Page 49 of The Girlfriend Goal
"It's called visualization, Matthew. Very different from napping."
Their bickering continued, but I tuned it out, focused on the weight of Rachel against me. She shifted slightly, burrowing closer, and my heart did something complicated in my chest. This was what I wanted—not just the physical closeness, but the trust it implied. Rachel Fox, who planned every moment and controlled every variable, trusting me enough to fall asleep on my shoulder.
The descent into LAX woke her. She jerked upright, immediately putting distance between us, her walls slamming back into place so fast I could practically hear them.
"You were out cold," I said.
She touched her mouth. "Oh god, did I drool?"
"No. Though you did talk in your sleep."
Her face went pale. "What did I say?"
"Something about defensive formations and someone named Mr. Whiskers?"
"That's my childhood cat," she said, relaxing slightly. Then her eyes narrowed. "Wait. I don't talk in my sleep."
"Caught me." I grinned. "You were silent. Boring, really."
The plane touched down, jolting us back to reality. Reality being that we were about to spend four days with my father. My stomach twisted.
"You okay?" Rachel asked, catching something in my expression.
"Fine. Just preparing for Richard Fletcher in his natural habitat."
An hour later, after baggage claim and an Uber, we pulled up to the Malibu house.
"Holy shit," Jared breathed, his face pressed to the window. "Is that a helipad?"
The house sprawled across the cliff like it was showing off, all glass and steel and aggressive modern architecture. My childhood home had been cozy, warm. This monstrosity screamed new money and a mid-life crisis.
"Welcome to Fletcher Manor," I said dryly. "Abandon hope, all ye who enter."
The front door opened before we reached it. Richard Fletcher stood there in all his Hollywood agent glory—teeth too white, tan too perfect, smile too practiced.
"My son!" He pulled me into a hug that was more performance than affection. "And you brought friends. Fantastic."
His gaze swept over our group, dismissing Matt and Jared quickly before landing on Rachel. I watched his expression shift as he tried to figure out her angle.
"This is Rachel," I said, stepping slightly in front of her.
"Your girlfriend?" My father's grin widened. "About time. I was starting to worry."
"Project partner," Rachel corrected coolly. "We work together at the community center."
"Of course." But his tone suggested he didn't believe it. "Well, come in. Shiloh's dying to meet you all."
Chapter 20: Rachel
Lance's father was exactly what I'd expected and nothing like I'd imagined. The surface was all Hollywood charm—the kind of man who probably had a personal trainer and a nutritionist. But underneath, there was something sharp, calculating. The way he'd looked at me wasn't fatherly concern. It was assessment and judgment.
I didn't like him.
The house was worse. It felt like a museum, not a home. Everything pristine, untouchable, cold despite the California warmth. Lance walked through it like he was navigating a minefield, his shoulders tense.
"Babe!"
The voice came before the person—high, breathy, trying too hard for sexy. Shiloh appeared at the top of the dramatic staircase wearing what could generously be called a dress but was more accurately strategic fabric placement.
