Page 31 of Shine For Me

Fox

Standing outside of June’s hotel room, I say a quick prayer that she won’t kill me before I lift my hand and knock. I wait a moment and when I don’t hear anything from inside, I knock again. Then I shoot off a quick text for good measure. When she still hasn’t responded after another knock, I dial her number.

“Ungh,” comes her sleepy voice on the other end of the line. I grin at her closed door.

“Morning, sunshine. Come open your door.”

“Fox?” I hear rustling, then a loud groan. “Why are you calling me at five o’clock in the morning?”

“The real question you should be asking is why am I knocking on your door at five o’clock in the morning.”

She groans. “That was you? I thought I was having a nightmare about elephant-sized woodpeckers invading the hotel.”

“Well that sounds terrifying. I think you’ll like this a bit better.” I knock again. “Let me in.”

“You realize this is my day off, right?”

“It’s my day off, too. But I’ve already been up for half an hour, all to bring you coffee.”

She releases a little moan of longing and I try to ignore my body’s reaction to the sound.

“Will you please come open the damn door?”

“Fine,” she grumbles. “But I might actually murder you.”

I hang up the phone just before the door swings open in front of me. I quickly hold up the paper coffee cup so she doesn’t take a swing at me—she definitely looks like she wants to. “I didn’t realize you were this anti-morning,” I tell her.

“It’s five o’clock,” she snaps. “It’s still dark out.”

“Which means you’ll get to see the sunrise.” I hold out the coffee. “Can I come in?”

She takes the cup, glaring at me, but steps out of the way to let me into her darkened room. “If I turn this light on, are you going to murder me?”

“That remains to be seen.” She takes a deep sip of her coffee and sighs. “The caffeine is working in your favor at the moment.”

She flips on the light and starts toward the main room, then lets out a sharp cry when her foot collides with the coffee table. “Damn it!”

“Shit.” I reach out and grab her shoulders to steady her before she can fall over. “You okay?”

She’s scowling. “Was that thing there the whole time?”

The coffee table is a solid mahogany and glass piece right in the center of the room. Not exactly easy to miss. “Pretty sure it was, sweetheart.” I look down at her sleep-creased face. She looks a lot like she had when I saw her leaving her room that first day in town, dressed in ratty sweats, her hair even messier than before. But there’s one difference—she’s not wearing glasses. And since she just woke up, I doubt she’s wearing contacts yet, either.

“June, where are your glasses?”

She sighs, pulling away from me to bend down and rub her injured toe. “I can’t find them.”

“How long have they been missing?”

“Since I fell asleep reading in bed last night.” She sighs again. “This is the second time I’ve done that this month.”

Something about that image—June snuggled up in bed in these very un-movie-star PJs, falling asleep with a book in her hand—makes me smile. This girl can be so damn cute. “You drink your coffee and wake up,” I tell her. “I’ll find your glasses.”

She grumbles something that gets lost in her coffee cup as I head into the bedroom portion of her suite. The bed looks like a tornado hit it, every inch of the comforter and sheets rumpled up and pulled off the mattress. I wonder if she’s an unsettled sleeper, the type of person who tosses and turns all night. River was like that when we were kids—he used to regularly fling himself out of his bunk on the bus when we were touring with Dad.

As I put a knee on the bed and lean over to rifle through the blankets for her glasses, I catch a soft scent of baby powder. It’s not a familiar scent—usually when I’m with June on set or out on a red carpet or attending some event, she smells like whatever beauty products her hair and makeup team used. I’m not sure if there’s a perfume she wears regularly. Usually the amount of hair spray her stylists use is strong enough to cover up whatever else she might be wearing.

But this scent—the simple, inexpensive, clean scent that permeates the bedding—is nothing like red carpet June. I wonder if it’s a soap she uses, or maybe her shampoo. I take in a deep breath and see a sudden flash in my mind of June getting ready for bed, her hair wet and skin pink from a hot shower as she pulls on those comfy old sweats. I want to see that in person with an intensity that shocks me.