The second Joey stepped into the restaurant, she felt that familiar gaze lock onto her—like it had been waiting to trap her from a mile away.
It started at her heels, slid up her legs, lingered around her narrow waist, drifted over the curve of her chest, traced the long line of her neck, and finally settled on the slightly tousled ends of her hair.
There was a playful heat in that stare, the kind that practically let you see the teasing smirk tugging at the corner of the owner's mouth.
Joey followed the line of sight and—yep, there he was. Hughes, lounging at a crisp, white-tablecloth table like he owned the place, watching her with that effortless nonchalance he'd perfected.
Honestly, God had been way too generous with this guy. One lazy glance from him, and you'd swear he was the most well-mannered man on the planet.
Good breeding and drop-dead gorgeous—those were the first two words that always hit you when you looked at Hughes.
Joey walked over. Hughes noticed right away that something was off today. The usual bratty pride was gone from her face; in its place was this weird, almost serene calm. It threw him. Made him curious.
He set his wine glass down, taking in the way she was moving—slow, almost stiff, like she'd been running all day.
That signature lazy grin spread across his face, perfectly casual, perfectly cutting. "What's with you? You look like you just ran a marathon in heels."
This Joey, of course, wasn't the same Joey from her last life. She'd lived fifty extra years in her head. Everything felt distant now—family, love, friendship. The only thing still burning bright was her dream.
So even though she knew exactly why they were here today—because Hughes was about to dump her—she felt… calm. No meltdown. No desperate, pride-saving word-vomit like last time, where she'd screamed accusations just to not look like a total loser.
She pulled out a chair and sat, barely glancing at him before staring at the table like it held the secrets of the universe.
"If running my legs off meant finding a distributor, I'd do it in a heartbeat," she muttered.
Hughes, ever the gentleman, poured her a glass of wine, but his eyes never left her—playful, mocking, sizing her up. "I told you like five times I'd handle it. Or do you actually want to end up as Hollywood's favorite train-wreck sob story?"
He waited for the explosion. It never came. She just sat there, cooler than ever. Way too different from the firecracker he was used to. It was starting to freak him out a little.
Joey finally spoke, voice steady. "If I can only get my crappy movies distributed because my boyfriend pulls strings, then yeah—I really would be pathetic."
Hughes reached for a cigarette out of habit, then remembered they were in public and tossed it aside. He looked away, sneaking glances at her, that cocky half-smile still in place.
"You're awfully confident today," he drawled. "What, you gonna hit me with more of those pie-in-the-sky dreams again? Or some super deep, super boring life mission?"
He reached over and playfully knocked on her forehead like she was a door. His tone was teasing, but there was a hint of something softer underneath. "If you actually had the chops, you wouldn't be in the mess you're in. Just let me fix it this time, okay?"
Joey didn't smile back like she usually would. She looked dead serious—almost like she was talking to herself. "No. I can't keep doing this. I'm not ready to forget why I got into this business in the first place."
Same as last life—she still hadn't told him she was one missed payment away from bankruptcy.
Hughes let out a low, smug laugh. The man loved to laugh; he just did it in the most infuriatingly charming way possible.
"Babe," he said, leaning back, "whether you ever make a decent movie again? Honestly couldn't care less."
Joey almost laughed out loud in her head. Liar. He absolutely cared whether she still had fire in her. He was the one always saying talent didn't matter in Hollywood—then turned around and worshipped it more than anyone. The second he decided she'd stopped chasing the dream and started coasting on his name, he'd checked out.
And she didn't even blame him. She'd done it to herself.
He leaned forward, trying to catch her downcast eyes. That smug little grin stayed plastered on his face.
"You've still got time to think about it. I really don't want you turning into gossip fodder for all the bitter old hens in this town."
Joey lifted her head. Her lashes fluttered like she was already bored of the conversation. "Can we talk about something else? I'm guessing you didn't just drag me here to roast me."
All of a sudden he reached out and gently ran his fingers through her hair—the only moment his eyes softened into something that actually looked like love.
Then, in a weirdly formal tone, he said, "Sweetheart… we've been together seven years."
Joey looked up. The same guy who'd been teasing her two seconds ago was now saying the cruelest thing in the gentlest voice.
