Page 100 of Fangirl

The PR company worked wonders. I should’ve known, honestly. I share them with Will, and if those poor bastards can clean uphismesses and still keep him employed, they’re nothing short of magicians.

The story with Amy? Almost vanished overnight.

Rebranded as a hoax. A clickbait stunt for gossip blogs desperate for traffic.

And running parallel, an “insider” leak about JakeHollander, Hollywood’s golden boy, being hopelessly, madly in love.

I needed that narrative to exist. For one, because it’s the truth. And two… because it’s the only damn lifeline I’ve got left.

Some part of me, pathetic maybe, still hopes she’ll see it. That she’ll read those words and know they’re real. That she’ll come here. That she’ll take one step toward me, toward us.

Because God knows, I miss her. Every second.

She hasn’t shut me out completely. Not anymore.

She unblocked me. We talk. We video call—this time, as me. No more hiding, no more aliases. JustJake.

But there’s still a distance. An edge in her I can’t miss, no matter how hard I pretend. She’s wary and guarded, and I can’t blame her for it.

I’m the reason she’s building walls now.

The stupid, romantic part of me thought she’d jump on a plane within days. That she’d show up here, all fire and fury, and demand I prove myself.

But it’s been over a month, and she’s still in London. Still in her safe little cocoon.

Will, of course, has thoughts.

"You fucked up," he said, "so why not go full tilt? Fly there. Grab her. Bring her back. Hell, romance the shit out of her, movie-style."

And yeah, it’s tempting.

Except, unlike Will, I know real life isn’t a rom-com. Kidnapping a girl off the streets of London doesn't end with a make-out scene. It ends with a restraining order.

That’s not a grand gesture. That’s a fucking crime.

And I promised her space.

The problem is I’m running out of it. Running out of time.

My love life has always been a trail of messy hookups. Fewer than people think, but messy all the same.

But her? Fuck, she’s aland mine.

And I’m about three steps away from blowing myself up.

I sigh, forcing my gaze away from theA Winter in Londonposter framed behind my agent’s desk. Some cheesy romance Will shot years ago that suddenly feels a little too on the nose.

My fingers drum restlessly on the polished wood, impatience gnawing at me as I wait for Landon to finally get back from his meeting.

Amy’s in my head again. Still. Always. To a frankly concerning degree. I wonder what a psychiatrist would call that.

Obsession, comes Will’s voice in my head—cocky and amused.

Yeah. Sounds about right.

The door swings open with a soft click, and Landon strides in, exuding that easy, self-satisfied charm that only a man at the top of Hollywood’s food chain can pull off.

“Hey, thanks for waiting,” he says, dropping into the leather chair behind his massive desk. “Most of that meeting was about you, actually.”