Just Like The Movies Natasha Preston Contents Also by Natasha Preston Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20 Chapter 21 Chapter 22 Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25 Chapter 26 Chapter 27 Chapter 28 Chapter 29 Chapter 30 Chapter 31 Chapter 32 Chapter 33 Chapter 34 Chapter 35 Chapter 36 Chapter 37 Chapter 38 Chapter 39 Chapter 40 Chapter 41 Chapter 42 Chapter 43 Chapter 44 Chapter 45 Chapter 46 Chapter 47 Chapter 48 Chapter 49 Chapter 50 Chapter 51 Chapter 52 Chapter 53 Chapter 54 Chapter 55 Chapter 56 Chapter 57 Epilogue Read My Mind Waking Up In Vegas Acknowledgments Keep in Touch with Natasha Preston Also by Natasha Preston THE SILENCE SERIES Silence Broken Silence Players, Bumps, and Cocktail Sausages Silent Night THE CHANCE SERIES Second Chance Our Chance THE ONE SERIES Waking up in Vegas Just Like The Movies STAND-ALONES Save Me With the Band Reliving Fate Lie to Me After the End YA THILLERS The Cellar Awake The Cabin You Will be Mine The Lost The Twin Copyright © 2020 by Natasha Preston All rights reserved. Visit my website at www.natashapreston.com Cover Designer: LJ Designs Editor: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com Proofreading: Victoria L James, www.victorialjames.com No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Kim, Spencer Lowe is for you. One Indie Spencer Lowe. I hate him. Except that, actually, I don’t. Not even close. He’s my best friend of almost ten years and, unfortunately for me, the love of my life. “Yeah, LA is a lot different to my small hometown in England, but I love it here.” Spencer smiles, his bright white teeth gleaming at me from the TV screen. I hate Hollywood, and actors, and friends who leave you behind. But I’m also proud of him. So incredibly proud every time I think about how far he’s come, from high school drama classes to Hollywood’s latest golden boy. More than anything else, though, I miss him. I miss him so much, I feel like there’s no air in the room. “It’s been great to have you with us this morning.” Judy Pierce turns to the camera. “Quarantine is out November twentieth, and you don’t want to miss it. That was Spencer Lowe, who plays hunky bad boy Jack Miller. And yes, Spencer is even hotter in person!” Ugh. I jab my finger on the red button, and the TV switches off. When was the last time I spoke to him? Has it been two weeks? Three? He was supposed to stay in contact. That’s what we promised each other the night we got soaking wet, standing outside his house in the rain, trying to say goodbye. It wasn’t always this bad. At the start he called a lot. We were seventeen and joined at the hip. Then his life transformed overnight. Now, three years on, we’ve both left our teen years behind, and he’s left me. I want to be angry. I long to feel something other than complete devastation. It’s nine in the morning. I’m tired and about to leave for my nine-thirty lecture. It only takes fifteen minutes to get to the university, so I chose to live at home. Sort of chose, anyway. My university is only small. I did have my heart set on a bigger one in the city. I wanted to go where no one knew me, so I could blend in. That wasn’t ever going to be an option. It worked out in the end because my little uni has small class sizes, which means I get more time from my lecturer. Putting my breakfast plate in the dishwasher, I grab my bag off the counter and head out to my old, red, 1998 Vauxhall Corsa. It’s probably the worst car in the world, but it’s grown on me over the last three years. I jab the key into the lock—yes, it’s that old, it doesn’t unlock with the click of a button—and get in. The door makes a tinny thud every time I close it, and the engine rumbles like it’s struggling. Wiggling the gearstick into first, I pull out of my drive and make the cold journey to uni. It’s early November, and unseasonably cold today. As I drive through the forest, yellow and orange leaves glide to the ground. This is the best time of year, when everyone wraps up cosy, and the first wave of Christmas excitement hits. I don’t much like Christmas, but I see why others do. For me, I’m just happy that people are merrier. My besties Mila and Wren go crazy for it, but they have close families and big gatherings, so I guess they would. I pull into the car park and cut my engine. Sia stops singing about chandeliers, or whatever the message of that particular song is. One day, I’ll have a new car with heated seats, electric everything, and power steering. One with Bluetooth so I can play whatever I want from my phone. “Morning,” I greet Ellie. She’s a girl studying drama who I don’t really know but always say hi to. We met at orientation and have barely spoken properly since those first few nervous days. She probably knows that I was friends with Spencer Lowe. At one point, for about five minutes, we were more than friends. I cross the small quad and jog up the steps to my building. I’m fresh into my third year of studying Psychology and Counselling. Maybe I’ll buy a new car when I get my first job. After moving out of my parents’ house, of course. They weren’t up this morning, which isn’t unusual. I’ll check on them again when I get back, but I heard a lot of snoring. That means they’re fine. I push open the door to my class, and I find a seat on one of the dark wooden chairs. The
