Chapter 8
JULES
It was past eight, and there I was, standing in front of the mirror in a simple black dress, barely any makeup (I wouldn’t know how to apply more than that anyway!), and my anxiety at an all-time high.
How did he know my name? Why did he kiss me like that? And why did I kiss him back? My brain was fried, running circles around questions I had no answers to.
I squinted at my reflection while every awkward thing I’d ever said replayed in my head.
Like the time I asked my neighbor if his dog was single, and then he took offense when I didn’t want to go on a date with him.
Or when I explained to a stranger why blueberries are the superior berries.
Or the million times I was apparently too rude when I was just trying to make conversation.
I wasn’t a charming, quirky, manic pixie dream girl. I was full-on Crazy with a capital C.
And you know what? It had taken me years to embrace my brand of weirdness. Seeing those same quirks in my kids had been the final proof that: screw what people think, there was magic in being different.
Still, knowing you are lovable and feeling lovable are two very different beasts. Most people didn’t get me, and that was fine. But would it be fine if Chris Jones found me too eccentric to bear?
I was halfway through an internal panic attack when my reflection blurred, and the lights dimmed.
That’s when she appeared—dream Jules. She was a vision in a long emerald-green dress that hugged her curves and made her hair pop, looking like a fiery crown of confidence.
Her makeup was mostly soft, except for her dark, smoky eyes that made the color of her irises sparkle.
Her smile was comforting yet a little bit cocky, like she had it all together.
I wanted to be her so bad.
Behind her, he showed up. Chris stepped into the reflection in a tuxedo with a tie that matched her dress.
I would say it looked cheesy, but on them, it looked…
adorable. His arms slipped around her waist, pulling her close, and he leaned down to kiss her neck.
I touched my own neck because I could almost feel it.
She rested her hand on his, and they both looked at me.
It was irrational, but watching them, watching whatever version of us that was, brought an unexpected calm. My pulse slowed down, and my shoulders softened. But my peace didn’t last because the doorbell rang and shattered the moment like dropped glass.
In the mirror, dream me disappeared, leaving me with my real reflection. The difference between us was striking, except for one thing: I realized I was smiling, too, like she was. I hadn’t even noticed.
I took a deep breath and straightened my dress. The doorbell rang again, echoing through the house. I grabbed my purse, ready to head downstairs, but I paused halfway, ears tuned to the sounds below. I could make out Carol’s mutter, dripping with annoyance, after the second ring.
“8:55. Strike one, Mr. Jones.”
I rolled my eyes and smiled. She didn’t exactly rush to answer the door. The third ring came and went before I finally heard her slow steps. She finally reached the door and pulled it open.
“Carol! Hi!” I could hear Chris’ cheerful voice. That confident charm probably worked on 99% of the population, but not on Carol.
“He knows my name. Nice.” The sarcasm spilled out of her.
“Is Jules ready?”
“Since eight.”
There was a pause. I pictured Chris scrambling to recover.
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I got held up earlier. Some fans were waiting. You know how it is…”
Carol didn’t give an inch. “Can’t say that I do.”
That was my cue. Not that I wasn’t enjoying the blood bath, but I needed to intervene before he gave up and left.
I stepped out, nerves bubbling in my chest. My hand smoothed my dress again, and I bit my lip, trying not to drown in my own nerves.
But as soon as I started down the stairs and our eyes met, everything shifted.
I couldn’t tell you what about Chris Jones’ eyes made my usually rock-concert-loud head mute.
He didn’t look like an untouchable celebrity from here.
He was just a man. A stupidly gorgeous man, yes, with arms that could keep a helicopter in the ground and eyes that could cause mass fainting. But still, just a man.
Maybe he could even be the type of guy who would sit next to you on the couch at midnight, arguing over which of the Kardashians is the best one. The kind of guy who could tease you one second and make you laugh so hard you’d snort the next.
I would like that.
“You look… beautiful,” He whispered, and I barely caught it.
We had been staring at each other for too long, and I knew it because Carol cleared her throat loudly, bringing us back to reality. A reality in which he was late. Not a little late, but nearly an hour late.
Even though I was trying hard to keep my cool, it bothered me. I needed to follow a schedule, or my brain would spiral into overdrive. For some completely insane and unfair reason, I’d expected him to already know that.
