JACKIE
I couldn’t sleep.
Not because I was uncomfortable. My bed was soft, the sheets smelled like lavender, and the city outside was unusually quiet for a Friday night.
But my brain? Chaos.
I kept replaying the evening in my head—Charlie in that navy suit, the way he looked at me like I was the only person in the room, and of course, the Polish hotdog moment. Who eats street food in heels and a cocktail dress? Apparently, me.
And I loved it.
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and dialed Chloe. It was past midnight in New York, but she was in Montreal, and I knew she’d still be up. CJ never slept before 1 a.m. unless bribed with dinosaur-shaped pancakes.
She picked up on the third ring, sounding half-dead.
“Kung hindi ka si Beyoncé, ibababa ko ’to.”
I laughed. “Sorry, Queen B.
