Page 30 of Howl for Me
I smirk, walking around the bar and dropping onto the stool like I’m not losing my mind. “Apparently.”
She slides a plate toward me of eggs, a biscuit, and bacon that looks like it did a stint in hell. She watches me with this weird little hopeful glint in her eye that makes my chest feel like it’s two sizes too small. I should laugh at this breakfast. I should make a smartass comment, grab the Advil, and crawl back into bed. But I don’t, because something about it is so fucking cute and it makes me want to knock the plate off the bar and pull her up onto it instead. She grabs a glass and turns back to me. “Milk or orange juice?”
“Orange juice,” I say, voice rough from sleep. “Thanks.”
She pours and slides the glass over, brushing crumbs off her shirt. “I’m not the best cook,” she says with a shrug. “So maybe don’t thank me yet.”
I take a bite of the biscuit. It’s dry as hell. I almost choke, but I wash it down fast with the juice, forcing a smile because there’s no way I’m ruining this moment. She sees right through it anyway and grins, like maybe she’s proud of the disaster she created.
“It’s a peace offering,” she says, settling onto the stool beside me.
I nod, tapping my fork against the plate, and try not to stare at the way her shorts ride up when she crosses her legs.
“A peace offering, huh?” I say, voice low. “That means you’re not gonna call me a washed-up porn star today?”
She smirks. “Depends.”
“On?”
“If you act like one.”
Goddamn. She comes into my house, nearly sets it on fire, serves me cardboard in the shape of bacon, and somehow, somehow, I don’t want her to leave. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow either. Part of me wants to keep her, claim her. That part being the ache in my chest. But I know it's not fair to her. I’ve been telling myself this for weeks. I’ve been fighting what is biologically normal for me but unfair to her. I know she’s my mate; I knew it from day one. I tried to run her off, but fate is determined to win. She deserves better.
She’s eating in slow bites, like she’s trying to figure out how to say what she wants to say without setting me off. She sets her fork down and angles toward me, voice calm, even. “We need to work this out. I don’t want to encroach on your place. You have your life, and I’ve got mine. So I was thinking… if we can just talk and set up a schedule or something, then maybe I just stay here the night before a shoot and the day of. That’s it. You just have to promise you will behave.”
My jaw tightens. What I want to say is no, I need you here all the time. But instead, I go with, “Okay… define ‘behave.’”
She rolls her eyes. Fuck, I love when she does that.
“Behave,” she says slowly, “means no drinking yourself into oblivion, and definitely no more drinking and driving.”
I lift a brow, mouth twitching. “That’s two already.”
“And no more coke.”
I scoff, leaning back in my chair. “No more coke? Come on. I don’t even do it that much.”
“Then it’s unnecessary,” she says, lips pressed tight. “And every time you do it, you get in trouble. You spiral.”
I pause. She’s not wrong. I just hate hearing it.
“Okay. Fine. We can… see about that.”
She narrows her eyes. “No, we don’t see about that, Johnny.”
“Alright,” I say, hands raised. “Fine. Next.”
She inhales like she’s dealing with a toddler. “We show up on time to shoots. No questions, no tantrums, ready to shoot.”
I nod. “Deal.”
“And,” she adds, pointing her fork at me, “you’re to socialize and fix this bad boy image. Hector says people are refusing to work with you.”
I scowl. “Sorry. Can’t do it. I’m not kissing anyone’s ass. They either work with me or they don’t.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “God, would it kill you to make some business friends? Connections? That’s what this whole industry is about. You have to market yourself, Johnny. At least be someone people can work with. No storming offset. No ignoring co-stars.”
“I’ll be Johnny Howler,” I snap. “And if they don’t like it, they don’t have to work with me.”
