Page 42 of If This Was a Movie

I just want to spendtimewith her in any way I can.

Ten minutes later, she’s standing, rinsing off the plate, putting it in the dishwasher, and turning to face me, worrying her lip between her teeth.

“I, uh, I guess I should probably let you get to bed or whatever. I feel like I’ve taken up more than enough of your time today,” she says.

“Would you want to…” I start, then stop, suddenly feeling dumb. When did I turn into a 15-year-old who was nervous about talking to a pretty girl?

Since Julianne Everett fell back into your life.

“Would I want to what?” she asks, brows furrowed, and she looks so damn cute; I can’t even focus on nerves, just on the all-consuming urge to convince her to spend more time with me.

“I have some work to do on my computer; I usually do it on the couch. Would you want to watch a movie with me? Keep me company?” I ask.

“A…a movie?”

There’s no going back now, I think as I run a hand through my hair and nod.

“Yeah. I got…I got a bunch of the streaming services, so I should have just about any movie you want to watch.”

“Yougotthem?” she asks, and I feel it then—something that only seems to happen around her: a blush burning on my cheeks.

“Yeah, I mean, I had one or two for Sophie since all she watches are the Ashlyn movies and princesses, but?—”

“When did you do this?”

“What?”

“Did you always have them? All the streaming services?”

I look at her in the eyes and see it there, the tiniest flicker of hope. It’s like shewantsme to tell her I went out of my way this afternoon to findeverystreaming service I could, make fifteen different accounts, and then hook them up to the television in hopes I could maybe possibly convince her to spend a few hours with me, even if we’re on opposite sides of the couch and neither of us makes a sound.

Which isexactlywhat I did, of course.

It was tedious and might all have been for nothing, but if it gives me even thechancethat she’ll hang in here with me, it would be worth it. While we were at her place, I realized I just wanted tospend timewith Jules. It’s like now that my body knows where she is, knows she’s close, and knows she wasn’t just some figment of my imagination. I’m aching to be in her proximity at all times.

“No,” I confess. “I got them while you were at work.”

A long beat basses as she takes me in before she asks, “Why?”

I shrug. “I don’t know. I saw you trying to pick your DVDs like you were choosing which child to spare and wanted to make at least one thing easier on you. If you’re not comfortable hanging in here, though, I can give you the log-ons; you can set them up in the cottage,” I start. “I don’t want you to feel obligated?—”

“No,” she says quickly, then bites her lip. “No, I’d like that. I’d like…the company.”

My own lips tip up at her words, and for the first time since that night on New Year's, I feel it.

Hope.

SEVENTEEN

JULES

I yawn as the credits forSweet Home Alabamabegin to scroll on the screen. I stand up from the couch and turn to Nate. He’s been on his computer the entire time, typing away and barely even paying attention to the television. For a bit, I forgot he was even there.

Until, of course, I looked over to see a tissue box pointed my way, Nate holding it out to me when I cried as Reese Witherspoon found out her ex-husband created an entire business inspired by her.

I mean, really. How could you not sob at that?

“I should get to bed,” I say, low.

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