Chapter 37 Sadie
THIRTY-SEVEN
SADIE
Sadie was giddy. Like, front row at a boyband reunion giddy. It was getting embarrassing. All because of one stupidly romantic walk home. A few nights ago, he’d looked up at the stars, then looked at her, and called her his sky. In Spanish. Who does that?
Quentin, apparently. He talked about constellations like he’d slow-danced with them. Then he looked at her like she was the only star in the whole damn universe and whispered mi cielo like it was a promise instead of a pet name.
That one stupid, gorgeous line had moved into her brain, unpacked its emotional luggage, and was now blasting romantic ballads at full volume.
Just when she thought she might finally be regaining her grip on reality, she walked into her cabin after a long, sweaty day on set and was ambushed by… a mountain of press-on nails. Like, Everest levels. Every color, shape, and length known to man.
And a Post-it note, stuck on top: “On-call nail technician included. Just say the word.”
Was it wildly over-the-top? Yes.
Did it make her want to marry him immediately? Also yes.
She stared at it, oscillating between hysterical laughter and the urge to text something deeply unstable like: “Are you actively trying to make me fall in love with you? Because I am this close to showing up at your place in a wedding dress."
Her stomach did a giddy little cartwheel. Things were getting serious. Like, potential future joint Costco membership serious and that was mildly horrifying.
So naturally, she did the only rational thing left: she binge-watched his entire filmography.
She started with Solstice Break was his first leading role and it was in a beach drama with the production value of a community pool safety video.
He was technically a lifeguard, but the real plot was his abs, shot in more loving close-ups than the drowning victims he was supposed to save.
The dialogue sounded like the scriptwriter had lost a bar bet.
It was terrible. Gloriously terrible. And somehow, he made it watchable.
Then came the blockbuster era: Mr. America. He was wearing a unitard. A tight body hugging unitard. And looking extremely competent while throwing a flaming motorcycle at an alien lizard. How had she waited this long to watch these? She was depriving herself.
By 9 p.m., she was horizontal on the couch, watching him punch his tenth alien, whispering, “Oh my god, he’s hot. And emotionally available. And hot.”
Sleep was laughable. Food was a concept. Her brain was now exclusively playing reruns of every time he had kissed her, and her heart was tap-dancing like it had caffeine and zero adult supervision.
These were the moments she missed Rebecca the most. Not in the landmark, life-event kind of moments but right now. In the middle of this giddy, spiraling, high-speed emotional rollercoaster.
Because Rebecca would’ve laughed. She would’ve paused the movie, handed her a snack, and said: “Oh no. You’re in it. You’re doomed.”
All she wanted to do was call her, to hear her best friend’s voice on the other end of the line. She wanted to spill every ridiculous, overdramatic thought and have Rebecca talk her down, or talk her up, depending on what she needed.
But the phone stayed silent. And no matter how many times she wished it, Rebecca wasn’t there to answer.
Life didn’t pause for grief, or giddy spirals, or the aching silence of missing someone. It just kept barreling forward.
And on set, it was barreling at full speed.
Since they’d gotten back from Quentin’s family ranch, things had gone from mildly chaotic to full disaster.
Quentin was constantly filming. The director was on some kind of tyrannical warpath.
And Sadie was pouring everything she had into her upcoming Radiance Cosmetics pitch, fine-tuning formulas, reworking slides, tweaking packaging until her eyes crossed.
A loud banging echoed against her front door and she nearly levitated off the couch. Her head snapped toward her nightstand. 9:04 p.m. It was too late for unexpected visitors.
Unless it was Quentin.
Her pulse went from calm-ish to rollercoaster free-fall as she bolted off the couch, bare feet skidding slightly on the hardwood floor.
She barely hesitated before unlocking the door and swinging it open, the night air rushing over her exposed skin like an icy whisper.
Quentin stood under the dim glow of her front porch light, looking criminally good. His baseball cap was pulled low, strands of dark hair curling around his ears, and the glint of his eyes beneath the brim sent a shiver down her spine.
He looked like something out of a dream. Or maybe a delusional late-night fantasy, the kind where she woke up and had to take a lap around the apartment just to shake it off.
“Brought food,” he rumbled, holding up a crinkling brown bag. His voice had that deep, gravelly, soul-disrupting quality that was probably illegal in some states.
Sadie leaned against the doorframe. “What kind?”
