Page 93 of Fangirl
I hesitate, but I scroll.
"What’s wrong with her? She’s beautiful. You guys are just salty."
"They both look heartbroken—why is she the one getting blamed? Men are trash."
"She’s so lovely. Oh!! Look—Anlon really does love Celandine in real life too."
That last one… it’s stupid. It’s silly. And yet, it warms something deep in my chest that I didn’t know was still capable of feeling anything.
I shove the phone back toward Will, my hands trembling. “I’m done with all that.”
He leans back and watches me carefully. “Don’t you think you owe him the chance to explain? After everything you shared?”
“I don’t owe himanything,” I snap. But even I can hear the waver in my voice, the way my resolve slips—because… I do want to know.
Will lets out a heavy sigh, pushing a hand through his messy hair. “He’s getting ready to fly home today.”
My heart lurches painfully in my chest—but I stay put, my hands gripping my mug. “Well… safe trip home.”
Something shifts in Will’s expression. He nods slowly, his lips twisting. “Alright. Fine. If that’s how you wanna play it?”
Before I can ask what the hell that means, he moves fast, ripping off his hoodie and tossing it aside. His arm snakes around my shoulders, yanking me flush against him. I yelp in surprise just as he presses a kiss to my cheek and,click, takes a selfie.
“Will!” I shove at him, but he’s already typing something on his phone, a wicked grin spreading across his face.
“You’re done, huh?” he mocks, turning the screen toward me. It’s a draft post on his social media. Forty million followers.
Thephoto? Us. Me looking half-asleep and disheveled, him shirtless with that goddamn smirk.
The caption?Morning afters are the best.
My stomach drops. “You wouldn’t.”
He snorts. “Try me.” He taps the screen. “You see… in this light, it really looks like you’ve actually tried me… all night long.”
“People will think I’m a whore,” I hiss. “And you—you’ll be a woman-stealer!”
Will shrugs, unbothered. “They’ve called me worse. And honestly?” He leans in, his voice dropping. “I don’t give a fuck. But you? You’ll be hated for real.”
I stare at him wide-eyed. “This is blackmail.”
He grins. “Nah. I call it… motivational striking.”
My jaw drops. “You’re unhinged.”
“Yeah. But unhinged is exactly what it’s gonna take to fix this.”
CHAPTER 17
AMY
I’m an idiot. There’s no two ways about it.
And really, what other explanation is there for this?
For me, shuffling into one of the most expensive hotels in London through the service entrance dressed like I’m starring in a bad hangover rom-com.
Oversized hoodie? Check.
