Santa Monica, some fancy hillside villa neighborhood.
Joy rolled out of bed, grabbed a big bowl of veggies from the fridge, drowned it in ketchup and ranch, stirred it with a fork, and plopped down in front of the TV in her ratty old pajamas.
Doorbell.
She shuffled over, peeked through the peephole, and yanked the door open with an exaggerated lean against the frame.
"Well, well. To what do I owe the pleasure?" she drawled, eyeing the tall, brown-haired, stupidly handsome guy standing there looking like he just stepped off a yacht.
Hughes pushed right past her, that familiar half-smirk on his face. "Saw the news. Had to come make sure you were still breathing."
Joy made a dramatic slicing motion across her throat. "What, scared the racists finally got me?"
He stepped inside, glancing around. "I just never pegged you for the political-activist type."
Joy rolled her eyes. "Nobody picks a fight until the fight picks them."
She poured him a glass of water. "So you drove all the way here for that?"
Hughes just looked at her, smile flickering like he couldn't decide which version of it to use.
She'd changed. The girl he used to know was timid, careful. This Joy was fearless—like someone had ripped the old skin off and the real her finally crawled out.
She'd vanished for months and come back with a smash Broadway musical. The fire was back. He was… glad. More than glad.
He narrowed his eyes, teasing. "Have fun playing in New York?"
Joy snorted. "Do I report my schedule to you now?"
He lit a cigar, took a slow drag, and grinned around it. "So what's next?"
"Making a movie."
"What kind?"
She shoveled a forkful of salad into her mouth, totally unbothered that she looked like a gremlin who'd lost a fight with a pillow. "A franchise. The kind that prints money."
Hughes dropped into a chair, kicked his feet up. "Details."
"Big, fat, four-quadrant blockbuster series. Harry Potter money. Star Wars money."
He barked out a laugh. "You high?"
Joy glared. "Say whatever you want."
He crossed his arms, suddenly all business. "Genre?"
"Romantic comedy."
He actually threw his head back and laughed, loud and mean. "Okay, you're definitely still asleep."
"Will you shut up for two seconds? I'm serious."
Hughes wiped his eyes, still grinning like the devil. "You're trying to launch a billion-dollar franchise… with a chick-flick."
"Yep."
"Because women love fairy tales and you think that's a cheat code to infinity dollars?"
Joy leaned forward, fire in her eyes. "Watch me."
Impossible, he thought. There's never been a rom-com franchise at that level. Ever. They're too female-skewing; you lose half the audience before you even start.
As a producer, he'd already killed the idea six ways from Sunday. If this were anyone else, he'd have roasted them and walked out.
But this was Joy.
So instead of trashing it, he heard himself ask, "How much seed money do you need?"
Joy blinked, fork halfway to her mouth. "Wait—what? You're offering to finance it? Two seconds ago you called it brain-dead."
He shrugged, that wicked little-boy smile back. "Can't I?"
She stared at him like he'd grown a second head. "Who's the crazy one now?"
He lit another cigar and fired off questions like bullets. "Budget? Timeline? Shooting schedule? Who do you see starring?"
"I don't need your money, Hughes. I'm good. Broadway paid stupidly well."
He smirked. "Look at you, all high-and-mighty now that you've got a couple million in the bank."
"I'm literally just turning you down. Where's the high-and-mighty?"
He slid onto the couch right next to her, close enough that she caught the scent of cigar and that stupid cologne he'd worn forever. "You don't need my money," he said, voice low, "but you do need a producer who can muscle this thing through the system. And you know I'm the best."
His green eyes were doing that thing; scanning her like he was memorizing her all over again. Down the messy curls, the line of her throat, the curve where her oversized T-shirt slipped off one shoulder.
Joy's pulse kicked. Bad memories. Good memories. All the memories.
They were broken up.
This was dangerous.
She scooted back an inch. He noticed and smirked.
"What are you scared of?"
"Nothing," she lied.
Her phone buzzed—Renee, perfect timing. Joy practically lunged for it, babbling about nothing just to kill the tension.
When she hung up, Hughes was still lounging there, calm as ever, like the last five minutes of charged silence never happened.
She exhaled. Okay. Maybe she'd imagined the whole vibe.
She sat back down, closer this time, businesslike. "Fine. You're right—I could use a producer like you. If you actually want in, great. We'll hash out details once I've got a script."
He finished his cigar, crushed it out, and stood.
"We'll talk when it's real," he said. Then, softer: "You got it, kid."
He was 100% sure this movie would crash and burn.
He was also 100% going to help her make it anyway.
Because that's what he did: fixed her problems, cleared her path, pushed her toward the top even if it killed him.
He'd left so she could become who she was meant to be. Not to actually lose her.
And now she was shining again; exactly the brilliant, driven girl he'd fallen for all those years ago.
But he needed to get out of here before the memories swallowed him whole.
Because every time he blinked, he saw her from some long-ago morning: black hair spilling over bare shoulders, half-tangled in sheets, smiling sleepily at him like he was the only thing in the world.
"Mornin'," she'd whispered, voice husky, sweet enough to melt steel.
He couldn't keep standing here remembering that.
Hughes grabbed his jacket.
"I'll be in touch," he said, and walked out before he did something stupid.
Like ask to stay.