Chapter 8
Ibarely made it to the end of the block before regret hit me like a truck.
I’d made it out of the bookstore thinking I was being suave — smooth, even. A little flirty, a little mysterious. Just breezy enough not to seem desperate. Like I hadn’t thought about her at all since the convention.
Which, of course, was a lie. A boldfaced, idiot-tier lie.
I should’ve said more. Actually told her about The Way We Move.
Told her I was shooting just a few blocks from here.
That I’d been half a second from ducking into the alley when I saw the name “Figments” on the window, recognizing the storefront from her social media — and had to circle the damn block three times before I convinced myself it was actually her.
But instead I made some dumb joke, tossed her a line about yearning, and left like I had somewhere better to be. I didn’t even ask for her number. Again.
God, what the hell was wrong with me?
Maybe she hadn’t wanted me to. Maybe she was being polite — flirtatious in the way someone’s flirty with a stranger they’re never planning to see again. That smile of hers — sharp and warm at the same time — maybe it wasn’t for me at all.
Or maybe she had been interested, and I blew it.
Again.
I raked a hand through my hair and groaned, earning a side-eye from a woman passing by with a toddler and a bubble tea.
It didn’t help that my heart was still doing this weird, stuttering thing in my chest. Or that I could still smell the bookstore on my jacket — coffee, paper, vanilla — and underneath that, her.
The way she said my name. The way she didn’t back down. The way she looked at me like I wasn’t the version of myself I hated.
And I’d just… left.
Cool, Barlowe. Real cool.
I used to be a Hollywood hotshot, even with all the shit I had gotten for Battle for the Cosmos. There was a time I could have had anyone I’d wanted.
Sure, that was twenty years ago, but it had still happened.
And now… I was nearing forty, standing at a crosswalk in Seattle, thinking about how I could see a woman who probably wasn’t interested in me.
Real cool, Barlowe.
I was halfway back to set, sitting at a red light, when I opened Instagram.
Just to check.
Not for her.
Fuck. Who was this girl who had so suddenly wormed her way into my stupid heart? This wasn’t me — not even a little bit. I’d never been the type of man to yearn or to pine…
And yet here I was. Not stalking her on Instagram.
Her newest post was barely thirty minutes old. A stack of trade paperbacks sitting on a romance end cap — one of which I might’ve been holding when I panicked and fled. The caption just said:
“In my yearning and pining era. Again.”
I stared at it for a full minute. Maybe two. There was no way.
I shouldn’t.
It’s a bad idea.
A worse idea? Typing out a comment and actually hitting send.
anselbarlowe
Thought I recognized that shelf. Taking book recommendations from mysterious strangers?
I hit ‘comment’ before I could second guess myself and immediately threw my phone into the passenger seat like it might explode.
What the hell was I doing?
That wasn’t chill. That wasn’t casual. That was blood-in-the-water behavior. That was ‘I’m about to download TikTok just to stalk her book recs’ energy.
When I finally picked my phone back up, there was a DM.
From her.
It just said:
juniepwillikers:
Stranger? Bold, considering you flirted with me in front of the entire romance section.
But yes. I still take recommendations. Especially from washed-up space cowboys.
I stared at the screen.
My hands were sweating.
Like I was a teenager. Like I was sixteen again, trying to flirt at a cast party with someone way too pretty and way too smart to give me the time of day. I typed:
anselbarlowe:
At least you could tell I was flirting with you this time.
Can I earn back your trust over coffee? Or are you only accepting apologies in annotated paperbacks?
She was typing back before I could chicken out.
juniepwillikers:
Tempting. But I’m working tomorrow morning.
What about after? My lunch break?
My heart did that thing again — that stupid, traitorous stutter.
Okay. Okay.
anselbarlowe:
Name a time. I’ll be there.
With coffee.
And yearning. Obviously.
She sent back a one-word reply:
juniepwillikers
One-thirty.
And then, after a beat:
Don’t be late, space cowboy.
I could work with that.