Page 38
And weirdly enough, it’s kind of nice.
I glance up at Drew, unable to hide my smile. “I’m actually blending in.”
“First time for everything,” he teases.
We grab our pretzels and claim a small plastic table near the edge of the food court. To anyone walking by, we probably look like a normal couple—a ridiculously good looking couple, maybe, but still normal. There’s no phones pointing at me. No whispers. No wide-eyed recognition.
A few women do keep glancing at Drew (some outright staring), but they look straight through me.
“You not hungry?” Drew asks, nodding at my untouched pretzel.
“I don’t eat things like this,” I admit.
“What, you want a kale salad?”
“God, no. That’s a guaranteed stomach ache. Salads in places like this are basically Russian roulette.”
“God, you’re fussy,” Drew says, then he switches to that low, commanding tone that makes my stomach flip every single time. “Eat the pretzel.”
I shoot him a look, but I still take a reluctant bite.
It’s warm, salty, buttery, and delicious. I take another before I can talk myself out of it.
As we sit there at the wobbly little table, the strangeness of the moment settles over me. A few months ago I would’ve rather died than be here. I’d be at lunch picking at a sad salad with the girls at some fancy restaurant. Now I’m in cheap jeans and a tank top, devouring greasy mall food across from my bodyguard…and surprisingly, it’s not the worst.
Across the food court, the arcade flashes with bright blue and red lights. A pack of kids tears through it like tiny hurricanes. Screaming, laughing, arms flailing with pure chaotic joy. One little boy sprints past us clutching a fistful of tickets, nearly taking out a stroller.
My father would call it disgraceful. Children should be seen, not heard. My childhood “fun” was structured tennis lessons and polite conversations at the country club. But watching these kids now with their flushed cheeks, wild laughter, and zero filter, it doesn’t look disgraceful.
It looks nice.
I glance back at Drew, watching him demolish the last of his pretzel like a man who’s never met a calorie he didn’t like. For a second I let myself actually look at him. I like that he’s completely at ease in this noisy mall, like he was born to own every room he walks into.
“You’ve got to stop eye-fucking me, Grace,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “People are gonna think you’re in love with me or something.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “I am not eye-fucking you.”
“You absolutely are.” His eyes sparkle with pure mischief. “It’s tragic, but cute.”
I tear off a piece of pretzel and throw it at him. Drew catches it mid-air, pops it into his mouth, and winks at me, looking unbearably pleased with himself.
I try to glare, but the smile wins anyway. We’re both grinning like idiots now.
I lick the salt off my fingers and lean forward. “So…now that I’m free. What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to have fun.”
12
GRACE
These past few days, Drew has been dragging me into what he calls “normal-person activities.”
Smoky snooker halls, long drives with the windows all the way down, greasy tacos from questionable food trucks on the side of the highway. It’s not exactly my idea of a good time, but we’re killing time until my scandal blows over, and the truly shocking part? Not a single person has recognized me.
Turns out all it takes is jeans and a baseball cap to make me completely invisible. The idea of being invisible would have sent me into full-blown panic a couple of months ago. Now? It’s strangely nice.
I had no idea how exhausting my life had gotten. I was constantly monitoring my posture, my expression, my body language. Every single public second carefully curated. I was always polished. Always pleasant. Always on. My life was scheduled down to the minute: charity luncheons, tennis lessons, brand dinners, filming try-on hauls for followers who would dissect every single frame in the comments afterward.
