Don't be late.
Jane
I mean it, Drew.
Jane
Remember the last time you went rogue on me.
Jane
GIVE THE PEOPLE WHAT THEY WANT.
"Fuck," I groan, rubbing my forehead with my first two fingers. I contemplate bailing on Cheyanne to stay with Brooke, but Jane's right. The only thing worse than failing my test last year was the fans' reaction to my mortality. We're off to a good start this season, and I don't need any drama—or hate—ruining that.
Or this.
She looks at me confused, rubbing her arm with her opposite hand. "What?"
"This is the worst possible timing," I say reluctantly. "But I have to go."
"Oh." She nods quickly, taking half a step backward.
"Or I could stay," I add, instantly regretting my first answer.
Brooke shakes her head. "No, no, you should go. I'm not, I don't even know—"
"It's been a long day," I say, stepping to her again. "Why don't you think about whatever you were trying to say, and we'll talk tomorrow. Before morning practice?"
She looks at me with bold eyes, failing to hide her concern, but I remain steadfast.I'm not going anywhere.
"Yeah, okay. Let's talk tomorrow," she finally says. "I'm sorry."
This time I really do slip my hand behind her ear, but instead of pulling her mouth to meet mine, I drop my forehead to hers. "Don't be," I say softly. I pull back, pressing a kiss to her temple. "You've always been my mystery girl."
17
Brooke
Stepping into my apartment, I close the door behind me, and the first thing I do is bang my head against it. "Why?" I groan, my voice sounding every bit as obnoxious as Drew probably thinks I am.
I was doing so well—ignoring his flirting, staying level-headed, keeping my mind on the future prize. But almost ten hours together was just too much. I couldn't take it anymore.
I did okay in the morning, only glancing up occasionally to scan his chiseled body, which thanks to his tattoos, is quite literally a work of art. I even maintained my cool when he admitted that our night together might have meant something to him—despite that I stupidly agreed. But after the smoothie incident, I started wearing down… quickly.
Wrapping myself up in his t-shirt didn't help—the one that smells like him and hangs on me three sizes too big, yet still looks adorable tied up in a knot. Neither did the moment right before we sprayed green juice all over his apartment where he was nothing but cute and approachable. But then to see him at the photoshoot? I thought witnessing the surreal parts of his life would bring me back to reality, but it only drove me crazier. Justified or not, it bothered me to see other women hang on him—in real life rather than through photos on the internet. But when he barelylooked at them—his eyes on me rather than the leggy blondes beside him—I didn't know how to react. The last thing I thought I'd see wasmyDrew living inhisworld.
It got me thinking more about my talk with Ivy. About how there's not a one-size-fits-all solution to life. How it's okay to change and having a destination is great, but the journey there might be the best part. Seeing this side of Drew today, the one where he was two people at once—the guy the world knows and the one I'm really starting to see—made him even more irresistible. But who says it has to be all or nothing?
There was a time not long ago that I used to mentally reprimand my mother because she sees the world in black and white—follow the steps or you're doomed to fail. But like Ivy said, maybe it's okay to have a destination and still figure things out along the way. Maybe Icanwant stability without shutting out every person who doesn't tick all the boxes. Maybe the goal is still the same, but the path there is a little… beautifully gray. Or at least that's where my brain—and honestly, my sex-deprived vagina—were steering my thoughts when we left the Tom Ford set.
So, now, I'm sitting here, my forehead pressed against the door, trying to decide if inviting Drew in was brave or unhinged. Was it a bold, healthy risk? Or was it just me caving under the weight of lonely nights and thoughts of him, trying to justify why letting him inmightactually make sense?
Before I can decide—or give myself a concussion—my intercom rings. I jump backward, then freeze, as if whoever pushed the button can now see inside my place. An anticipation flies through me.Did Drew change his mind?
Without second thought, I hit the buzzer by my door, allowing the person to enter. I guess the reasoning doesn't matter anymore—my variety of excuses, irrelevant after just one day together—because the second I think he's here, my body springs to action, welcoming him in.
Actions speak louder than words, Mystery Girl.
