Chapter 3
Chapter Three
I close it quickly, like it’s burning my fingers. I know I’m turning red. I shouldn’t have come back to the bar. I should’ve pretended not to see through his disguise.
“Tony…” I say slowly, “What’s this? And why do I have it?”
He shrugs. “I’m not sure. Josh was the one who found your wallet. He gave me that with it.”
I groan and let my head fall onto the counter. What could he possibly have to say that’s noteworthy enough to leave me a message? I sit up and open it.
What are the chances of us running into each other twice in a week? I figured on Monday if it was meant to be, it would be. Then, you told me about your golden ‘no distraction’ rule, so imagine my surprise when I found your wallet. If you wanted to see me again so badly, you could’ve just said.
After Friday night, I’m going to assume you’re getting on fine here in London. You’ll have to let me know if this ‘flying across the world’ is an effective moving-on technique. Stay dry, Thomas.
x Josh.
Finished with a huge smiley face next to his signature.
I can almost hear the teasing in his voice.
I should take the note, cut out the autograph, and sell it on eBay for a fortune.
It’d be the smart thing to do. But there’s something about him that challenges me.
How much can note-passing distract me anyway?
“I’m going to need a piece of paper and a pen,” I tell Tony as I slide his note into my wallet.
He laughs, tears a page from his small waiter’s notebook, and hands me his pen.
What game are you playing, ‘Justin’? Who would’ve thought you would be at the bar during its busiest time?
I’m not so sure that Tony needed help… as much as you figured if it was meant to be, you’d just put on a wig and a sleeve to approach me.
Blonde looks nice on you, although you were missing a key prop…
I have to say, I’m not very convinced this technique is working at all. How do you know I’m moving on from something? Unfortunately, not every day can be like Friday. It’s been almost two weeks—if I’m still here after the one-month mark, then we can say it’s successful.
x Julia
I draw an even bigger smiley face. I fold it up and give it to Tony, who takes it without complaint, amusement painted all over his face.
My momentary distraction is enough to fuel my work progress times two. I feel morally obligated to not let him affect me.
“He left you a note?!” Emma screams. “Send me a picture! I can’t believe I’m hearing about this now.”
I snap a quick photo and send it to her, as doubt and fear crawl up my throat.
“Well, he’s right,” she says. “What are the chances of you running into him again?”
I groan. “I’ve probably got better odds at being mauled by a shark.”
Emma snorts, then gasps loudly. “Did you write him back? Please tell me you wrote him back.”
I’m surprised this wasn’t her first reaction.
“I did,” I whine. “And I’m regretting more and more with every second that passes. There was just something about it! I couldn’t help myself.”
“What’s so bad about it? It’s about time you lived a little!”
The most frustrating part is that she’s right.
My one and only relationship started back in university, and as the years passed, it began to feel like I was trapped in someone else’s version of my life.
Then the breakup left me whimpering. It affected my job, my day-to-day and completely shattered my trust.
“I have to stay focused. This is my make-or-break moment,” I say, more to myself than to her. “And you know I’m too broken to get involved in anything remotely romantic. It’s hard to get to know people when you can’t trust them.”
“Jay, trust isn’t something you’re supposed to give away when you first meet someone—not in friendships, and especially not in relationships,” she says wisely. “It’s built over time. The other person has to show you—through actions—that they’re worthy of it.”
“I’m supposed to let go and hope it works out? I don’t think so,” I retort. “Even less with him. The guy sweats charm and flirt, probably from all the practice.”
“He seems to be one of the few in Hollywood who isn’t a womanizer.
He dated Emily Lawrence for like, three years,” Emma answers.
“They were engaged, even. Then when the show ended, she broke it off. Totally used him. A few weeks later, they stumbled into each other at Sunrise Club. He got in a fight with her new guy. Brutal, no one knows what triggered it.”
The information hits me like a punch in the gut. Are there really people so self-centered in the world to do something that low? It’s one thing to get dumped. It’s another to be publicly humiliated and baited into a tabloid mess.
“So that’s what he meant by downfall with the press,” I murmur. “He didn’t strike me as someone who’d be quick to violence.”
“Some of my sources say he didn’t start it, but no videos ever came out,” Emma explains—perks of being a journalist. “Don’t distract me! Spill the beans. What did you write back?”
