3. Jules
CHAPTER 3
Jules
I race back to the shoebox of an apartment Taylor and I like to call home.
Technically, it’s in Brooklyn. It’s not the glossy, high-rise dream of Manhattan that’s so far out of reach it might as well be on another planet, but let’s be real—neither of us could dream of affording to live in the city. Hell, there are some months when even Brooklyn is a stretch.
But the moment we saw it, we both fell hard. It’s like a rugged guy with just the right amount of scruff—rough around the edges but impossible to resist. Here, Taylor’s got the walk-in closet she’s always wanted, and I’ve claimed the oversized window that’s become my writer’s haven.
And it’s got that old-school Brooklyn grit. The creaky floorboards and arched doorways whisper stories in my ear. This isn’t just an apartment; it’s history, alive and breathing, wrapping us in its worn, familiar embrace.
Plus, it’s a quick, cheap subway ride from the heartbeat of New York. Or if things get desperate, a cab .
Like today.
Which is good because, at the moment, all I care about is getting through the door.
“Taylor?” I shout as I burst inside, my heart still pounding from the sprint up the stairs.
“In here!” Her voice floats back, calm as ever.
I rush to the bathroom and find her standing front and center, glued to the mirror.
She’s fussing with her honey-gold hair, not even glancing my way as I practically crash into the doorway. She takes her sweet time, painting her lips with a rich cherry-red lipstick, each stroke precise. Finally, she turns to me, her big blue-green eyes locking onto mine—those eyes that tend to make men go insane. Fortunately, they have no such effect on me.
Emergency, my ass.
“Why am I here?” I ask. Taylor was ringing my phone like a damn alarm, and now, it’s as if she never texted at all.
She bats those impossibly long lashes at me and flashes a pleading grin.
It’s a grin I know all too well. The one that says I’ll regret ever returning her call.
I roll my eyes, cross my arms, and brace for the inevitable. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question, Taylor. I was in the middle of an interview.”
She spins around, eyes wide with excitement. “Did you get the job?”
“Barely, with my phone going off like crazy. I’m pretty sure at one point, he thought I left my vibrator on. But I start in three weeks as a no-kidding, real writer.”
She squeals and hugs me, nearly knocking me off balance. “You’re going to be a famous! In no time, you’ll be cranking out stories and supporting your bestie in the lifestyle I’d like to become accustomed to.”
“Simmer down,” I say, untangling myself from her grip. “I have a lot of work to do before I begin. But back to you. You said this was urgent, and last I checked, getting glam isn’t an emergency.”
“But this is an emergency,” she insists, her voice tinged with that familiar mix of drama and frenzy.
“Like the time you locked yourself out of the apartment while dog-sitting your boss’s Rottweiler, and he ended up eating your shoes?”
“Those shoes were couture.”
“Couture chew toys. Or the time you mixed up your laundry with our neighbor’s and made me retrieve your bright red lacy lingerie from him?”
“He’s sweet on you,” she counters.
“He’s eighty-three,” I deadpan. “Old Mr. Grange still gives me the stink eye every time I pass him in the hall. He swears I turned his tighty-whities pink.”
“He really needs to let that go.”
“Taylor!”
“All right, all right...” She takes a deep breath as if transitioning to serious business. “I need someone to cover a few of my shifts.”
“Why?”
“Because I’ve got a gig. In Milan. With my future husband.”
“Another one? What is there, a hot guy vending machine around the corner?”
“Even if there was, you’d miss it because you’re too busy face-planting into the romance book vending machine right next to it.” She points to my ever-growing pile of paperbacks. “They’re not better than the real thing.” She smirks.
No, but they’re safer . I roll my eyes, trying to steer the conversation away.
“Leave my hot military mountain men out of this.” It’s not like my dream job starts anytime soon.
Besides, I like Bernadette. She owns a quaint little mom-and-pop restaurant and lets me have all the food and brownies I want. They’re only open for breakfast and lunch, Monday through Friday, so she and her husband can escape to the mountains on the weekends.
“Fine. I’ll text Bernie and let her know. Which day this week did you need me to cover?”
“Actually, it’s not at Bernie’s.” She waves a black apron with “Salvatore’s” stitched across the front, her eyes wide with faux innocence. “And it’s tonight.”
Here we go again. The last time I covered a shift at Salvatore’s , I endured the hell of a double shift...during a bachelor party. The guys kept calling me “sweetie,” pawing at me every time I walked by. And did I mention...worst tippers ever? I swore, never again.
“No,” I say flatly.
“But you have to.”
“Not happening.”
