I followed her up the narrow staircase to a loft bedroom with sloped ceilings and a window that looked out over the forest. Thebed was covered in what appeared to be a handmade quilt, and there was a reading chair in the corner that looked perfect for exactly the kind of contemplative solitude I’d been craving.
“This is perfect,” I said, and meant it.
Gladys rolled her eyes. “Bathroom’s through that door. Don’t use all the hot water at once—tank’s only forty gallons.” She headed back downstairs, and I hurried to follow. “Deck’s out back. Good for sitting. Bad for parties.”
She showed me the deck, which was more of a large wooden platform that extended from the back of the cabin into the trees. The view was even better from here—nothing but forest and mountains and sky.
“Any questions?” Gladys asked.
“I think I’m good. Thank you for—”
“I’m walking back.” She was already heading toward the front door. “At my age, I need the exercise.”
“You don’t want me to drive you?”
“In that toy car? I’ll take my chances with the cold.” She paused at the door, hand on the knob. “There’s a white cat that’s been hanging around. Don’t feed it. It doesn’t belong to anybody, and I don’t need it making a permanent home up here.”
“A cat?”
“Stray. Used to belong to a woman who died last year. Thing’s been wandering around ever since.” She pulled the door open, letting in a blast of cold air. “Enjoy your vacation, Mr. Bennett. Try not to do anything stupid.”
And then she was gone, hiking down the driveway in her sensible boots.
I stood in the middle of the living room for a long moment, just listening. The fire crackled. The wind whispered through the pines outside. Somewhere far away, a bird called out.
No cameras or scripts. No Sabrina telling me what to do or who to be seen with. And no tabloids wondering if I was secretly straight. Just me and the mountains and a type of silence I’d almost forgotten existed.
I felt something in my chest unclench, a tight knot I’d been carrying for so long I’d forgotten it was there.
Free. I felt free.
I grabbed my suitcase from the car—making three trips because I’d overpacked like an idiot—and spent the next hour unpacking. Clothes in the dresser. Toiletries in the bathroom. Books on the nightstand. My laptop went into a drawer, because I’d promised myself I wouldn’t work.
When everything was settled, I changed into comfortable clothes—yoga pants and a hoodie that said “Namaste In Bed” that Chandra had given me as a joke—and headed out to the back deck.
The sun setting, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that no filter could improve. The air was so cold it hurt to breathe, but in a good way. A clarifying way.
I rolled out my yoga mat and tried to remember the last time I’d actually done a full practice. Months, probably. Maybe a year. Life had been too busy, too chaotic, too full of everything except the things that actually mattered. Before settling down, I found the perfect yoga playlist on my phone- Spandex & Sage- and hit play.
I started with sun salutations, moving through the poses with rusty muscles that protested the sudden activity. My shoulders ached, and my entire body shook from the frigid air. But slowly, gradually, I felt my body remember what it was supposed to do.
Downward dog. Warrior one. Warrior two. Triangle pose.
The sunset painted everything golden, and I moved through my practice like a prayer to a god I wasn’t sure I believedin anymore. But it felt good. Real. Like I was finally doing something that wasn’t a performance.
I was in tree pose, arms raised toward the sky, trying to find my balance on the wooden deck, when my phone buzzed.
I ignored it.
It buzzed again.
And again.
With a sigh, I dropped out of the pose and saw three texts from my agent.
Sabrina: We need to talk about the contract.
Sabrina: You’re being unreasonable.
