Page 16

Drake

I ’m standing in the aisle, staring blankly at a shelf of protein bars, trying to figure out which one doesn’t taste like sawdust, when I hear a familiar voice.

At first, I think I’m imagining it. But then—

“No, Hazel, I don’t need another ‘I told you so.’ I already know Cathy is the worst. I’ve known it for months.”

I freeze, hand still halfway to a box of peanut butter bars. Lyla.

I turn my head slightly, and sure enough, there she is—standing a few feet away, pacing in front of the coffee display, one hand holding her phone to her ear while the other gestures wildly.

She’s wearing leggings, sneakers, and an oversized sweatshirt that says “in my bookish era” and her hair is in a messy bun, slightly falling apart like she’s had a day.

It takes me a second to process that it’s her because she looks so different from her usual professional, put-together self. No blazer, no tight ponytail, no exasperated look directly aimed at me.

I kind of like it.

Not that I would ever tell her that.

Not yet, anyway. I’m dying to take her oversized glasses off and let her hair down—to feel it run through my fingers.

“I just—ugh, I need to find a way to get Dan Marino to show up for the Play It Forward event,” she says, stopping in front of a shelf and glaring at a bag of espresso beans like they personally offended her. “And unless I magically become the governor of Florida overnight, that’s not happening.”

Dan Marino?

I bite down a smirk. Interesting.

“I mean, yeah, obviously I’ve tried that,” she continues, grabbing a bag of coffee beans and throwing them in her cart.

“Cathy said she ‘reached out to her contacts,’ but we both know that’s code for ‘I sent a single email and immediately gave up.’ Meanwhile, she’s dumping all the actual work on me. ”

Glad we agree on something. Cathy’s like getting blitzed on 3rd and long—unnecessary, poorly timed, and weirdly personal. Just last week, as I was coming out of the bathroom, she asked if my dad was disappointed about my DUI. The nerve of that lady.

Lyla sighs and grabs a family-sized bag of dark chocolate, tossing it in next to the coffee. She scoffs into the phone and says, “ No , I’m not stress-buying chocolate,” before putting the bag of chocolate back on the shelf.

I stifle a laugh.

She still hasn’t noticed me. And this is too good to pass up.

I casually stroll forward, stepping just into her peripheral vision. “Rough day, Katy Cat?”

Lyla jumps, spinning around so fast she nearly knocks over a display of canned coffee. “What the—”

Her eyes land on me, and she groans audibly.

“Oh, great. Of course. Of course you’re here.” She gestures her hands so wildly, she actually does knock over two cans of coffee. Her phone slips from her shoulder and lands in her basket, where her friend’s voice continues in the muffled wah-wah-wah of a Charlie Brown teacher.

I grin as I reach down to pick up the coffee. “Missed me?”

She glares, taking the cans from me and shoving them—quite violently—back onto the shelf. “What are you even doing here?”

I glance down at my cart, where I’ve got a collection of protein bars, Gatorade, and a box of cereal. “Grocery shopping. Who knew we had so much in common: you need food, I need food. Wild coincidence, huh?”

Lyla shakes her head, muttering something under her breath before picking her phone back up. “Sorry, Hazel. I gotta go before I end up in a true crime documentary.”

I hear a faint squawking sound from the phone, and Lyla shoots me a glare. “Yes, it’s him ,” she mutters into the phone, as if I won’t hear her. “No, I don’t want to talk about it.”

She stabs the red ‘end call’ button aggressively and drops the phone into her hoodie pocket.

I tilt my head, grinning. “Tell Hazel I say hi.”

Something flashes in her eyes that I don’t quite understand. “I hate you,” she says with a little too much vehemence.

“Sure you do.” I lean against the shelves, crowding her just a little. “You know, someone once told me that hate and love aren’t that far from each other.” As I say it, I grab the bag of chocolate she’d taken out of her basket, and place it back in there.

She scoffs. “Whoever said that is an idiot of the highest order.” She rips the bag out of her basket again, but before she can put it back on the shelf, I put a hand out, stopping her. My fingertips graze her wrist and her eyes dart to mine.

“It was my accountability partner from rehab who said that,” I tell her.

I watch her features go through a range of emotions—incomprehension, surprise, and even a hint of sadness.

“Oh,” she says. People rarely know how to handle it when I make mention of rehab—which is why I don’t often say anything about it.

But something about this Lyla, with her hoodie and basket of chocolate, make me want to tell her all my secrets.

“Look,” I say, gently pushing the bag of chocolate toward her basket again. “There are worse ways of dealing with stress than bingeing on chocolate.” I smile, but it feels vulnerable instead of my usual facade. “Trust me.”

She exhales, letting the bag fall into her basket. “I guess you’re right.”

“Hey, even a broken clock is right twice a day,” I say with a wink.

I get the smallest smile from her—and now I’m staring at her lips, which I absolutely should not be doing. We both seem to catch what I’m doing at the same time—Lyla backs up as I straighten, turning away from each other.

“Uh, I’ve got to go,” she says quickly.

“See ya, Katy Cat,” I call as I watch her walk away, hiding a grin.

Then I pull out my phone and text my agent, Chris.

Me

I need a favor.

A few seconds later, he replies.

Chris (Agent)

What did you do this time?

I smirk and start pushing my cart toward checkout.