Especially since I have to move again when I get back to LA.
I know better than to flirt with my landlord.
I do.
I blame the stress of being under the watchful eye of the creepy elves that Beck and Sarah Ryder had on their shelves.
Temporary insanity making me give in to the idea that the movie star I’ve been crushing on for longer than I care to admit would see me as anything more than the hot mess who keeps breaking things in his pool house.
And then when I thought he was going to kiss me under the mistletoe—but no.
Nope.
The universe had other plans, and those plans were to blare my song and ruin the moment.
Which is good.
I can’t buy a house until royalties come in for this dumb song, so I shouldn’t be kissing my landlord until I have a more secure place to go.
But I push all of that out of my brain, settle onto the plush rug in front of the empty fireplace in the little wood cabin, and tune out the world while I fiddle with lyrics and a melody that I’ve been working on for my next album. Soak in the sound of a gentle rain that starts to fall midafternoon. Switch on a lamp that illuminates the log walls in a soft yellow glow. Debate starting a fire in the fireplace for more ambiance.
Get distracted by the idea of ambiance and go back to my journal.
At least, until I hear a car outside near dusk.
I’m at the end of a dirt road. The closest other cabin that I saw on my drive in this morning was much farther down the mountain. There’s no other access to this cabin and nothing elsebutthis cabin at the end of the road.
I angle myself off the floor, grunting as I realize my body’s gotten stiff from sitting so long, and peer out the dirty window.
Maybe it’s a cleaning crew here on the wrong day. Or the owner of the cabin. Possibly even someone like me who got double-booked, because wouldn’t that be exactly how this holiday is supposed to go?
But no. Instead, I’m gaping, convinced my eyes are playing tricks on me.
Am I dreaming?
Did I fall asleep on the floor and this isn’t real?
I push up off my knees, my lower back groaning.
Definitely not a dream.
Butwhat the hellis he doing here?
Cash Rivers has three siblings, two parents, and dozens of besties to spend his holidays with.
Is this his stunt double?
No, I’ve heard his stunt double always wears a prosthetic nose, and why would a stunt double wear that off-hours?
Also, while I’ve never met his stunt double, I doubt a stunt double would make my heart race and send tingles through my chest the way Cash does.
It’s so dumb.
I shouldn’t like him.
I don’twantto like him.
I want to spend a few years diving deeper into my career so I can know that when it all falls apart—and it eventually will, because everything does—I’ve been smart with my money and I can take some time to figure out what my next step in life will bewithouthaving to work three jobs to avoid moving into another apartment or rental with questionable landlords.
