Chapter 10
The second I woke up, I thought of her.
Actually, no — before I woke up, she was already in my dreams. That bookstore. That mouth. That sharp little smirk, like she knew every thought I hadn’t said out loud.
And now it was real. She’d said yes.
Lunch.
Which was normal. Casual. Adults did that sort of thing all the time. But my brain had decided this wasn’t just a lunch. This was The Lunch. Capital L. Possibly career-ending if I blew it.
I stood in front of my suitcase — open, half-unpacked — like it had personally betrayed me. Every shirt I owned either screamed “trying too hard” or “accidentally wandered out of a men’s warehouse outlet mall.”
I put on a t-shirt. Took it off. Put on a button-down. Took it off. Contemplated texting her to cancel because I’d mysteriously developed a fatal illness.
Instead, I said out loud, to no one, “Cool. Chill. Calm down. It’s just a sandwich.”
Then immediately tripped over my own boots.
10:42 a.m.
The time was mocking me.
Opened my phone to check the weather. Ended up rereading her DMs instead. Again.
11:17 a.m.
How had it only been thirty fucking minutes?
Searched “how early is too early to show up to a date.”
Scrolled past articles titled Desperation Isn’t Sexy and Avoid These Rookie Mistakes.
Forty-fucking-years old, and I had first-date tips glaring at me from my phone.
11:42 a.m.
Tried to work. Answered one email. Deleted three sentences of the script I was supposed to be editing. Googled “types of flowers that don’t look like an apology.” Didn’t buy any.
12:15 p.m.
I wasn’t going to make it.
Stared in the mirror. Smiled. Frowned. Tried a smile-frown.
Realized I looked like I was about to sell her a haunted house.
12:41 p.m.
Picked up coffee at a local spot. (If she hated it, I was prepared to spiral.)
Checked my reflection in the car window. Twice. Almost backed out.
Again.
1:09 p.m.
I can do this. I can do this.
Sat in the parking lot outside the café, heartbeat at a violent tempo. Rehearsed a line about ‘accidentally dropping by the bookstore.’
Rejected it.
Rehearsed it again.
1:24 p.m.
I was outside the café door, holding coffee and hope like they were enough to get me through the next hour.
I was about to see her again.
I wasn’t ready.
I also wanted never to do anything else.
The door opened behind me.
I didn’t turn around right away.
I don’t know why — maybe I thought if I didn’t look, I could stall the moment, hold on to the tension just a little longer. Or maybe I was trying to pretend I wasn’t waiting like a guy in a romantic comedy who definitely doesn’t survive the final cut.
But then I heard her voice — a soft, polite, “Hey,” to the hostess — and it hit me.
I turned.
And there she was.
Juniper.
Hair pulled half up, sunglasses on her head. A leather jacket and a dress that wasn’t loud, but sure as hell made the air shift around her. She looked like every version of her I’d remembered — and none of them at all. Worse, better. Real.
She spotted me and smiled — not the careful one from yesterday, not the practiced grin for strangers or fans — but something crooked. Crooked and warm and just a little wary, like she knew exactly how stupid I was about to be.
God help me, I smiled back.
I stood fast enough to knock the edge of the table with my knee.
Smooth.
“Hey,” I said, voice too low. Too casual. “You came.”
She arched an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m always surprised when people show up for me.” There was a pause. Too real. I swallowed it and gestured to her chair. “I mean. Glad you did.”
Juniper shrugged out of her jacket, dropping it over the chair as she sat. “I almost didn’t. Got halfway here and thought, ‘What if he’s actually a creep who just flirts with bookstore clerks and disappears again?’”
I grinned. “If I were trying to disappear, I wouldn’t have ordered you coffee.”
She looked down at the drink I’d nervously placed at her spot. Read the label. “You remembered my order.” A smile teased the edge of her lips. “I didn’t even tell you. That was months ago.”
“I’m not completely hopeless,” I said, sliding back into my chair. “Just mostly.”