Natalie
I can’t stop thinkingabout what happened with Jake.
My mind keeps circling back to him assembling the crib in my guest room. To what happened after.
The way he looked at me when I grabbed his shirt. The roughness in his voice when he said my name. The moment right before he kissed me, when I could have stopped it but didn’t want to.
I told him it couldn’t happen again. And I meant it.
Except I can’t stop replaying every detail. The heat of his skin under my palms. The sound he made when I sank down on him. The way he held me after, like I was something precious instead of just a complication he’s stuck dealing with.
I really like him.
The thought hits me hard enough that I have to grip the edge of the counter. I like Jake Reyes. Not just the sex, thoughthat’s admittedly incredible. I like the way he shows up. The way he remembers things. The way he looks at our baby on the ultrasound screen like it’s already the center of his universe.
And that terrifies me.
Because three years ago, I liked someone else. Liked him enough to say yes when he proposed. Liked him enough to plan a wedding, buy a dress, believe him when he said forever.
And he liked me back, too. I thought. That’s the part that still messes with my head. There were no signs. No obvious red flags. No evidence that something was wrong. Until he didn’t show up at the altar.
No phone call. No explanation. Just gone. I stood there in that stupid white dress and pretended my heart wasn’t shattering into a thousand pieces.
How am I supposed to believe what I’m feeling with Jake is real, when I was so sure before and ended up humiliated in front of everyone?
But Jake is differentwhispers a traitorous voice in my head.
I shove the thought away and arrange crackers on a plate with more force than necessary. It doesn’t matter if he seems different. My instincts can’t be trusted.
The front door opens without a knock.
“It’s just me!” Jonah calls, appearing in the doorway with his signature container of homemade dumplings. “These are fresh. Still warm.”
“You’re a saint.”
“I know.” He kicks the door closed with his footand makes himself at home on the couch, already pulling out his notebook.
This is how it always is with our writers’ group. We’ve been meeting for five years, so we’re long past pretending we’re guests. We just walk in and start talking.
Wren arrives next, blonde and eternally optimistic, color-coded notebook already open, chattering about some meet-cute she witnessed at the talent agency where she works. Then Eric, rumpled from whatever set he just came from, former journalist turned screenwriter with an obsession for structure. Iris in all black, quietly brilliant, carrying a box of fancy tea like an offering. And finally Brody, the youngest at twenty-four, clutching his latest draft like he’s afraid someone’s going to snatch it away.
Eric and Jonah started this group six years ago. The rest of us found our way in through various connections, industry events, and one desperate post on a UCLA alumni board. Now we’re family.
I wish they were working with me onSpellbound. But someday, when I’m actually in charge of something, I’ll bring them along. That’s the dream anyway.
“All right,” Jonah announces once everyone’s settled around my living room. “Before we do anything else, let’s celebrate!”
“We really don’t need to?—”
“Yes, we do.” Wren produces a small cake from her oversized bag like a magician. “You sold a pilot to FlixPix. That’s huge!”
“The first one of us to actually make it,” Eric adds, raising his coffee mug in atoast.
“I haven’t made it yet,” I protest. “The show still has to get produced.”
“You will,” Iris says quietly from her spot on the floor, teacup balanced on her knee. “Your writing’s too good not to.”
My throat tightens. These people have seen every draft ofSpellbound, every rejection, every almost-deal that crashed at the one-yard line.
