27. Jules
CHAPTER 27
Jules
The coffee shop is my refuge, the one place where I can fade into the background, sip my Americano, and watch the world spin without me. With the dark glasses Taylor gave me and baseball cap in place, I slide into my usual corner booth, the one with the worn leather seat and the perfect view of the city streets.
The barista doesn’t even need to ask—being a regular has its perks—and soon enough, a steaming cup of coffee lands in front of me.
I take a sip, letting the warmth seep into my bones, and pull out my laptop.
Lately, writing about the secret lives of billionaires has felt like pushing a three-hundred-pound boulder uphill. Creativity is a temperamental diva, and my heart’s just not in it.
Instead, I’m borderline obsessed with a new piece that has latched onto my brain and refuses to let go. Everyday Heroes Among Us , though I’m tempted to rename it Secret Lives of the Guys Next Door .
Just as I’m finally slipping into the zone, my Instagram messenger blows up like a pinball machine on overdrive.
What the hell?
I open my @SydneySun account, and my heart slams to a dead stop. Notifications are flooding in—tags, likes, shares—because, somehow, my story just went viral.
Brian Bishop:
Playboy Billionaire or Corporate Saboteur?
The problem is, I didn’t write it.
I didn’t write anything remotely close to it.
Whoever did not only hacked into my account and made me look like a total ass but also has the grammar skills of a middle school dropout. And the spelling? Don’t even get me started. Seriously, who the hell spells “believe” without the ‘i’?
A new message pops up. Huh? Who would be messaging me?
I tap it open, and there it is. The handle that feels like drumsticks on my heart.
@MountainBoyNYC
Brian Bishop.
Former jerkface.
Current husband.
The guy who makes gray sweatpants look like pure athletic porn.
His message is simple, direct, and dripping with that annoying trademark confidence .
@MountainBoyNYC : We need to talk.
I can almost hear his voice, smooth and commanding, the kind that gets under your skin whether you like it or not.
My heart does that stupid little flutter it always does around him, and I have to remind myself to stay calm. This is Brian Bishop we’re talking about. No way am I letting him get the upper hand or know who I am.
My fingers fly across the keyboard.
@SydneySun: I’m super busy right now. How about next week?
Or, as Sydney Sun, how about never?
The reply comes back almost instantly, like he was waiting for it.
@MountainBoyNYC: If you wanted to know more about me, all you had to do was ask.
@MountainBoyNYC: When. Can. We. Meet?
My fingers hover over the keys, my mind spinning. If I tell him I didn’t write the story, he’ll think I’m full of it.
But admitting I did?
Not happening. One, it’s a total lie, and two, the story is an affront to everything I stand for—personally, professionally, and grammatically .
@SydneySun: Sorry, super busy. Totally swamped, actually. Maybe next week?
@MountainBoyNYC: Busy? With what? Deciding on your next victim to slay? Or choosing which emoji to use in your next tweet? You know, for a writer, your punctuation is, um, let’s call it flamboyant.
I didn’t write that! But I can’t exactly confess that to him, now, can I?
@SydneySun: I prefer the terms fun and frolicsome.
@MountainBoyNYC: I prefer the term schizophrenic and desperate for a dictionary. And since you’re basking in the glory of your viral article, I’m sure you’ve got a few minutes to spare. Tell me where you are, and I’ll stop playing hard to get.
Him playing hard to get? Yeah, right.
@SydneySun: Playing hard to get? Please. You chase women harder than a kid after an ice cream truck.
@MountainBoyNYC: At least I’m honest about it. You’re in way over your head.
@MountainBoyNYC: Do not make me come after you, guns blazing .
@SydneySun: If your gun’s blazing, maybe a doctor can help. A nice round of antibiotics should do the trick.
@MountainBoyNYC: So, you don’t want to meet with me. What’s the matter? Scared?
My heart stutters, and a rush of irritation follows. It’s the same damn line he’s been using since I’ve known him. And for me, it always manages to push the right button that sends me from zero to furious with something to prove.
It’s how he got me into the lake to swim for the first time. Trying to skateboard down the biggest hill in town. Tasting uni , a Japanese sea urchin delicacy which, for the record, isn’t bad, just not for me.
I narrow my eyes and type out a response, my fingers flying over the keys.
@SydneySun: Of you? Hardly. Of contracting a mystery rash from sitting on the same park bench as you? Definitely.
@MountainBoyNYC: Good. So, it’s settled. We’re meeting.
Wait. What?
No, we’re not meeting. We are not . Meeting .
@MountainBoyNYC: Where and when ?
I need to shut this down. It feels wrong, deceiving him like this. He might be my worst enemy, but he’s still my husband, after all.
So, I do what any cornered spouse would do.
I hide.
@SydneySun: Meet me at the Statue of Liberty.
@SydneySun: Tomorrow. Noon.
@SydneySun: And bring lunch.
I only add that because, as much as I want to send him on a wild goose chase, I’m not heartless enough to let him do it on an empty stomach. The man barely eats right as it is.
His response is instant.
@MountainBoyNYC: I’m more in the mood for coffee. How about The Grind House ? Ten minutes.
My pulse quickens as my eyes flick up, and there it is—the sign of The Grind House staring back at me.
How did he know I was here?
As if reading my thoughts, another message buzzes in.
@MountainBoyNYC: While you’ve been chatting with me, I’ve been homing in on your location.
@MountainBoyNYC: You really should turn that off. Security risk and all .
@MountainBoyNYC: See you in 10 minutes, and I’ll take a—oh, wait, you already know exactly how I take my coffee. Make it that. On ice.
@MountainBoyNYC: PS: Don’t even think of leaving. I will chase you down like a kid after an ice cream truck. And eat you alive.
Instantly, a million filthy images of him flood my mind—his face buried between my thighs, devouring me like I’m a melting creamsicle on a hot summer day.
God, I’m so screwed.