Professional.
Just like David’s text said—because of course he follows through with the professional stuff.
We’re escorted back to the studio like nothing’s changed.
Like everything’s normal.
Like I didn’t leave a piece of myself in that hotel room.
I take my usual seat in the lounge.
Same leather sofa.
Same floor-to-ceiling windows.
Same view.
Nothing feels the same.
Jake comes in a few minutes later, balancing another cardboard box with food stuffs.
“Morning,” he says, setting down what looks like fresh bagels, a variety of cream cheese spreads, and coffee.
Thank fuck for caffeine.
Jake is different today.
Still polite. Still composed.
But there’s distance there.
A cool edge that wasn’t there when we first met.
I get it. David made sure of that when he dismissed him from the room yesterday.
But I guess superstars can be assholes too when they want to be.
“Thanks, Jake,” I say, offering him a small smile as he sets the tray down.
“Figured you two might need carbs,” he replies, handing me a coffee. “Studio rule. Bagels fix everything.”
“If only that were true,” I murmur, wrapping my hands around the cup.
He studies me for a second—not invasive, just observant.
“So,” he says lightly, “You said you own a bookstore, right?”
“Yeah. The Book Shop. Small name for a small town, but we do have dangerously opinionated clientele and an excellent romance section,” I joke.
His mouth curves.
“I hear romance sells?”
“Oh, it flies,” I say. “People like their happy endings. Especially when the real world’s a dumpster fire.”
“Fair.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “What’s big right now? I only ever see the same five titles on those bestseller lists.”
I snort softly.