Page 60 of Made for You
I raise my phone so it shines right into her round brown eyes.
“Eden, I need you to be totally honest with me now. Are you still working for Andy?”
“I just said, he fired me.”
“Then who are you working for, Eden? Just tell me the truth.”
Her eyes go glassy, like maybe she’s holding back tears. She touches my arm. Presses. Her hand is small. Its pressure, soft. I can’t help but remember that these are the same hands that have cared so tenderly for Annaleigh. That this is the same girl who has seen me at my weakest and not turned away.
“You,” Eden says, her voice breaking and a tear slipping out. It sparkles in the light. “The only person I’m working for is you, Julia.”
For the space of two seconds, my brain is so caught up in conspiracy theories of Eden working for BotTech or Eden spying for some lobbyist, or even Eden and Andy lying to me together, I have no idea what she means. Then it hits me.
She works for me. Babysitting Annaleigh.
I deflate on the spot. “Right.”
Eden’s fingers scritch my arm a little before releasing me. “Let me walk you home, okay? You look like you’re about to collapse.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “Home.”
We walk together through the woods without speaking. Soon there’s a glint of glass and a piercing reflection from my flashlight. My windows. Finally.
Eden walks me to the back door. “Want me to see you in? Check the closets for monsters?”
Half of me wants to invite her to sleep on my couch, just so I’m not alone.
The other half thinks that couldn’t be a stupider idea.
“No thanks,” I say.
Because even though I believe with all my heart that Eden doesn’t wish me ill, I know she’s still hiding something.
And this time, it’s more than just an error of omission.
THEN
Despite the February weather, Paris is incredible, and we spend the first day, just the seven of us girls, touring famous sites while the crew collects footage. We climb the Eiffel Tower and tour Notre Dame. The weather may be cold, but our coats are warm. The cameras following us attract a lot of attention, and random people stop to take our picture.
Camila flirts with everyone she sees, blowing kisses and tossing her hair. We order crêpes au beurre from a street vendor, where Camila’s attempts at ordering in French have us rolling. The man making the crêpes proposes to her in broken English. “You...marry...me,” he keeps repeating, thumping his hand on his chest. Cam thumps her hand in imitation. “Moi...marry... Josh!”
The world seems larger and lovelier than ever, the French people delightful, and during my one-on-one with Josh during our second week in the City of Love, I tell him I love him again, because once wasn’t enough.
“I know you’re not there yet,” I reassure him as we walk through the narrow cobblestone streets of the Marais at night, our held hands swinging between us, the air chilly and sweet and my feelings even sweeter, “but I can’t hold back.”
It’s true. I’ve found that not even my fears are enough to make me pull back. They coexist uncomfortably, woven into my passion like two hands meeting, one cold, one warm.
“That’s okay,” Josh says. He’s wearing jeans, a white T-shirt and a black leather jacket, with a stocking cap to keep his ears warm, which contrasts nicely with the soft lavender cocoon coat I’m wearing over my bold floral pantsuit. The sexy and the sweet, the hard and the soft. “I love that you’re all in.”
We end the night making out against a wall in a narrow pedestrian-only street.
When we come up for air, I’m so high on love that it feels safe to ask Josh the question that I’ve been turning around privately since my talk with Cam.
“You know how you said sometimes the other girls...talk?” I say. “About each other, or whatever?”
“Mmm,” he murmurs, like he’s still lost in the kissing zone.
“Well, sometimes, we talk about you.” I boop him on the nose with a finger.