My mind raced between telling myself not to be so unreasonable and wanting him to know how much it bugged me. And, apparently, the side that wanted him to know was winning because I couldn’t hide the disapproval all over my face. Subtlety wasn’t exactly my strong suit.
I was already at the door when I leaned over to Carol, ignoring Chris, and kissed her cheek. “Thanks for today. I owe you one.”
Carol smirked. “And I won’t let you forget it.”
No doubt about that.
“Call if you need anything. Bye, Vic!”
I called out toward the living room and heard Victoria’s cheerful, “Have fun!” in response.
Without so much as looking at Chris, I strode straight into the car, but not before I could see him turning to Carol, completely lost. My sister, of course, gave him a smug look and shut the door in his face.
I swear I could hear her laughing on the other side.
Chris followed and opened the door with an apologetic smile.
“I feel like you’re mad at me.”
Oh, I was. But I wasn’t going to say anything. I slid into the passenger seat, trying my best to keep a neutral expression.
“I don’t do well with delays.”
“Oh.” He closed my door before walking around to his side. His face was like a little kid who’d been scolded. Once he was in, we buckled up in silence. Five minutes into the date and I was already ruining everything. I stared out the window, and he drove.
It didn’t take long for him to break the silence.
“I’m sorry. I was… detained.”
He was clearly not used to people calling him out on his lateness or anything else, I’d assume.
His body was tense, like he was weighing whether to turn around and scrap the whole thing.
Probably thinking it was too much trouble for a hookup.
But still, he apologized. Even if the words looked like they tasted foreign in his tongue. And I appreciated that.
“It’s okay.” I forced a polite smile. I could still try to save this. Small talk mode activated. “Where are we going?”
“Accardi,” he said, perking up as he mentioned it. “It’s been my favorite restaurant for a while now.”
“Never heard of it.”
Was that too rude?
“You’ll love it,” he said, not seeming bothered by my blunt response. “The atmosphere’s perfect, and the food is phenomenal.”
“Sounds great.” I sounded more enthusiastic than I felt. As we cruised through the city, I fell into my usual habit of observing my surroundings, cataloging little details to adapt my conversation. My eyes landed on a flask tucked into the cup holder.
A drinker. Got it.
Then his phone buzzed. And buzzed again. And again. I couldn’t help but look. The screen lit up with a name—Anna. He didn’t even flinch, just completely ignored it. I assumed it was typical, having women calling him all the time.
I focused on how spotless his car was. There wasn’t a speck of dust, not a thing out of place. As a neat freak myself, I had to appreciate that.
The phone buzzed. Again. Loud and insistent. I tried to let it go. I stared out at the passing lights, doing my best to focus on anything else. But when I opened my mouth to say something polite, something entirely different slipped out.
“Aren’t you going to pick it up? The buzzing is annoying.”
Oh. My. God. Did I actually say that?
I braced myself for him to snap back or, at the very least, give me one of those “What’s wrong with you” looks. I was all too familiar with those. But he didn’t. He… laughed.
“You’re absolutely right. Sorry about that.” Then, as if it were no big deal, he switched off the phone and tossed it into the back seat without even checking who was calling. Problem solved.
Most people would’ve been annoyed or caught off guard, but not him. Nope. He laughed and handled it, like what I said and how I said it was… amusing.
Give it time. It was only the beginning of the night, after all.
“So…” I started, fishing for something remotely interesting to say, but landing on, “Do you live in the city?” I immediately cringed at myself. Riveting stuff.
Chris didn’t seem fazed.
“Nah,” he said.
He kept his eyes on the road, no distracted and casual glances people give when they’re driving. Interesting. I always imagined famous people to be a little reckless, like they didn’t need to follow the rules because they could charm their way out of a ticket.
“I have an apartment here, yeah. But my real home is in Boston,” his eyes sparkled at the mention of the city. “And a house in L.A. It’s hard to stay in one place for long in this line of work, you know?”
Well, I didn’t. But I nodded, watching him as he spoke. I was kind of fascinated by how he filled the silence, not because he had to, but maybe because he was a little nervous, too. The thought caught me off guard. Chris Jones? Nervous?