“I don’t even remember! There was teasing, and—I shouldn’t have.”
“Don’t tell me you’re not a little curious as to where this is going?”
“It’s going nowhere,” I say firmly. “That was probably a one-time thing. He was just taunting me for forgetting my wallet.”
“Do it for me. Go check if he’s written back at some point,” she pleads.
“I’m not even sure I can face that again. I need time to process,” I mutter, trust issues simmering below the surface. “How embarrassing would it be if I showed up and there was nothing?”
“Trust me. He’s going to write back.”
I sit at my desk, the drizzle outside tracing intricate patterns on the floor-to-ceiling windows beside me, the London skyline blurred in the distance. The office is hushed, filled only with the soft clatter of late-day typing and paper shuffling.
I take the last sip of my lukewarm coffee as I flick through the rough draft of my pitch deck one more time before putting it away. Each slide now holds a blend of trends, insights, brand voice, and just enough L.A. spirit to make it stand out.
I’ve been jotting down ideas on Post-it notes—now stuck on the walls of my cubicle, serving as abstract decoration. Color palettes. A tagline I scribbled after rereading his cheeky sign-off. I’d rolled my eyes again… then proceeded to write two slogans in a row.
It’s taken me days to even start. But now the edges are softening. Maybe it doesn’t have to be about being in love. The secrecy, the flirting—maybe that’s enough. At least to get this pitch to land. It’s not about selling the collection; it’s about reinventing myself.
It’s past six, and the floor emptied out long ago.
My ‘Wednesday Hump-Day’ playlist loops for the second time.
I’d been debating whether I should return to The Anchor.
A handwritten note feels almost… safe. Controlled.
I only get one if I go. I can put a stop to it if necessary.
Nothing like the instant gratification—and distraction—text messaging can develop. This is slower. Tamer.
I lean back in my chair, letting my eyes skim over the final slide one more time.
It’s not perfect, but it’s getting there.
My brain feels fried after the most productive day since I’ve been here.
I save the file, close my laptop with a soft click, and slide it into my tote.
Time to trade the glow of the screen for the dim lights at the bar.
Hopefully I don’t embarrass myself by showing up to nothing.
Inside, the bar is scattered with people, nursing drinks in booths or leaning across the counter. Tony stands in his usual spot behind the bar, and when he meets my gaze, he nods like he’s been expecting me.
“Do we have a note?” I ask as I slide onto a stool.
He smirks. “We do, Ms. Julia.”
From the same drawer as last time, he pulls out a slightly bigger sheet of paper, folded in half.
He hands it over, and the moment it touches my fingers, I realize how much I’ve been wanting there to be a second one.
Ah! The glasses! How incompetent of me. Maybe I should dye my hair. It would help with going unrecognized. Out of mere curiosity, would that raise or lower my chances with you?
I’ll take that as confirmation that I was spot on. I know because I see in your eyes the same struggle I went through not that long ago. I should’ve known better with her, though. Now the media is painting me as someone I barely recognize.
I was very trusting. And most of the time, it doesn’t end well when you blind yourself so much you stop seeing what’s right in front of you.
Were you serious about going back to the States in two weeks?
x Josh.
Instead of a smiley face, he’s drawn a smirk along with a pair of round glasses. I can hear his voice in my head as I read it—low and bold, teasing but surprisingly sincere. There’s so much to unpack in a few lines, I don’t even know where to begin.
I run my fingers over the letters, imagining him tucked into that same corner seat, pausing between sentences, wondering what to say—like I am right now.
There’s something about writing notes on paper that makes it feel more permanent. More intentional. Every word chosen. Every silence earned.
I should end it here. Take the note, thank Tony, and go before it’s too late. Instead, I pull out my blue notepad and my pen and start drafting.
Blonde or not, your chances will sit steadily at zero.
It’s hard for me to imagine living a life like yours. I don’t think I’d last a day. I’d be constantly wondering if people were around for the right reasons. How are you not questioning if that’s the case with me?
About trust: I know that feeling a little too well. It seems like our stubbornness has only gotten us hurt. I wasted years…
Much to your disappointment, yes. My final two months here depend on whether my pitch gets chosen or not. It’s a tough market.
x Julia