Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 102394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
We ended up in Juliette’s old bedroom. As we’d passed through the kitchen on our tour, Frannie had made it clear that she’d set up Juliette’s room for us—meaning Juliette and me. That proved her hiring me was a sham if she knew I’d most likely end up sleeping in the same bed as her daughter. But I was relieved to know I wouldn’t have to sleep apart from her tonight, especially after the taste of her I’d gotten in that airplane bathroom.
Juliette’s room was exactly as I might have imagined it: pink and frilly and fit for a mafia princess. It didn’t match her style now, of course, but it screamed teenage queen. And everything remained untouched from a decade ago.
“Welcome to my time capsule,” she said.
I lay back on her bed and looked up at the ceiling. “Glow-in-the-dark stars…nice.”
“I used to love to look up at those before going to sleep, mostly while wishing for a different life. I know that sounds terrible because I was so privileged, but…”
“You have every right to have wanted something different,” I told her. “We can’t help what we wish for at night when no one else is around.”
She reached into the drawer next to the bed and took out several small journals.
“What’s all that?” I asked.
“This drawer is filled with my diaries. They’re from different stages of my life.”
Juliette opened a random one and read me some of the passages, many of which lamented the fact that her life had to revolve around Vince. Not much had changed in that respect. The one she’d chosen was one of the oldest, and she came upon a section where she’d written about the type of guy she hoped to meet someday.
“Don’t laugh, but listen to this,” she said. “I’ve started to figure out the kind of guy I want to end up with. He has to think I’m funny. He has to look at me like I’m the most delicious cannoli he’s ever seen. He has to text me all day. He has to stand up to my bully father. He has to like dogs. He has to have hair like a Disney prince. He has to be smart. I don’t care if he has money, because money only causes problems. So, to summarize, I want a poor Disney prince who looks at me like I am a cannoli. Thank you.”
I shook my head. “God, you were cute…and a little weird.”
“Cute? That is the most pathetic thing I’ve ever read. In my defense, I probably wasn’t even twelve when I wrote that.”
I reached for a pen and found a blank spot on the page next to that passage. “Let me,” I said before writing a response into the journal.
After, I read it aloud to her.
“Dear Twelve-Year-Old Juliette, This is your boyfriend writing from the future. I’m happy to report that you turned out a lot smarter than one might’ve guessed based on this entry. That said, I can attest to the fact that while I do think you’re funny, I much prefer being the one to make YOU laugh. Also, you look far more delicious than a cannoli (you’re at least the level of the finest tiramisu). You taste better than that, too. Trust me, you don’t want me to be texting you all day—that would be annoying—but I will always be here for you, if you need me. I love dogs and hope to get one when we get our first house together. I don’t have hair exactly like a Disney prince, but I’m built better and could take down any one of them in a fight. As luck would have it, I am not rich, so no worries about money ruining us. But you asked for a smart guy. If you’re talking about street smart, I’m your man. I’m not the most book-smart guy you’ve ever met, but I hope I make up for that in the way I protect you, in the way I love you. So, to summarize, I’m hotter than a Disney prince, and holy cannoli, I love you.”
xo,
Wes
CHAPTER 35
* * *
Wes
Three months later
“Why can’t they just do the training over Zoom?” Juliette sat down on the edge of the bed next to my half-packed suitcase.
I folded a pair of jeans and a Henley, set them inside, then tossed in socks and underwear before flipping the top shut. “They want me to demonstrate some things in person,” I explained, zipping the bag. “Most of the actors they hire have never held a gun or crashed through a door.”
A lot had changed over the last three months. I was no longer doing private security. Instead, I was teaching actors how to look like real cops on TV and in movies. The week after we’d gotten back from New York, I’d worked a security gig for a big-shot producer. We started talking, and when I’d mentioned I was a former NYPD detective, he’d asked if I’d check out some footage for a new Law & Order-type series he was producing. One of the actors was supposed to be in a high-speed vehicle pursuit, but he came off more like he was playing a video game. I gave the guy a few pointers, and the next thing I knew, other producers and directors were calling me to consult on their shows. That single afternoon had snowballed into a lucrative business pretty fast, and as of next week, I was already bringing on another former cop to help me keep up with the workload.