Chapter 32 #2
Me? The thought was almost laughable. It was impossible to focus on myself when every fiber of my being was hardwired to put everyone else first. Part of the reason I was so happy in my daydreams was because, for once, I had found someone who put me first. Who cared and worried about me before anything else.
Chris. That was how he changed me there.
Carol leaned closer, resting her hand on top of mine and locking eyes with me.
“Just go,” she said. “Go.”
I stared at her, caught in my own spiral of overthinking. Chris and I were a disaster waiting to happen. One nice gesture didn’t erase the mess we’d already made of each other. And still… I wanted to see him. Damn it, I wanted to thank him. To kiss him.
Carol’s hand tightened slightly on mine, pulling me out of my thoughts. Her expression said it all. I didn’t need to figure everything out right now.
Fuck it. My decision was made.
I grabbed my purse from beside the table, leaned over to kiss Carol on the cheek, and rushed toward the front door before I could change my mind.
I slid into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut behind me. My hands grabbed the wheel tightly while I steadied myself. I closed my eyes for a second, hoping to ground myself, but I felt the tug of a daydream threatening to pull me under. Shit. No. Not now.
Stay. Stay.
But instead of getting lost in some parallel reality, something else surfaced.
A memory. Chris and I were on that rooftop during our first date.
We had finished our meals and were leaning against the edge of the building, watching the party on the rooftop next door.
It was a little lower, with maybe thirty people laughing, drinking, and dancing. It looked fun.
“That one,” Chris pointed to a woman in a yellow dress and a denim jacket. Her hair was long, curly, and blonde, and she was wearing bold white-framed glasses. She sat across from a man with dark hair, both locked in conversation.
“She’s definitely a graphic designer,” I giggled.
“I can always spot one of my own—creative types, you know?” He chuckled, waiting for more.
“She’s talking shit about her boss and complaining about the tiny fridge in the break room,” I added while he stared at me.
My cheeks went all shades of red with his intense gaze, so I glanced away, focusing on the woman.
“What else?” he asked.
“She’s single,” I decided. “But she’s not the ‘designer with a cat’ stereotype. She looks like a dog person. And she’s fine with being single. She’s loving city life, going to art exhibits, drinking overpriced lattes…”
Chris tilted his head. “What about the guy she’s with? They look close. Maybe he’s her boyfriend. Maybe you’re wrong.”
I smirked. “No. Look at their hands. She’s comfortable with him—probably an old friend—but they barely touch.
If there was something romantic there, one of them would be reaching out.
Even just a little. When there’s that kind of connection, staying away is…
hard.” I swallowed, suddenly very aware of Chris’ hand resting on my lower back.
It had been there this whole time. When I looked up at him again, he was smiling.
“I guess you’re right,” he murmured, leaning and making my breath hitch.
“I am always right. You should learn that now,” I teased, trying to break the tension.
His grin widened.
“Noted.” But he didn’t close the gap. Instead, he turned back to the party and pointed at another person. “What about that one?”
And then—I was back.
It wasn’t a dream. It wasn’t a fantasy. It had actually happened. A small, reluctant smile tugged at my lips as I let the memory wash over me, soothing me.
I reached for my phone and stared at it for a beat before dialing Chris’ number.
Of course, the call went straight to voicemail.
I took a deep breath, my thumb resting over the screen as I decided my next move.
Go back home? No. No, I couldn’t. Every part of me was screaming to see him, and this time, I wasn’t going to ignore it.
So I grabbed the phone again, my fingers moving quickly as I dialed another number.
The call connected through Bluetooth as I started the car and pulled onto the street.
“Hello?” Chloe’s familiar voice came through the speakers.
“Chloe? It’s Juliette Davis.”
“Oh. Hi, Ms. Davis,” she replied, clearly surprised. “How can I help you?”
“Can you tell me where Chris is today? Is he on set?”
“He’s in Boston,” she responded without hesitation.
I frowned. “In Boston? What about the movie? Isn’t he shooting in New York until February?”
“He dropped off the movie,” she said it so casually, like it wasn’t earth-shattering news.
“What?” My voice came out sharper than I intended. “I literally saw him yesterday.”
“He flew in for the day to finalize the penthouse sale,” she said.
“He’s selling the penthouse? Why? Is he buying a new one or…?”
“Nope. I think he’s staying in Boston for a while.”
I hesitated, my thoughts racing. This was probably the part where I was supposed to back off, respect boundaries, maybe even send him a nice text and leave it at that.
“I know you’re not supposed to,” I started cautiously, “but could you send me the address of where he’s staying?”
There was a pause. I held my breath, expecting a firm no, but instead, Chloe said:
“I’m texting it to you now.” Wait. What? “Mr. Jones added you to his family list a few months back,” she continued. “High priority, too. I can give you access to anything you like.”
Family.
“Thank you, Chloe,” I replied.
“You are quite welcome, Ms. Davis,” she said before ending the call.
I pulled the car over to the side of the road, my heart racing. Her text buzzed on my phone, and I quickly opened it. There it was—the address.
Boston.
Four hours.
Fuck. That was a long drive. If I was going to back down, now was the perfect time. No one would blame me.
Not this time. Every fiber of my being was screaming for one thing, and I was finally listening. I wanted to see Chris. No second-guessing, no overthinking. I punched the address into my GPS, the soft voice chiming, “Four hours and fifteen minutes to your destination.”
“You got this. It’s fine. Totally fine. Be polite and say thank you… right?” I glanced around like someone might actually answer.
Who was I even talking to?
I let out a sharp breath.
Fuck it, right or wrong. Fuck it, planning and overthinking it. Just… go.