Chapter 33
She left.
I watched her go, watched a PA hold the door for her, watched her glance back just once — just long enough for my heart to slam against my ribs — and she was gone.
And I was useless.
There was noise, movement, crew everywhere resetting lights and props, someone asking me if I needed water, but it was like I’d gone underwater. I could still feel her mouth on mine, the way she’d pulled me down by the collar, the way she’d gasped when I tugged her closer.
God, I was gone.
“Barlowe — hey, we’re resetting in five.” I nodded. Or maybe I didn’t. My mouth was still tingling. My hands felt empty.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Reflexively, I checked it — nothing. Just an email. Not her.
I should text her. Something. Anything. But every draft in my head sounded stupid. You ruined me. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. Please do that again.
Instead, I typed: Get home safe, kid.
Simple. Harmless. I hit send before I could think better of it. And then I stood there, staring at my screen like an idiot.
Because all I could think about was her.
Juniper Haddock, with her oversized sweaters and the sharpest tongue I’d ever loved getting cut on.
The woman who’d fallen asleep in my arms on my living room floor.
The one person who’d ever made me feel like I could be…
more. The only person who saw past Eryk Moonstrider and my shitty decades-old performances and the fans that made my life hell for years.
I imagined her driving home, phone lighting up with my text, smiling just for me. I imagined her curled up in bed, hair messy, makeup off, wearing one of my hoodies again — Christ, I wanted her in my hoodie.
I wanted her in my life.
I wanted her.
“Hey, man, you good?” the grip asked, clapping me on the shoulder.
“Yeah,” I said automatically. My voice didn’t sound like mine.
Because I wasn’t good. I was floating.
I was halfway across the stage when Marianne, my publicist, intercepted me. “There you are. Listen — there’s a red carpet event on Friday. Same studio, Kellogg directed it. Good press if you show. No interviews, just photos. Are you free?”
“Sure,” I said. Too quickly.
She squinted at me. “What the hell happened to you?”
I couldn’t stop grinning. “Nothing.”
Marianne eyed me as if I’d grown a second head. “Right… Well. I’ll email you the details. Wear something hot. Try not to fall in love on the carpet, yeah?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there.”
She stopped mid-scroll and looked up at me. “Bring Juniper.”
That yanked me out of my haze. “What?”
“You know. Your girlfriend? The one half of the internet’s obsessed with? It’ll be good press — soften your image. Fans love a date-night moment.”
My mouth went dry.
Because the idea of her in some ridiculous, perfect dress — on my arm, under all those flashing lights — made my chest ache in a way I didn’t want to think too hard about.
“Uh — yeah.” I cleared my throat. “Yeah, I’ll ask her.”
Marianne grinned. “Great. We’ll arrange travel and accommodations. I’ll text them to you in an hour or so. And for God’s sake, Barlowe, try not to look so… whatever this is. People will start thinking you actually like her.”
Whoops.
Too late.
Because the whole way back to my trailer, all I could think about was her hand on the back of my neck. Her lips on mine. And how badly I wanted to do it again.