I should be rereading my lines for today’s audition. I should be getting into character, immersing myself in the role, becoming Anlon or at least, the studio’s version of him.
But instead, I pick up my phone and open Instabook.
Not Pea’s account.
No.
I go to her account.@AmyTheBookishEnchantress.
I smile. Enchantress indeed. She just doesn’t know the extent of her power.
Her feed is a mix of books, cozy coffee shop corners, and snapshots of the city. I don’t see her face in most of her photos—it only happens when it’s accidentally caught in mirrors, shop windows, or reflected surfaces.
Not something most people would notice… unless they’re as obsessed with her as I am.
Lucy sets my plate down in front of me, and I can’t help but sigh at the sight of it.
“Something wrong, Mr. Hollander?” she asks, her voice filled with instant concern.
“No, no, of course not. It’s perfect, Lucy.”
I like Lucy.
She’s a grandmother and exactly the reason I hired her. I don’t need young, fame-hungry assistants floating around, not with Will’s flirtatious nature and the kind of women who have already pulled their fair share of tricks on my friends.
Stealing things to sell online. Trying, and often succeeding, to seduce them for clout.
Will nearly mourned the loss when I hired Lucy. Sixty-three years old. Three-time grandma. But the fact that he complained at all just proved I made the right choice.
Lucy relaxes at my reassurance, beaming before retreating inside.
I glance down at my plate, my mouth tipping into a slight frown.
The dullest plate of food known to man. Plain scrambled egg whites. Half an avocado. A cup of plain Greek yogurt with a carefully measured handful of berries and a single drizzle of honey.
My stomach turns at the sight.
My eyes flick back to my phone, to the latest photo Amy posted.
A frothy cappuccino. A golden croissant. A book—some fantasy romance, judging by the cover.
Her caption?"Not too shabby for a rainy Wednesday."
I smirk,running my tongue over my teeth. God, I’d trade this entire breakfast for that croissant in a heartbeat.
No. I’m lying.
It’s not the croissant I crave. It’s the company of the girl who posted the photo.
I take a forkful of egg whites and grimace.
Okay, maybe I crave the croissant too.
I scroll back through her feed, studying each photo.
The glimpses I get of her there. The carefully framed snapshots of coffee cups, book covers, and rainy London streets, are so far from the woman I’ve gotten to know online.
My Amy is bright, funny, intuitive, and brave.
