Chapter 34 JUNIPER
I arrived at the café ten minutes early, hoping the extra time would help calm my frayed nerves.
It didn’t.
My stomach was still in knots, and every time I thought about Knox’s text, a fresh wave of dread hit me like a cheap tequila hangover that just wouldn’t die.
Piper and Katy had insisted on coming with me like two very extra bodyguards who moonlight as emotional support gremlins.
As if their combined presence — one death glare and one chaotic snack gremlin — would somehow stop Knox from pulling whatever stunt he had planned.
They wanted to come armed. Piper brought her signature “I will end your bloodline” glare.
Katy with emotional support snacks and an actual roll of duct tape “just in case.”
I talked them down like a hostage negotiator dealing with two very chaotic wolves.
I promised hourly updates, offered to livestream any red-flag behavior, and bribed them with the holy trinity of friendship: coffee, gossip, and the sacred right to say “I told you so” later.
They still hovered in my head like a pair of very judgmental satellites, but eventually I convinced them to stay home and man the emergency hotline.
“Text us every ten minutes,” Piper said, which translated to: “Text us every ten seconds and include photographic evidence.”
Katy added seriously,
“If he smiles at you in anything resembling a perverted way, call us. We’ll show up with a lawyer and a bouquet — the bouquet’s for optics, the lawyer’s for everything else.”
So here I was, flying solo, armed with nothing but my phone, a rapidly declining will to live, and a very detailed mental invoice of all the emotional damages I planned to bill Knox for if this meeting went sideways.
I ordered a large black coffee — no cream, no sugar, just something strong enough to keep me upright through whatever fresh hell this meeting would bring — and carried it to a small wooden table near the window.
The afternoon light filtered in softly, but it did nothing to warm the chill that had settled deep in my bones since the hospital.
I checked the time on my phone again.
Still a few minutes before Knox was supposed to show up.
Good.
I needed this.
Alone time.
I pulled out my worn notebook and pen.
This was the one thing that still felt like mine — the secret project I worked on in stolen moments between shifts, classes, and hospital visits.
I’ve always loved romance novels. They were my escape when real life felt too heavy, too cruel.
When Mom left, when Dad worked himself to exhaustion, when the bills piled up and the world felt like it was pressing down on my chest — I could open a book and disappear into someone else’s happy ending.
I always thought it would be fun to try writing one of my own.
But life kept demanding more of me, and moments to myself were rare.
Now, with Dad sick, the dream felt almost childish. But it was also the only thing giving me any kind of hope.
If I could actually finish the damn book… if I could get it published… maybe it could earn enough money to help.
A safer apartment.
Better care for Dad.
A life where I wasn’t constantly choosing between groceries and medical bills.
I opened the notebook and uncapped my pen.
I’ve gotten into the habit of stream-of-consciousness journaling when I’m stuck.
The rule is simple: never stop moving the pen.
Even if I have to repeat the same question over and over — What is this scene supposed to accomplish?
How does this set up the next chapter? — the movement usually unblocks something.
Right now, I’m trying to get my characters into bed together for the first time.
The tip of my pen flew across the page, ink spilling fast as I tried to map out the scene.
My characters had spent the entire book denying the pull between them — rivals who couldn’t stand each other, constantly at each other’s throats, throwing barbs like weapons.
Now they were alone, tension thick enough to choke on, and I needed them to finally cross that line.
Not perfectly.
Not like some polished fairy tale.
Messy.
Real.
Desperate.
But I had no idea how to get them there.
I scribbled the same question over and over on a fresh page, frustration mounting with every angry loop of my pen.
How does sex happen?
How does sex happen?
Then, in massive, furious capital letters that took up half the page:
HOW THE FUCK DOES SEX HAPPEN?
The words escaped my mouth before I could stop them.
“How the hell does the sex happen?”
Then I heard it again — that deep, velvety, way-too-familiar voice.
“How does sex happen?”
Oh God.
Oh no.
Oh fuck.
“Well, for me,” the voice drawled, dripping with pure cocky satisfaction,
“I just flash a smile, maybe throw in a wink, and panties practically dissolve on their own. Girls line up to climb me like a goddamn tree. Some of us just have that effect.” He leaned against the table, smirking like he’d already won the conversation.
“The rest of you poor mortals apparently have to Google it.”
My hand stopped writing mid-sentence.
My entire body froze like someone just dumped a bucket of ice water down my back.
For one horrifying second, time stood still and my brain blue-screened completely.
My eyes slowly traveled up from the notebook like I was watching my own execution in slow motion.
Crisp dress shirt tucked into expensive slacks. Impossibly wide shoulders straining against a leather jacket.
