"Penis," I mutter under my breath.
The man sitting across from me stiffens slightly, giving me a wary side-eye before hastily returning to his sandwich.
I suppress a laugh, but internally, I know what this is. I’m spiraling.
I’m screwed and scared, but also… Iwantto be brave.
Eli makes me want to be brave in ways I never expected.
It’s in the way he compliments my writing style when he reads over my fanfics, the way he hypes up my Instabook photos, and the way he’s genuinely impressed by my crocheting and knitting skills. With him, it’s never, "Oh, that’s cute." It’s, "That’s incredible. You made that?" Like he actually sees me.
Sometimes, I tell him things I haven’t even told Maya. Not because I mean to but because, with him, I feel seen. Andsafe. Like the version of me that I hide from the world finally has someone who wants to look.
And honestly? It’s good to feel valued.
My family loves me. I know they do. But with them, I’m reliable Amy. Convenient Amy. Serious Amy. I’m the one you call for Excel knowledge and advice on how to pick the best slow cooker.
But with Eli? I’m smart Amy. Fun Amy. Maybe even—dare I say it—beautiful Amy.
“Why are you smiling at me like that?”
I blink up and come face-to-face with Pete.
Sleazy Pete.
One of the sales guys, or, as I like to call him, the office’s own discount Casanova. He’s the guy who tries (and fails) to hit on every single woman in the building. And when that doesn’t work? He always ends up at my table last, with his usual sleazy grin and some half-assed, "Well, you’re the last one on my list, so…"
Twat.
Normally, I’d just shake my head and go back to my plate, willing him to disappear.
But today? Today, I’m Eli’s Amy.
So I snort, leaning back in my chair. “Please, Pete. Like I’d waste actual muscle movement on you.”
His jaw drops.
I stab another bite of pasta, chewing with satisfaction.
Screw it. Maybe beingEli’s Amyisn’t such a bad thing after all.
The rest of the day is not much better.
Jolene is still marveling over Jake Hollander’sbignewrole, and her enthusiasm is so over-the-top that even Lizzy, our resident Hollywood gossip enthusiast, looks mildly exhausted.
“And get this,” Jolene continues, practically vibrating in her seat. “They’re shooting at Pinewood Studios! Can you imagine just walking to the break room and casually bumping into Jake Hollander? Like full-on rom-com moment. Coffee spills, lingering eye contact, and boom, love story of the century.”
I glance at Lizzy, who is carefully wiping her glasses, looking like she’d rather gouge her own eyes out than engage in this conversation.
Maggie, on the other hand, hums noncommittally, offering a polite “That’s… nice” while flipping through an invoice.
I don’t bother correcting Jolene’s fantasy. None of us do. We, the veterans of the corporate trenches, just share a knowing smile.
Because in reality?
A lot of films are shot here. Big-budget Hollywood blockbusters, award-winning indie flicks, even the occasional TV drama.
However, in the five years I’ve worked here? I have never,not once, seen a celebrity, A-list or otherwise.
