Page 50
“Fletch?” I ask, gently.
She exhales like the word alone stings. “He’s not okay. He’s… off.”
“Off how?”
“Restless. Distant. He’s writing all the time but not finishing anything. Snapping at Bodhi. Canceling interviews. Sometimes he just disappears.”
A knot forms in my stomach.
“Is he talking to you?”
She shakes her head. “Every time I ask, he says he’s fine. But there’s something in him now. Something heavy. Like he’s carrying a weight no one else can see.”
I reach across the table and squeeze her hand. “That’s not nothing.”
“I know.” She swallows, blinking hard. “This tour is everything. It’s what we’ve worked for. And I’m scared that just when it finally starts, he won’t be able to finish.”
I nod because I get it. Because I’ve been there—watching someone unravel and knowing you can’t catch all the threads.
“You’re not alone in this,” I say. “He has you. He has Thorin and the guys. It’ll all work out. You’ll see.”
Reese offers a wobbly smile. “You always know what to say.”
“That’s because I’ve been talking you off ledges for years. One would hope I’d know what to do by now.”
She lets out a wet laugh, dabbing under her eyes. “Thank God for that.”
Then she straightens. “Okay. Enough sad. Let’s order dessert before I cry into your risotto.”
“Only if it’s molten chocolate something.”
“I like the way you think.”
And just like that, the air clears.
Because that’s what we do.
We pivot. We show up. We listen.
Because best friends? We don’t run from the storm.
We weather it.
Together.
Chapter Eleven
MYA
By the time we get back to the penthouse, Reese is yawning into the collar of her coat and mumbling about regretting not stealing one of those lemon tarts from lunch. Her flight’s early, her visit’s short, and she’s crashing with us tonight instead of dealing with hotel check-ins and overpriced mini bar snacks.
Kingston opens the door for us, and the scent of cedarwood and cinnamon drifts through the space like a memory wrapped in comfort. There’s a soft jazz playlist humming in the background and warm lighting spilling from the fixtures like melted honey. He’s lit a few candles, because of course he has. The man might not know how to boil an egg, but he knows how to set a scene.
“Welcome to the jungle,” I tease, stepping aside as Reese slips off her coat. “Population: one very tired fashion mogul.”
“Speak for yourself,” she murmurs, kicking off her sneakers. “This place is a vibe.”
Kingston appears from the kitchen with a bottle of red and that easy, lazy grin that’s starting to feel dangerously like home. “You must be Reese.”
