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Professional.

Just like David’s text said—because of course he follows through with the professional stuff.

We’re escorted back to the studio like nothing’s changed.

Like everything’s normal.

Like I didn’t leave a piece of myself in that hotel room.

I take my usual seat in the lounge.

Same leather sofa.

Same floor-to-ceiling windows.

Same view.

Nothing feels the same.

Jake comes in a few minutes later, balancing another cardboard box with food stuffs.

“Morning,” he says, setting down what looks like fresh bagels, a variety of cream cheese spreads, and coffee.

Thank fuck for caffeine.

Jake is different today.

Still polite. Still composed.

But there’s distance there.

A cool edge that wasn’t there when we first met.

I get it. David made sure of that when he dismissed him from the room yesterday.

But I guess superstars can be assholes too when they want to be.

“Thanks, Jake,” I say, offering him a small smile as he sets the tray down.

“Figured you two might need carbs,” he replies, handing me a coffee. “Studio rule. Bagels fix everything.”

“If only that were true,” I murmur, wrapping my hands around the cup.

He studies me for a second—not invasive, just observant.

“So,” he says lightly, “You said you own a bookstore, right?”

“Yeah. The Book Shop. Small name for a small town, but we do have dangerously opinionated clientele and an excellent romance section,” I joke.

His mouth curves.

“I hear romance sells?”

“Oh, it flies,” I say. “People like their happy endings. Especially when the real world’s a dumpster fire.”

“Fair.” He takes a sip of his coffee. “What’s big right now? I only ever see the same five titles on those bestseller lists.”

I snort softly.