Page 37 of Fangirl

But in LA traffic? If there’s even one accident on PCH, I’m screwed.

Me: I can’t wait to read it, Fangirl. Also, let me know if you ever need to brainstorm sex scenes. I’m entirely at your service.

I don’t wait for her response. I already know she won’treply, not right away. No doubt she’s on the train home, cheeks flushed, probably cursing my name under her breath.

I chuckle to myself, picturing her flustered expression. I love seeing her blush over video calls, even with the poor lighting and grainy resolution, and despite knowing I shouldn't, I keep wondering what it’ll be like when I see it in real life.

Because, in my more delusional moments, I let myself believe this could work.

That somehow, some way, we could make this into something real.

I grab the keys to my Range Rover and my wallet and head out. As soon as I hit the driveway and the electric gates start to slide open, I spot them.

Paparazzi.

Two of them crouched on the sidewalk across the street, cameras poised, waiting for their payday.

I roll my eyes.

They won’t get much. My windows are tinted to hell, and they’re not catching a damn thing beyond the silhouette of my head against the driver’s seat. But that won’t stop them from selling some grainy shot with a headline speculating about where I’m going and who I’m seeing.

Jake Hollander Spotted Leaving His Malibu Home—Secret Project in the Works?

Hollander's Mysterious Late Morning Meeting—Is This the Role of a Lifetime?

Jake Hollander’s Intense Stare Behind the Wheel—Is Hollywood’s Golden Boy Hiding Something?

I’ve seen it all before.

I focus on the road.

The traffic is a nightmare, of course. It always is. I end up being ten minutes late, which doesn’t sound like much, but for me, it is. I hate being late. It messes with my head.

But I also know they don’t care. I’m Jake Hollander, so nothing starts before I get there.

The studio looms ahead, all glass and polished metal, a fortress built on expectations, curated images, and marketable faces.

I cut the engine and grip the wheel. Exhale.

This is it.

I should be used to this feeling by now. The weight of a role pressing down on me before I’ve even stepped into the audition room. But today, it’s different.

Today, I need this. Not for the money, not for the brand, not for the next billion-dollar franchise.

For me.

For once, I don’t want to be the safest choice. I want to be the right one.

A tap on the window snaps me back. The valet is waiting.

I force a smile and put on the easy charm. The practiced grin. The confidence they expect. And then I step out of the car, the persona of Jake Hollander sliding into place like tailored armor.

But beneath it, Eli is still there.

And today? He’s the one who’s going to win this role.

I hand him my keys and head inside. A PA rushes forward, all nervous energy, apologizing to me like it was their fault I got caught in traffic.