Page 116 of Fangirl

Because this is the price, isn’t it? Loving me is not easy. I just pray to God I’m worth it.

CHAPTER 22

AMY

Today isaJake and meday, and I can’t wait. The past few days have been… strict. For him, mostly. Ever since that first dinner out, where I ordered a starter and a main, and he stuck to grilled chicken and broccoli, I haven’t had much appetite for restaurants. He laughed it off, said it was part of the job, but something about it dulled the fun. So I stayed in after that and let him do his thing while I worked on my book or curled up watching TV.

But his photoshoot was yesterday, which means today, he says he can indulge. I’m not sure what that actually means in Hollywood-star lingo, but I’m willing to find out. Honestly, I’m just happy to spend a day together. Something normal. Something that feels like… us.

That said, “normal” dies a quick death when I walk into the living room, wearing comfy wide-leg pants and sturdy shoes, only to find Jake in full incognito mode: baseball cap pulled low, dark sunglasses, and the kind of body language that screams, “Please don’t look at me.”

“Ready?” he asks, like we’re off to the shops for milk.

I stare. “Are you… James Bond?”

“They haven’t offered,” he says, deadpan, “but now that I’ve tasted British goodness, I’m far more open to it.”

I roll my eyes, pretending to be unaffected, but my stomach flips, and my skin heats at the barely veiled innuendo.

He smirks, lowering his sunglasses just enough to look at me properly. “Hmm… you look a little flushed, Fangirl. What’s on that brilliant mind of yours?”

I groan. “Nothing. Come on, superstar—show me your world.”

He grabs my hand and presses a kiss to the back of it, the gesture unexpectedly tender. “I have to try and hide, love. If I don’t, we won’t get a moment of peace. I’m sorry.”

I nod, but the ache in my chest isn’t irritation—it’s sadness, not for me, but for him. It must be exhausting to always be recognized. Never having a moment just to be.

I stand on my toes and press a soft kiss to his mouth. Because truth be told, what can I really say? I can’t fix it.Can’t shield him from the world that loves him loudly and invasively.

But I can be here now, and it’s all that matters.

“So what do you want to do?” he asks as he takes the driver’s seat.

I shrug. “I’m following your lead. Show me LA through your eyes.”

He looks at me for a second too long, like he’s reading something I haven’t said aloud. Then he nods once. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

We drive for a while—past palm-lined streets bathed in sunlight, winding along coastal roads where the ocean winks at us like a shared secret.

Eventually, he pulls into a barely marked turnoff, no bigger than a driveway. The only sign is a matte black panel etched with one word in understated lettering: Drift.

No valet. No crowd. No obvious entrance.

Just a winding path that leads to a quiet structure made of pale stone, driftwood, and glass that catches the light like water.

It doesn’t look like a restaurant. It barely looks like it wants to be found.

But when we step inside, it’s like breathing in calm. The interior hums with muted tones—soft linen, smooth concrete, and handmade ceramics. Every table faces the sea. The scent of rosemary, sea salt, and citrus lingers in the air.

“This place…” I whisper, taking it all in. “Is this even open to the public?”

Jake grins. “Not exactly. It’s membership-only. Kind of a hidden gem.”

Of course it is.

I huff a soft laugh. “Right.”

“I thought we could grab breakfast here. Wait till you see the terrace—it feels like you’re sitting on the sand.”