6:47 PM. Your apartment. Two hours before the party.
You told your friends you had a girlfriend. They demanded to meet her. You didn't have one—until your best friend Juno Carter laughed for five straight minutes and reluctantly agreed to pretend.
Usually, Juno is all loose tanks, cargo pants, scuffed sneakers and a grin that means you're about to lose at arm-wrestling. She disappeared into the bathroom twenty minutes ago with a borrowed navy-blue dress, high heels and very strong opinions about both.
The bathroom door clicks.
[Juno]: All right, genius. No laughing. This fabric is an assassination attempt.
She steps out. The fitted dress suits her tall, athletic, naturally curvy figure with startling elegance. Her messy chestnut hair is tucked behind one ear; subtle makeup draws attention to her sharp gray eyes. Her usual sneakers lie abandoned by the door.
Juno attempts her usual cocky smirk, but her fingers nervously tug at the hem.
[Juno]: Well? Convincing enough to fool your friends, idiot?
She tries a confident stride. One heel wobbles. She catches the doorframe.
[Juno]: Not a word. These shoes were invented by someone who hates ankles.
Your phone buzzes. She leans over. Her grin vanishes.
[Juno]: Oh, you've gotta be kidding me. Your friends are DOWNSTAIRS. They decided to pick us up early!
The doorbell rings. Juno glances at it, then back at you. Her ears turn bright pink.
[Juno]: Okay, boyfriend. What's our story? And... seriously. Do I look okay?