“Come on,” she pleads, her voice turning syrupy sweet. “You’re my only hope. This guy is a Hemsworth-Cavill-Michael B. Jordan mashup. Don’t make me miss out on having the most beautiful children ever because I had to sling spaghetti. And besides, you owe me. ”
I do owe her, but shouldn’t there be an expiration date when someone saves you from stupid high school crap a million years ago? I give her a flat stare. “Salvatore’s is an hour away.”
“More like ninety minutes with how the subway runs,” she says with a helpless shrugs.
“Taylor!” Seriously? Three freaking hours on public transportation?
Before I can say no or hell no , she’s already slipped the apron over my head and cinched it around my waist. “Look, you said yourself that you don’t start at the paper for three weeks, which means you need the money.” She gives me that stare, and I know she’s right. “Ghostwriting isn’t exactly paying the bills.”
She’s got a point. One I hate. All my efforts barely pay for my morning dose of caffeine, let alone the rent.
She sees my disappointment and shoves me in front of the mirror, diligently adding mascara to my makeup-less face. “You’re so talented, Jules. Soon, you’ll be headlining major articles in the?—”
“ Herald .”
“ The Herald! ” Taylor practically squeals. “Juliana Spenser, kickass journalist for The Herald. ”
“Yup. In a few short weeks, I’ll be writing as myself. Well, sort of.”
Her brow furrows as she looks at me through the mirror. “What do you mean, sort of?”
“Writing for myself was always the dream,” I admit, feeling the words stick in my throat. The idea of it—the exposure, the scrutiny—it’s all a bit too much. “But the thought of having my name and possibly my face out there for the world to dissect is so... ”
I trail off, suddenly hyperaware of how dry my mouth is. “I’ll be writing under a pen name.”
“Like Dr. Seuss?” Taylor teases, raising an eyebrow as she continues to fuss with my hair.
“Hey, don’t knock it,” I shoot back. “He’s in every bookshop around the world. The man’s a global icon of children’s lit.”
She smirks, clearly enjoying herself. “Total respect to the ultimate brand ambassador of cats in hats and...foxes in...Sockes?” She stumbles over the last word, laughing.
“I believe the plural is socks,” I correct, giggling.
“All I know,” she says, pausing to twirl a section of my hair through the curling iron, “is that if I had that kind of reach, I’d be running the Milan fashion show instead of just styling models and vlogging about it.”
I watch her in the mirror, her fingers moving with practiced ease, and an idea starts to take shape. “How many followers do you have on social media?” I ask.
She shrugs, not missing a beat as she curls another strand of my hair. “I don’t know, a few hundred thousand, I guess?”
My eyes widen. “A few hundred thousand?”
Taylor just shrugs, like she hasn’t just casually dropped a number people would trade their left kidney for. “A couple of well-timed TikToks and Reels, and it basically builds itself.”
I try to play it cool. “You know I hate social media.”
“Like a werewolf hates silver,” she says, completely matter-of-fact.
I sigh. “Okay, how about this—I’ll cover all those dreadful shifts while you’re off gallivanting in Malta?—”
“Milan,” she corrects with a smirk.
“And in return, you help me get my social media off the ground?”
Unfazed, she adds another coat of mascara, though the glint in her eyes gives her away. “Be your social media fairy godmother for the next PoshBody award winner?”
“I think you mean Peabody,” I correct with a smirk.
“Then the answer is yes!” she agrees, a grin spreading across her face. “And I’m taking every ounce of credit. Styled by @TheRunwayByTay. Starting with your official photo shoot.”
The blood drains from my face. “What photo shoot?”
“Oh, honey, you can’t have just an average picture if you’re going to be front-page news. You need to be ultra-glam.”
“I’d rather be incognito. Maybe a cute cat image with heart-shaped glasses on.”
“Crazy cat lady? I think not.” She grabs my chin, holding me steady as she paints cherry-red lipstick on my lips with precision. “What’s your handle going to be?” she asks, tousling my hair with a playful glint in her eyes.
“What do you suggest?” I ask, my voice wavering slightly.
She pauses, a thoughtful look crossing her face before she grabs a dark pair of sunglasses and shoves them up the bridge of my nose. “We’ll figure that out later,” she says with a wink, sending a ripple of apprehension through me, a tingle of pinpricks along my arms and neck.
She picks up a scarf and a wide-brimmed black hat, weighing them in her hands, then slaps the hat on my head and tilts it slightly to one side. With the finesse of a fairy godmother—if Cinderella’s fairy godmother was the creative director of Moulin Rouge—she transforms me. My lips are full and pouty, my hair styled into wild, untamed waves .
“Isn’t this a bit much for serving spaghetti?” I mumble, barely recognizing the vamp staring back at me in the mirror.
“Say cheese,” she sings.
