The Miata sat next to a woodpile that was, I noted with something almost like fondness, still covered in wet tarp and completely useless.
I grabbed the grocery bags from my back seat—two of everything, because I was either being incredibly thoughtful or incredibly foolish, and I’d stopped trying to determine which—and headed toward the front door.
The cabin was smaller than mine, more rustic, with a wraparound porch that probably looked charming in summer but currently just looked cold. Smoke rose from the chimney, which meant he’d at least figured out the fire situation. Unless he was burning furniture.
I climbed the porch steps, shifted the bags to one arm, and took a deep breath.
This was what anyone would do, really, if they found out their neighbor was being hunted by overly enthusiastic fans andprobably couldn’t return to the only grocery store within thirty miles without being accosted.
I was being helpful and not thinking about the way he’d looked at me in the canned goods aisle.
I knocked.
For a long moment, nothing happened. I heard movement inside—footsteps, the creak of floorboards—but the door stayed firmly closed. Maybe he was hoping I’d go away. Maybe he’d seen the Range Rover pull up and decided he’d rather starve than face the awkwardness of this conversation.
Fair enough. I’d probably do the same in his position.
I was about to leave the bags on the porch and retreat when the door finally opened.
Samuel looked... bad. Not physically—physically he still looked like someone had ordered a leading man from a catalog and selected all the most attractive options—but there was something haunted in his expression. Something hollow. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair disheveled, and he’d changed out of his earlier clothes into sweatpants and a hoodie that swallowed his frame.
“Farley.” He said my name like he wasn’t sure it was real. “What are you—”
A flash of white streaked past his legs, and suddenly Purrsephone was weaving between my ankles, purring like a motorboat and rubbing her face against my jeans.
“Oh, for—” Samuel stared at the cat. “How does she do that?”
“I have no idea.” I crouched down to scratch behind her ears, genuinely confused. “She was on my couch when I left for the store. How did she get into your cabin?”
“She was already here when I got back. Just... sitting on my bed like she owned the place.” He ran a hand through his already-destroyed hair. “I swear she knows how to pick locks.”
“Gladys said not to feed her.”
“I know. I didn’t.” He paused. “I might have given her some of my beef jerky, but that doesn’t count.”
I looked up at him, this famous, recognizable man standing in his doorway looking like he’d just lost a fight with his own emotions, and decided to address the elephant in the room.
“I bought you groceries,” I said. “Two of everything. So you don’t have to go back to Shifflett’s for a while.”
His expression crumpled, just for a second, before he rebuilt the walls. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.” I stood, Purrsephone immediately transferring her affections to Samuel’s ankles instead. “But your fan is apparently very active in the church choir, and I suspect the news of your presence is currently being disseminated to everyone within a fifty-mile radius. You might want to lie low for a few days.”
He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah. I figured.”
A silence stretched between us, different from the comfortable pauses at the store. Something had shifted, and we both knew it. The easy flirtation, the spark of connection—it all felt distant now, obscured by the reality of who Samuel actually was and the knowledge that I’d been talking to someone who existed in a world I didn’t understand.
“I googled you,” I said, because I was apparently determined to make this as uncomfortable as possible. “After you left.”
“I assumed you would.” He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. “So now you know.”
“Dr. Brock Blaze.” I tried to keep my voice neutral. “TV’s hottest doctor. Three-time Emmy nominee. The face that launched a thousand thirst tweets.”
“That last one’s technically about my abs, not my face.” He attempted a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Different photo shoot.”
“Samuel—”
“It’s fine.” He cut me off, his voice flat. “This is how it always goes. Someone recognizes me, the illusion shatters, and suddenly I’m not a person anymore. I’m a character. A commodity. Something to be photographed and gossiped about and—” He stopped abruptly, shaking his head. “Sorry. That’s not your problem.”
