Chapter 16
Ididn’t hear from him for several days, which honestly surprised me. Had I been ten years younger and one divorce less, I would have thought he looked absolutely endearing in that coffee shop, trying to convince me of something I wasn’t willing to hear.
That was until my phone rang one afternoon. I was getting ready to clock out of a half-shift, and head home when the text came through.
cowboy
hey kid
what are you doing tonight?
Bubble bath, wine, and a new romance release?
Cowboy
…
would you be willing to change that?
can I call in a ‘childhood crush’ favor?
Not a thing
cowboy
it is now
we’re having a cast thing tonight and… I’m not a popular guy
Shocker
cowboy
could I convince you to come to an indie movie cast party?
My jaw practically hit the floor of my car as I read his last message. Before I had time to think of an excuse to decline, he’d sent me information and what time he’d pick me up.
A pool party.
A fucking Hollywood pool party.
In Seattle.
In October.
Abs-fucking-lutely ridiculous.
What did they even wear to those things? Not that it mattered. I wasn’t going. I didn’t have to go. I could just… say no. I could text back a super polite “sorry, can’t make it” and go back to pretending my life wasn’t a sitcom.
But the invite sat there, glowing on my screen like a trap I very much wanted to fall into.
‘Call in a childhood crush favor,’ he’d said… like it was normal. Like we were normal.
Like I didn’t already feel like I’d stepped into someone else’s life the second he opened that rental house door in his Crocs.
I stared at my phone. Then at my closet.
Then at my phone again.
“Absolutely not,” I muttered.
Less than fifteen minutes later, I was tearing apart my laundry basket looking for the one swimsuit that didn’t make me want to crawl into the sea and vanish.
I held up the black one-piece. Sleek. Structured. Modest. “This says: ‘I’m normal. I’m chill. I’m not here to seduce a man in Crocs.’”
Then I held up the wine-red two-piece. High-waisted, minimal coverage. A little vintage. A lot of boob. “This says… ‘I still got it, bitches.’”
I dropped both onto the bed with a groan. “This is so stupid. I’m talking to myself.”
It wasn’t like I was going to impress anyone at an October Hollywood pool party. Not with my awkward jokes and half-dry hair and stress-sweat. And I wasn’t trying to impress Ansel.
I wasn’t.
Except maybe I was. Just a little. Maybe I wanted him to look. Just once. Just long enough for me to remember what it felt like to be wanted by someone who saw me.
Quit it, Haddock.
Friends.
I just wanted a friend. I’m not in the market for anything more, and especially not with Ansel Barlowe.
I had only twenty minutes left.
Fuck.
Which, in Ansel Time, meant maybe five. Ten, if I was lucky. Fifteen if he’d somehow gotten lost in the Whole Foods parking lot.
A girl can dream.
I stood in front of the mirror, staring at myself as if the reflection might change if I glared hard enough.
The red swimsuit was on. Technically. It had taken me seven minutes, a minor existential crisis, and one bruised knuckle to wrestle into place.
Over it, I’d thrown a long, gauzy cover-up. Neutral. Classy. It screamed, I am not here to flirt with Ansel Barlowe.
My hair was pulled back in a casual bun I’d redone three times to make sure it looked ‘natural.’
I had tinted my lips just enough to be alluring without looking… like an implication.
And my earrings? Tiny gold hoops. Because somehow, hoops were completely cool and natural and absolutely the dress code for a Hollywood pool party. I looked natural. Like I wasn’t even trying.
I definitely still looked like someone trying.
The sound of tires crunching in the gravel outside made my stomach drop. I froze.
He was early.
Of course, he was early.
I grabbed my phone, opened the camera, flipped it to selfie mode — and immediately wanted to scream. I looked like a woman who couldn’t decide if she was going to a pool party or a funeral or a casual revenge mission against her own dignity.
A knock came at the door.
Too late.
I took one last breath, squared my shoulders, and opened it.
“Hey kid,” he said with an easy smile. But I didn’t miss the way his eyes skirted across my curves and down my legs. I hoisted my bag up onto my shoulder, pushing past him. “‘Hey Ansel, great to see you.’” He replied in a mimicking tone.
I stopped only when I made it to the passenger door of his car. But I didn’t answer — only scowled.
And that seemed to just delight the ass further. “You could have declined, you know.” His grin was still wide as he opened my door for me.
Fucking gentleman.
“No, I couldn’t have.” I huffed as I threw myself into his car. I continued the pout, arms crossed as he slid in next to me.
“You’re cheery today. This is perfect.” The car shifted. “Everyone will be so caught up in your nasty little attitude, maybe they’ll forget how much they dislike me.”
We drove in silence for several minutes before he spoke again. “Are you going to give me the cold shoulder the whole evening?”
“Maybe.”
“Juniper,” A sigh. “What’s going on with you?”
My stomach was in knots. I didn’t want to lose my lunch over his rental EV car. I shook my head once, sharp.
Without his eyes veering from the road, his hand came to rest on my thigh, squeezing gently.
A lick of heat climbed up my back. “You’ll stick close to me, right?” He asked, and I could see the smirk out of the corner of my eye. “These people are so fake and uppity. I need my girl—”
I snapped my head.
“Shit.”
“Ansel Barlowe…”
“My friend. My girl, that’s my friend. My girl…”
“I’m not your girl.” I cut my eyes.
It did nothing to diminish the smile on his face.
“Just don’t leave me alone, deal?”
The house was ridiculous. Of course, it was.
Vaulted ceilings, too much glass, and someone had paid extra for the kind of lighting that looked like mood lighting but was probably engineered by a NASA contractor.
There were already people in the pool — laughing, half-naked, drink in hand, like this was a normal Tuesday.
It was not a normal Tuesday.
Ansel parked terribly. Not diagonally this time, but with the confident laziness of a man who knew no one would call him out on it. He killed the engine and turned to me with a grin that bordered on sheepish.
“You ready?” he asked.
“No,” I said flatly. “But I’m here.”
“That’s the spirit.” He reached over and flicked the hem of my sleeve. “You look great, by the way.”
I rolled my eyes and made a dramatic show of ignoring him as I stepped out of the car. The oversized cover-up I’d thrown on barely hit mid-thigh, and I tugged it lower as we made our way toward the house.
Inside, the warmth hit me first — it was practically tropical. Chlorine clung to the air. A DJ was set up against the back wall, and someone had brought tiny floating flamingos to hold their drinks.
Ansel introduced me to a few people on the way in, but I only half-heard their names. Too busy cataloging all the bronzed skin, tousled hair, perfect abs.
And then — eyes on me.
Too many eyes.
I tugged the cover-up tighter around myself and tried to disappear into the corner.
“You okay?” Ansel asked, voice low as he handed me a drink. I didn’t know what it was. I didn’t care.
“I don’t belong here.”
“Yes, you do.”
I looked up at him. “They’re all half-naked and beautiful and glowing. I look like an anxious librarian.”
He glanced at my cover-up. “So… take it off?”
I stared at him.
“I mean — I didn’t — I wasn’t—” he sputtered. “I just meant — if you want to swim. Or not. You don’t have to. Shit.”