately, his eyes wide with guilt. “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“I know,” I say quickly, already hating that he’s blaming himself. “It’s not you.”

He doesn’t speak, just nods once. The muscles in his jaw twitch.

And then he reaches for my hand again.

And this time, I don’t let go.