"Let's call it," he said quietly.
Last life, she'd begged. Why? Why now? Why me? She'd known the answer the whole time but couldn't stand hearing it out loud.
This time she just nodded, calm as ever, and even managed a small smile. "I get it. You don't love me anymore."
"You're not you anymore," he shot back, cold and sharp. It stung like hell. "I still remember the girl from seven years ago—the one cleaning up at every award show, blowing everybody away with raw talent, that fire in her eyes when she talked about her dreams. That girl got me hooked. And now…" His gaze dragged slowly across her face. "Maybe the dream's still in there somewhere, but you're too tired to chase it."
She couldn't argue. Every word was true. She'd wasted seven years. He'd stuck around way longer than he should have, hoping that girl would come back.
Joey gave a sad little shrug. "Yeah… you stopped believing in me."
Hughes smirked again, back to his brutal honesty. "Believing? Baby, I'm way past disappointed."
She dropped her gaze again. "I'm ashamed."
He glanced at her hairline, grinning like a cat who'd cornered a mouse. "You know what's wild? You're being so chill today. Did those slimy tabloid vultures finally beat the fight out of you?"
Joey met his mocking eyes, completely sincere. "No. I'm just… finally looking in the mirror."
He barked a surprised laugh. "Holy crap, that's it! You've totally stopped giving a damn about yourself."
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?" she asked.
"No clue," he said, then knocked back the rest of his wine like he was toasting goodbye. "Guess you'll figure it out on your own from now on."
The last seven years flashed through Joey's mind in a heartbeat—all real, all shared. She whispered, almost to herself, "I really thought we'd go the distance."
He sighed, actually sounding regretful. "Yeah… me too."
Then he looked at her—those light brown eyes and perfect brown hair making him look like some old Hollywood heartthrob—and gave her the most polite, cultured smile.
"Joey… don't waste your talent."
She froze. He hadn't said that last life. Maybe back then her hysterics made him think it wasn't worth it. Or maybe because she was different now, he felt like he could.
She half-laughed. "Two seconds ago you said talent doesn't mean squat in Hollywood."
He winked like a naughty little kid. "That's what you tell the 99% of directors who are total hacks and just leech off connections. Totally solid advice—works on pretty much everybody."
"So you're saying I'm a hack?" she teased.
He grinned wider. "I'm saying there's still hope for you."
He checked his watch. "I've gotta run. We good to wrap this up?"
"Yeah," she said, honestly impressed by how easily it came out. Fifty extra years will do that to a girl.
"Need a ride home?"
"Nah, I'm good."
He gave her one last lingering look—like he was memorizing her—then tossed out a breezy, "See ya around."
It sounded like "catch you later," but they both knew what it really meant.
In her last life, they never saw each other again. Five years later he wrapped his car around a tree.
Right now she couldn't even process that. If there was any chance—if they'd really loved each other—she wanted to stop that from happening. But that was future-Joey's problem.
Present-Joey had bigger fish to fry: she was about to go bankrupt.
Solution? Make money.
How? Make movies.
Except this time she had a ridiculous advantage: she'd already lived the next fifty years. She knew exactly what kinds of stories people would fall in love with, what would blow up at the box office, and when.
Plus, during those fifty years of hiding from the world, she never stopped studying film—her fundamentals were rock-solid now, her style more daring, her toolbox massive.
She wasn't planning to straight-up copy future hits (that felt gross), but she could damn sure use them as a roadmap.
First mission: sell the movie she'd mortgaged everything to make, currently titled Harvard Life—which was never gonna sell like this. She'd already been rejected by every distributor in town.
So, obvious answer: reshoot the damn thing.
Turn the mediocre script into something great, using everything she'd learned from a lifetime (plus fifty bonus years) of watching movies succeed and fail.
It was all or nothing. Either Harvard Life became a breakout hit, or her second chance at life went up in flames.
But reshoots cost money she didn't have.
Step one: find an investor.
Also, that title sucked. As she sat there, a much better one popped into her head—one that would actually make people curious.
Juno.
Because that's the main character's name, and in about two years, the world was gonna go nuts for a little indie with that exact title.
This time, she was gonna beat the world to it.