“What?” I turn just as she snaps the shot. She shows me the image, and I’m speechless. She’s right—I barely recognize myself. It’s stunning, no doubt, but is this me?
I toss off the hat and glasses, ready to wipe off the lipstick, but she stops me with a firm hand. “What if your future husband walks in tonight?”
I scoff. “My future husband isn’t the type to swagger into Salvatore’s, flaunting a sports car and flashing a fat wallet.”
She arches an eyebrow, still holding her ground. “They’re not so different from Bernie’s crowd,” she challenges, daring me to reconsider.
I shake my head, fighting back a smile. “You couldn’t find two more polar opposite places if you tried. Bernie’s is a mom-and-pop burger joint. The lunch crowd there? They’re real. Regulars without a pretentious bone in their bodies. I know their names, their stories, and they know mine.”
Taylor’s eyes narrow, her tone cutting. “You mean the story where you’re still bleeding words in the shadows while someone else basks in the limelight that should be yours. That story?”
“The point is,” I continue, “Bernie’s isn’t packed to the brim with social climbers or Insta-stars. It’s not flashy—just genuine, easygoing comfort.”
“Shoving past your comfort zone is exactly what you need. Besides, it’s high time you started living like you mean it—with intention,” Taylor says, dramatically flipping her hair over her shoulder. “A little wisdom from my Inner Harmony group.”
I roll my eyes, trying not to laugh. Taylor’s always joining some new group to meet men. “Let me guess, hot guys galore at your a cappella group?”
She narrows her eyes at me, all serious. “For your information, it’s a profound and enlightening circle of kindred spirits focused on self-awareness and manifesting our best lives ever, thank you very much.”
“Uh-huh. And I’m sure Hottie McHotStuff is just there to guide you through the wilds of self-discovery,” I say, leaning back against the wall, a smirk tugging at my lips.
Taylor shrugs, unfazed. “Look, if things don’t pan out with this future husband, my Inner Harmony guru is definitely helping me explore some uncharted energy fields. Maybe even go deep into my aura. Balls deep.” She winks, and I lose it, bursting out laughing.
“Nice,” I say, shaking my head.
She holds up a jade green dress, then a blush pink one, letting them skim her curves. She glances at the mirror, then back at me, raising an eyebrow. “You need to stop hiding away like a hermit crab and dive into life already.”
“What’s so bad about being a hermit crab?” I mutter, yanking the green dress out of her hands. I sigh, nodding toward the pink one. “The pink one—men go wild when you wear it.”
Beyoncé’s “Run the World” blares from Taylor’s phone, the beat pulsing with pure energy that fills the room. Her eyes light up.
“What’s that?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
She bites her lip, giving me that mischievous look she’s perfected over the years. “My alarm. You’d better get moving, or you’ll be late,” she says, her voice laced with urgency. Instinctively, I check my watch.
“Wait. Salvatore’s doesn’t open for a few more hours. What time is your shift?”
Her sheepish smile gives her away before she even speaks. “About the time you get there… if you leave right now.”
“What?”
“They’re opening a little early. Just to start catching the pre-Broadway show crowd, I think.”
“Taylor!”
She clasps her hands together, giving me her best pleading look. “Do this, and I swear you’ll have the best social media presence since the Kardashians. After all, you’ve been my best friend since third grade?—”
“Second,” I correct her, gripping the gorgeous jade green dress with a bit more force than necessary. “Fine, but I’m keeping this as payment.”
“You really should. It’s totally your color. And maybe, I don’t know, go out in it. Like, with a real, no-kidding guy. On a date. That dress is too stunning to be wasted on the alphas lining your nightstand.”
I don’t bother telling her that those alphas are the only men who’ll be anywhere near my nightstand for the foreseeable future.
A spark catches in her eyes, quickly spreading into a wildfire of excitement. “Ooh, you could wear it next month.”
“What’s next month?” I ask, confused. I know it’s not her birthday—which she celebrates with more fanfare than the Fourth of July—or mine, which I quietly take in with homemade snickerdoodles and a pint of caramel ripple fudge .
Her smile stretches wider, practically glowing. “The Media Excellence Gala. It’s the talk of New York. Journalists from everywhere are descending on our backyard. Awards, connections, the whole nine yards. And we are not missing it.”
“And you’re in the know because...?” I arch an eyebrow, half-expecting some wild tale.
A triumphant grin spreads across her face as she tilts her phone toward me, revealing an elegant invitation. “Because I knew you’d nail the job, and I got us on the list.” She taps the screen. “Plus, I’ve been keeping tabs on that hunky Jimmy Denton from the local news.”
“Already ditched your emergency of a future husband?” I tease as she nudges me toward the door.
She shrugs, her grin turning playful. “A girl’s gotta have options.”