Page 3 of Shine For Me

June

My face is starting to hurt. It’s a familiar feeling, one I get when I’m on a press tour and have to smile for hours on end. Attending an industry party is pretty much the same as doing promo for a film. You have to always beon.

Fox stays with me for the first half hour as we mingle with the assembled Hollywood glitterati. Eventually he runs into someone he knows in real life—some music producer who’s done a lot of work with his dad’s band, Ransom, over the years. I watch his face as he shakes hands with the man. It’s a slight change—I doubt anyone else would have noticed. But I spend a truly ridiculous amount of time watching Fox Ransome and I’ve gotten pretty good at picking up his subtle cues.

Something around his eyes relaxes, his smile growing just a touch more sincere as the producer pulls him into one of those one-armed backslapping hugs guys do.

“And who’s this pretty lady?” the older man asks, grinning at me, but not in the skin-crawly way of Boob Looker earlier.

“Ted, this is my friend, Juniper Cain,” Fox says as the producer holds out his hand to take mine.

“Friend, huh?” Ted winks at Fox. “I’ve seen the two of you snuggling up for the cameras. You telling me that’s all fake?”

Fox laughs like it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard and my heart dies, just a little. “Just friends, Ted.”

The guy shakes his head, eyes on me. “Never took you for an idiot, kid.”

I put on my very brightest movie star smile. “He couldn’t keep up with me.”

Ted and Fox both laugh. I guess my acting skills are still up to par, at least. Silver lining.

“Kid, there are a couple people here who know your dad and uncles,” the producer says. “They’d probably like to say hi if you can spare a few minutes.”

Fox casts a glance in my direction, like he’s not sure if he should leave me. “Go ahead,” I tell him, even though him walking away is just about the least appealing thing I can imagine.

“I don’t want to leave you on your own.”

“I’m related to half the people in this room,” I remind him. “I’ll be fine.”

His eyes narrow just a bit, and I know the thought of my family isn’t very reassuring to him. But he looked more relaxed talking to this Ted guy than he has all night, and I want him to have the chance to go and visit with his dad’s friends. So I reach out and squeeze his forearm, trying not to think about the cords of lean muscle under my hand.

“I haven’t seen my grandmother yet. I should go find her.”

He nods, still not looking entirely comfortable with the idea, but I make my smile brighter and take a step back. “We’ll meet up later, okay?”

“Sure, June.”

I get that warm melty feeling in my chest again, the same one I always get when he says my name. June. Not Juniper. Not the name that gets plastered on movie posters and headlines, the name nearly every person in this room would use. Not the name my grandfather insists on calling me because, “brand consistency is very important. June is an old lady name. Juniper Cain is a movie star.”

“Please call me June,” I’d said to him the very first day we met. And he had. He always does.

I like that way more than I probably should.

Which is probably why I grab a glass of champagne off the nearest tray when I walk away and down the entire thing in about three seconds.

“Jesus, Junie,” a familiar voice drawls near my ear. “Slow down. There can only be one disreputable Cain twin, and I have the hot-mess title on lockdown.”

I look over at my twin brother and don’t bother to stifle a laugh. His tie is loose already, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. His chestnut hair—the exact same shade as mine—is covering his forehead in a careless sweep. He looks bored and above it all, a combination that somehow has always worked for him.

“I thought you were shooting in Milan,” I say in lieu of a greeting.

“It was Corfu,” he says, shrugging. “Grandpa called earlier in the week and said he’d arranged time off so I could come home for this shit.” He makes a mock-excited face. “A whole twenty-four hours. Aren’t I the luckiest?”

I wince. An industry party bookended by two trans-Atlantic flights isn’t much of a vacation.

“Did he at least send the private jet?” I ask.

James Greyson Cain III rolls his eyes. “Of course. You think I’d actually fly commercial?”