The role was a calculated risk. I would be playing a wealthy man who returns to his small hometown to serve court-mandated community service after a public scandal costs him his wealth and his family. It was the kind of story that would force an audience to see me as something other than a headline.IfI could pull it off.
Success came easily to me. Maybe too easily. I never slept on a couch. I never wondered where my next meal was going to come from. Stardom felt like destiny rather than a hard-earned ascent. That meant I skipped the part where real people grow through struggle, and I didn’t understand them.
And that was the problem. I didn’t know anything about being a real person. A person who worked two jobs to make ends meet, who had no time for fame or ego. People would look at me and see nothing but another spoiled, rich jerk trying to play their lives like a role.
Topher was right. I’d spent too long surrounded by handlers, too insulated in my Hollywood bubble to understand what real struggle evenlookedlike. And now I was supposed to become a guy who shoveled dirt, patched fences, and shook hands with neighbors.
I let out a long breath, pressing my forehead to the cool glass.Get to know real people.Easier said than done.
This exile was going to be unbearable. But if I wanted to save my career, I’d have to start somewhere. And that somewhere, apparently, was here.
5
ANNA
Livingin a tiny cottage on the grounds of a sprawling estate wasn’t exactly the worst outcome for someone teetering on the edge of failure.
However, it was my third day there, and for all the charm and postcard-perfect scenery, I still couldn’t write. Not a word.
It turns out that writer’s block isn’t picky. It doesn’t care that you’ve fled to an impossibly cute cottage. It doesn’t care that no little nieces are banging on your door demanding snacks or that you’re not vacuuming instead of working. Writer’s block follows you, stubborn and smug, no matter how far you run or how many distractions you leave behind.
I’d tried everything the experts recommended. Scribbling whatever came to mind to get the words flowing. Writing prompts. I took walks, hoping the steady rhythm of my footsteps would unlock some brilliant idea. I meditated because, apparently, clearing your mind is supposed to make room for creativity, though all it did was make me acutely aware of how quiet my brain actually was. I even tried the age-old trick of switching to pen and paper, thinking maybe the tactile experience of writing would somehow coax the words out. It didn’t.
I pushed away from the cute little desk, frustration bubbling, and wandered to the big picture window. Maybe the grounds outside would inspire me. Or at least give me a moment to clear my head.
The view offered more than I expected.
There was Topher’s pool, glittering under the midday sun. My pool too, technically, for as long as I was staying here. And then I saw him.
The mystery guest.
Mrs. Brodie had said he was a “friend of Topher’s” staying at the mansion for a month or so. No hints about who he was, but the luxury SUV in the driveway and the careful secrecy surrounding his presence told me he was someone important.
He was swimming, sleek and effortless. And then, as if on cue, he climbed out of the pool, his back to me.
Water streamed down his shoulders and muscled back. His muscles may well have been sculpted by an artist who took their job very,veryseriously.
His swim trunks clung low on his hips, droplets falling lazily from the hem as he reached for a towel. The sun caught his golden skin just right. His blonde hair was plastered to his neck, sending tiny rivulets of water running down his corded throat.
I should’ve looked away. I really should’ve. But my brain stalled, and I stood there frozen, clutching my coffee like a lifeline.
Finally, I snapped out of it. What was I doing? Peeking out from behind glass like some creeper? No. I was better than this.
With a deep breath, I set my coffee on the windowsill and headed outside. The air hit me like a wall, thick and warm, carrying the scent of chlorine and jasmine. As I rounded the corner, he was toweling off, his head dipped forward.
“Hi.” My voice was steady, but my pulse was not.
He glanced up, his eyes meeting mine. They were bluer than the pool behind him, piercing in a way that made it impossible to look away.
My brain tried—and failed—to process what my eyes were seeing.
It was him.Luke Fisher.
World-famous movie star Luke Fisher.
The smug jerk who’d insulted New Orleans, my entire existence, and everything I held dear four nights ago.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered.