His gaze dipped slowly then lower. And that’s when she realized, he was looking at her ridiculous Hello Kitty sleep tank and matching shorts. Absolutely not sexy.
Heat roared to her cheeks, but instead of shriveling up and perishing like she wanted to, she straightened her spine, tilting her chin up just a little, a power move.
His lips twitched, his smirk lazy and amused. “Why? You won’t let me in if it doesn’t meet the ‘Sadie Standard’?” His voice was slow, teasing in a way that sent a completely unfair thrill down her spine.
She shrugged, pretending like her heart wasn’t going 100 miles her minute. “Depends. If it’s gas station sushi, I’m calling the cops.”
“It’s Thai,” he said. “Is that acceptable, Your Honor?”
She let the silence stretch, purely for dramatic effect, before sighing heavily. “Fine. But only because it’s my favorite.”
A shadow of something crossed Quentin’s eyes. “Yeah. I know.”
The words were quiet, almost offhand, but they struck her like flint to stone. Heat bloomed everywhere, fast and wild. Quentin stepped forward, and every nerve ending in her body screamed.
She moved aside to let him in, but he brushed past her just close enough for his breath to graze her neck.
A full-body shiver ran through her. The ghost of a smirk tugged at his lips, the kind that screamed I saw that but was just polite enough not to say it.
He straightened, stepping fully into her cabin.
He set the brown bag on the counter, but his eyes stayed on her as if he could see straight through the flimsy armor she liked to pretend she had around him.
Then he moved through her kitchen like he owned the place, pulling open cabinets, grabbing plates, and plating food without even asking where anything was. Just... helping himself.
“Make yourself at home,” she muttered.
“I will,” he said, completely unbothered, already pulling open her fridge.
She narrowed her eyes, but it was all for show. Honestly, she was scandalized by how much she liked it. The sheer audacity of him, strolling in and blending into her life like he belonged. Like this was just… them. Like this was normal.
Then he kicked off his boots, set them neatly by the door, and returned with a plate of food in one hand and, in the other, a bottle of her favorite strawberry lemonade, condensation beading on the bottle like it had been waiting for her.
“How did you know?” she asked softly, her eyes drifting between the Thai food and the drink, her favorites laid out.
“Because I care about you,” he said, his voice low.
“So yeah, I know the way you take your coffee. I know the songs you hum when you think no one’s listening.
That little crinkle in your nose, right before you laugh?
It kills me every time. It all stays with me.
I couldn’t forget if I wanted to. Because it’s you. ”
He said it so casually, like it wasn’t the most unreasonably romantic thing she had ever heard. Sadie stared at him, fingers tightening around the cold bottle, her pulse loud in her ears. Because God help her, she felt it too.
She used to think stars were just... stars. Now she looked up every night, got a little soft in the brain, and thought of him. She caught herself smiling at constellations like a lunatic. Because of Quentin Ramos and that stupid beautiful face of his.
“So,” he said, voice syrupy with amusement. “What are we watching, Sadie?”
Her stomach dropped. She turned to the TV—slowly, like she could somehow change the outcome. But no. The gods had abandoned her.
Because there, in ultra-crisp 4K, was a very shirtless Quentin, mid-slo-mo explosion, mid-grunt, flying backward through a plate-glass window in Mr. America: World War Four.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
She launched herself at the remote. “Nothing! This is—this is not what it looks like!”
But Quentin already had the remote in his hand and he was delighted. Not just laughing. He was full-on, body-shaking, air-wheezing.
“You’re watching World War Four,” he wheezed. “After you said and I quote ‘this franchise is the cinematic equivalent of protein powder.’”
“I stand by that! It just... auto-played!”
“Auto-played, huh?” He sat onto the couch beside her. “So you accidentally sat through a fifteen-minute motorcycle chase, the shirtless montage, and my six-minute speech about liberty while standing on a flaming tank?”
“There were explosions!” she said defensively. “And the dog had a tiny helmet!”
"You stayed for the dog but skipped my hospital bed monologue where I cry over the Constitution?”
She groaned and buried her face in a pillow. “It spiraled, okay? First I was mocking it, and then I was invested, and then your biceps showed up in slow motion and now I don’t know who I am anymore!”
Quentin tugged the pillow out of her grip with a smug grin. He leaned in until their noses almost touched.
“So,” he said, voice silky, “you’re telling me I converted you?”
She glared. “I’m saying you’re morally liable and I’m exploring legal options.”