Page 45 of Bottle Shock
A woman’s voice.
It drew me in before I could stop myself. The sound led me to the sitting room—the one we weren’t allowed in as kids—so even as an adult it felt wrong stepping too close.
A woman stood there with her back to me, red hair cascading over her shoulders, a sheet of paper in one hand as she gestured animatedly to the empty room.
I must’ve made a sound, because she turned, startled—and it took me a second to realize it was Scottie.
She wasn’t the kid I remembered. Her body had softened and curved, her hair falling in soft, deliberate waves instead of wild tangles—as if the years between then and now had been shaping her into someone I’d never been ready for. And when she smiled, it hit me low in the gut. I hadn’t known it was possible to miss a version of someone you’d never met until now.
Recognition lit her eyes, and a nervous laugh slipped out. “Sorry—I didn’t think anyone was home.”
Before I could say anything, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. The hug caught me off guard. We’d never hugged before. Not once.
“It’s been so long,” she said, her voice muffledagainst my shoulder.
Her body pressed into mine, and every coherent thought went up in smoke. All I could manage was “Yeah.”
The warmth of her curves, the faint citrus scent clinging to her hair, the brush of it under my chin—I forgot how to breathe. And with her close enough that I could feel her breath against my collarbone, I didn’t know what to do with the sudden rush of awareness—the pounding in my chest, the heat crawling up my neck.
I didn’t know what to do with any of it. I just knew something had changed, and pretending otherwise wasn’t going to be easy.
When she finally pulled away, her eyes met mine—soft at the corners, her smile familiar and new all at once. And that’s when I knew I was fucked.
“What—what are you doing?” I winced inwardly at the stutter. I’d known Scottie basically my entire life and never once thought of her as anything more than my sister’s best friend. Until that moment.
“I wasn’t talking to myself, if that’s what you thought,” she said quickly. “I’m running lines for an audition. I’m nervous as hell I won’t get it, so I’ve been practicing every chance I get.”
“Want some help?” I wasn’t sure why I offered—or what I was even thinking—only that I wanted to keep talking to her.
“It’s for a TV pilot,” she said, lifting the paper a little. “A quirky workplace comedy about a car dealership. I’m up for one of the supporting roles—nothing big, but still, it’s something.” She shrugged, though her eyes sparkled like it was anything but small. “If I land the role and it gets picked up, maybe I’ll actually be able to afford that L.A. rent.”
“L.A.?” I repeated. “As in Los Angeles?”
“Yes!” She practically vibrated with excitement. “I’m moving there next week.”
I nodded, pretending to be supportive instead of selfishlydisappointed. I’d spent years traveling from one place to another, never staying anywhere long enough to miss anyone—but in that moment, I hated that I’d just come home, only to find her on her way out. I hadn’t planned on sticking around, but if she were, maybe I’d finally have a reason to.
“That’s great.” I smiled even as my stomach sank.
She laughed softly. “Yeah. Scary, too. But it’s a start, you know? New city, new people, new everything.”
“Well, I’m happy for you,” I said, hoping she couldn’t hear the crack of something breaking in my voice.
“Okay, ready for version one?”
I nodded, stepping back to give her the room.
She took an inhale, squared her shoulders, and it was like a switch flipped. Suddenly she was someone else—her voice crisp, posture poised, the kind of presence that couldn’t be taught.
She ran through the scene once, and it was funny in a sharp, quick-witted way that took me by surprise. Then she dropped the page, exhaled, and shook out her hands.
“Okay, version two. Same scene, but different energy.”
This time she leaned into it—sarcastic, almost flirty, her delivery quick and lively. I had no idea what the scene was actually about, but I didn’t care. I couldn’t look away.
Her laugh, her timing, the way her eyes lifted at the end of a line—every part of it felt effortless. She was magnetic, and my pulse raced like I’d been sprinting for miles.
When she finished, she looked at me expectantly. “Well?”
