I pulled out my phone, grateful that the mountains had decided to grant me at least two bars of service today. The search engine loaded slowly, but it loaded, and I typed in the name with fingers that weren’t entirely steady.
Samuel Bennett Dr. Brock Blaze
The results populated almost instantly, and there he was—Samuel. My wood-challenged, inappropriately dressed-for-mountain-winter neighbor—staring back at me from dozens of photos. Red carpet shots in designer suits. Shirtless promotionalimages that made my mouth go dry despite my better judgment. Magazine covers declared him “TV’s Hottest Doctor” and “The Face That Launched a Thousand Thirst Tweets.”
I scrolled down, reading faster than I should have.
Samuel Bennett (31) is best known for his portrayal of Dr. Brock Blaze on the long-running daytime drama “Midnight at Magnolia General.” Bennett has played the roguish heart surgeon since 2018, earning three consecutive Daytime Emmy nominations for Outstanding Lead Actor. Born in San Diego, California, Bennett studied theater at UCLA before landing the role that would make him a household name.
There were more articles.
“Is Samuel Bennett Secretly Straight? Sources Close to the Star Say...”
“Bennett and Co-Star Chandra Reyes: TV’s Hottest Couple or Just Friends?”
“Inside Samuel Bennett’s Luxury LA Home: The Bachelor Pad Every Gay Man Dreams Of!”
And then, dated just one week ago:
“Samuel Bennett on Break from ‘Magnolia General’—Contract Negotiations or Creative Differences?”
I lowered my phone.
So my neighbor wasn’t just attractive and charming and terrible at building fires. He was a celebrity. A famous, recognizable, tabloid-fodder celebrity who probably had women like Hope Campbell screaming his character’s name everywhere he went.
No wonder he’d run.
I thought about the way his expression had shifted when that woman appeared. The panic in his eyes. The way he’d denied knowing who she was talking about, even though they bothclearly knew it was a lie. The desperation in his voice when he’d said I have to go.
And I thought about something else—something I hadn’t fully processed until now.
He’d been about to ask me something.
Before Hope burst in with her church choir enthusiasm and her intrusive questions about his sexuality, Samuel had been leaning closer. His voice had dropped to something private, intimate. He’d been about to say—
It didn’t matter now.
I didn’t date celebrities or liars. I didn’t date anyone at all, actually, not anymore, not after Ollie had blown a hole through every assumption I’d had about trust and commitment and what it meant when someone said I love you.
But I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Samuel.
Working in publishing meant I understood, at least peripherally, what it was like to be recognized. Some of my authors had fans as devoted as soap opera viewers—fans who felt entitled to their time, their attention, their personal lives. I’d watched authors struggle under the weight of public expectation, watched their writing suffer when every creative choice was dissected by strangers on the internet, watched them learn to curate every aspect of their existence until even they couldn’t remember what was real anymore.
Samuel Bennett had looked at me like I was a miracle.
Not because I was special. Not because I was charming or attractive or interesting.
Because I hadn’t known who he was.
“Ham sandwich,” Loretta announced, sliding a perfectly wrapped package across the counter. “You need anything else, honey?”
I looked down at my shopping basket—currently containing only the coffee I’d been clutching like a life raft and a box of crackers I had no memory of selecting—and made a decision.
“Actually,” I mumbled, “I think I need to double my order. On everything.”
Forty-five minutes later, I pulled my rented Range Rover into the gravel driveway of Samuel’s cabin and parked beside his completely ridiculous Miata.
I’d laughed when I saw it. I couldn’t help myself—the car was a convertible, for God’s sake, and we were in the mountains in December. The soft top was up, of course, but I could see frost crystallizing on the windshield, and the whole thing looked as out of place as a flamingo in a snowstorm.