And at the top of all that unfairly perfect male architecture… Knox Reyes, smirking down at me like the universe’s favorite punchline.
Kill me now. Or at least hand me a shovel so I can dig my own grave and die with some dignity.
A smirk played on his stupidly luxurious, pouty lips, one eyebrow cocked in pure intrigue above those icy blue-gray eyes that had probably ruined more lives than I could count.
The spell broke.
I let out a mortified yelp and nearly launched myself backward in my chair.
My face ignited — lava-hot, tomato-red, the kind of blush that could guide ships home in a fog.
I slammed my hands over the notebook and yanked it against my chest like it was classified government secrets.
“What!? You!?” I stuttered, half-formed sounds falling out of my mouth like a broken typewriter. I finally managed to string together a coherent sentence.
“Don’t you know it’s rude to read what other people are writing?!”
“I didn’t read anything,” he said, far too amused.
“You’ve been sitting here muttering ‘How does sex happen?’ out loud to yourself for like a minute.”
I was?
Utter. Mortification.
I have been known to talk to myself when I’m deep in a writing block, but this?
This was a new low.
Even for me.
I whipped my head side to side like a paranoid meerkat on Red Bull, eyes darting frantically around the café for any sign that someone had overheard my unhinged outburst.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
If even one person just heard me muttering “How the hell does sex even work?” out loud like a sexually confused Victorian ghost, I was done. I’d have to change my name, fake my own death, and move to a tiny mountain village in Iceland where the only other living things are sheep and depressed clouds.
Thank fuck the café was almost empty.
Just one bored barista scrolling on her phone and an old man asleep over his newspaper in the corner.
Crisis barely averted.
“Interesting question,” Knox said,
“How does—” he started,
I snapped my book shut so hard the cafeteria table jumped and a nearby sugar packet did a little dance.
The sound cut him off mid‑sentence like a mic being yanked from a TED talk.
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, slamming the notebook shut.
“Do you just lurk around cafés eavesdropping on people, or am I specially cursed today?”
Knox pulled out the chair across from me and dropped into it without being invited, leaning back like he owned the place.
“Relax, Speckles,” Knox said, his smirk widening like a cat who’d just cornered a particularly entertaining mouse.
“I was just answering your question. You looked like you were one scribble away from a full meltdown.”
“Happy to give you a hands-on demonstration if you need visual aids,” he added, eyes gleaming.
“I’m an excellent teacher. Very patient. Very thorough.”
“I’d rather stab myself in the eye with this pen than take sex ed from you.”
He let out a low, annoyingly sexy chuckle, clearly thriving on my irritation.
“Harsh,” he said, placing a hand over his heart.
“Most girls would pay good money for private lessons with me.”
“Yeah, well, most girls you know have the IQ of a houseplant,” I shot back.
“And if you call me Speckles one more time, the only nickname people will remember for you is ‘One Ball Wonder.’”
Knox’s grin only grew, bright and shameless, like my threats were foreplay.
“God, I love it when you get feisty,” Knox said, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register.
“Keep talking like that and I might start thinking you actually enjoy my company.”
I rubbed my temple, already exhausted by him.
“What do you want, Knox? I agreed to the fake girlfriend thing. I didn’t sign up for surprise meet ups and verbal foreplay in a café.”
Even sitting down, he was so tall I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
His massive forearms rested casually on the table, veins and muscle shifting as he moved.
Without a care in the world, he popped the lid off his coffee and took a slow sip.
My gaze traitorously locked onto his throat as it bobbed.
Goodness gracious.
A man drinking coffee shouldn’t be illegal. It shouldn’t send a bolt of heat straight down my spine.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Stop checking him out.
He’s a player.
A walking red flag with perfect bone structure.
He watched me for a long beat, something darker and more serious flickering behind the cocky mask before it snapped back into place.
“We need to get our stories straight,” he said.
“My dad wants to meet you soon. We should nail down the details—how we met, when we started dating, why no one knew. The usual bullshit.”
I stared at him, irritation and dread slow-dancing in my stomach.
“Fine.” I muttered.
“But before we get into the nitty‑gritty,” Knox said, leaning in, mischief practically glittering off him.
He cocked his head like he was pondering a profound philosophical dilemma — or deciding which of my boundaries to ignore first.
“How does sex happen?”
Heat blasted across my face instantly. I could feel myself turning tomato-red all the way to my ears.
“Shut up,” I hissed, mortified.
Knox’s grin widened, slow and wicked.
“I’m just trying to help you with your research, Speckles. Thoughtful fake boyfriend behavior, right? Very committed. Want me to draw you a diagram? Or should I go straight to the practical demonstration?”
"S.H.U T U.P."