Play Me Like You Mean It

West Hollywood – Brew & BloomI was five minutes late, two shots of sleep-deprived espresso deep, and exactly one paycheck away from a breakdown.“Romi,” I muttered, adjusting my apron with one hand and slapping the register with the other, “if one more trust fund gremlin asks me if the oat milk is ‘emotionally sourced,’ I’m throwing myself into the pastry case.”My best friend and co-worker, Romi, didn’t even look up. She was restocking almond danishes with the speed of someone powered by spite and caffeine.“Girl, you live in West Hollywood. Emotional trauma is a topping.”I pressed my forehead against the counter. “God, I hate Mondays. It's just morning and I’m already tired of humanity.”“Don’t kill anyone until I get back from the fridge,” she said, grabbing the key and disappearing through the swinging door like she’d rehearsed it.The morning rush came in like a slap. Heels clicking, phones buzzing, designer perfumes announcing themselves before the women wearing them even cros

Some mothers kiss you awake with love.Mine woke me by smashing a vase against the wall.The crash wasn’t even the worst part. It was the silence that followed. It was the kind of silence that didn’t last. The kind that warned you something ugly was coming.Again.I shoved the blanket off and jumped out of bed. Jesse had beaten me to the hallway, barefoot, scared. His T-shirt was wrinkled, hair flattened on one side like he’d just come out of a dream and straight into a nightmare.We didn’t speak.We’d been here too many times before.We padded across the cracked tiles to the living room where she was, sprawled across the floor, surrounded by broken glass and vodka. Her hair was a tangled mess, makeup smeared like she’d cried halfway through getting ready and gave up.The remote lay in pieces beside the broken vase.“Not again,” Jesse whispered, but I could hear the tremble in it.She didn’t look at us. Just sat there, swaying. Talking to people that weren’t there.I gently pulled Jes

The universe must’ve been in guilt mode. That’s the only reason Mr. Dalton, aka King of Unpaid Overtime, texted me at dawn:Mira, take the day off. Fully paid.Suspicious? Extremely.But after last night’s emotional trainwreck–the screaming, slammed doors, and Jesse’s savings box nearly being snatched by the woman who birthed us. I wasn’t about to question a rare miracle.Until my phone pinged again.Come outside. We need to talk.Cade.I groaned into my pillow and thumbed out a lie:Already clocked in. Don’t waste gas.Another ping.Liar. You’re still in bed. I told Dalton to give you the day off. You’re welcome.Ah. So that’s why Mr. Dalton suddenly found a soul.I replied back:Ten minutes.---Ten minutes turned into fifteen because eyeliner should never be rushed when facing someone who casually manipulates your work schedule.Cade grinned the moment I opened the car door. “Good morning, Mira. Didn’t know your shift started under a comforter.”I buckled in with a glare. “Shut up.

I didn’t just stroll in late. I made an entrance. The kind of late that makes your manager rehearse exactly how to make it hurt when he lets you go.Mr. Dalton stepped out of his office the second I walked in, like he’d been tracking my absence with a stopwatch.His shoes clicked against the tile as he crossed the floor, expression already halfway to a lecture.“You’re late,” he said flatly.“I know.” I met his stare. “But I won’t be staying long.”He paused mid-step. “Excuse me?”“I’m quitting,” I said simply. “Effective immediately.”Behind me, I heard Romi suck in a breath. She paused, a tray of muffins in her hands.Dalton straightened, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard me right. “Is this some kind of joke?”“No joke,” I said. “This job was never forever. And now it’s time.”He looked me over, measuring something. “Fine. Just don’t crawl back here when reality smacks you in the face.”“If I ever crawl back, you have permission to lock the door.”Romi set the tray down quietly and wa

Cade hadn’t said a word since we got in the car.He was quiet. Not the focused kind of quiet. This was the kind of stillness that made you wonder what storm was brewing under it.I leaned back in the passenger seat, arms crossed, replaying Media Day like a highlight reel.Did I say something wrong? No.Did a reporter push one of his buttons? Possibly. But he hadn’t snapped a mic in half or launched a folding chair, so that felt like progress.The silence dragged until it was impossible to ignore.“Alright,” I said finally, glancing at him. “If you’re gunning for the world record in passive-aggressive sulking, congrats, you’re in first place.”His hands tightened on the wheel before he finally spoke. “Kelvin, huh?”Oh. So that’s what this was about.“Kelvin what?” I asked, already biting back a grin.“You were flirting.”“And?”“I missed the part where your job description included letting a guy play with your necklace.”I tilted my head. “Relax, Reeve. It was a necklace, not my hotel