Page 118 of Fangirl

“I know,” I say, softening. “And it is. But… I asked you to show me LA through your eyes. Not your agent’s eyes. Not a magazine’s idea of you. You. What you love. What you miss when you’re away. What you’d do if no one was watching.”

He’s quiet for a beat, then glances down at my plate.

“Still hungry?”

I blink at the miniature omelet—what I suspect is one solitary duck egg pretending to be a meal. “Starving.”

He stands and drops a hundred-dollar bill on the table without blinking. “Okay. Come on. Let me take you somewhere better.”

We leave Drift and head toward a much busier, louder part of town. As we pull up, I instantly perk up.

“This place,” Jake says, grinning now, “makes the best breakfast burritos in the entire city.”

Oh yes. Now we’re talking.

We line up side by side on the sun-warmed pavement, and even with his hat pulled low and sunglasses on, I feel the shift around us. The buzz. The recognition. People glance and whisper.. Pretend not to take pictures.

Jake sighs.

I brush my fingers lightly against his, grounding us both.

And he looks at me, not the crowd, not the cameras, but at me. And something in his shoulders loosens.

We get to our spot at the front, and the choices are unreal—like, eighteen different burritos, and every one of them sounds like it could either be a life-altering experience or a complete digestive disaster.

“Jesus,” I mutter, squinting at the chalkboard menu. “What even is a Hangry Cowboy?”

Jake chuckles beside me. “It’s a risk.” He leans in, brushing my arm. “Would you allow me to pick for you?”

“Please. Yes.” I drop my shoulders in relief. “Save me from this burrito identity crisis.”

He smirks. “I got you, Fangirl.”

He turns to the guy behind the counter like he’s done this a hundred times. “One Canadian and a Firestorm for me.”

The guy nods. “You got it.”

I blink. “Wait. Canadian?”

“You like sweet and salty,” Jake says casually, sliding his card into the reader. “And you apologize when you bump into furniture. It fits.”

I laugh. “And Firestorm is what, your edible midlife crisis?”

“I’m a man of spice and self-destruction,” he deadpans. “Let me live.”

I chuckle, and we step to the side to wait. It doesn’t take long before a few people start approaching him, shy, hesitant, and clearly fans. I don’t mind. It’s part of the job.Part of his life. And honestly? I like seeing it, the way people light up just being near him.

What I love even more is the way he glances at me through it all. How he keeps his hand in mine, tugging me closer when someone gets too near. When I try to pull away to give him space, he simply tightens his grip.

And my heart? Yeah, it melts a little.

He signs a few autographs and takes some photos, all with that easy charm he wears so well. But the second our order’s ready, he turns to me like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

“In or out?” he asks.

“What do you usually do?”

“Walk to the park down the road,” he says. “Find a spot in the shade. Sit for a bit.”