Travis hops out and retrieves my suitcase from the trunk as the valet swings my door open. “Welcome to the Barrington.”
“Thank you.”
I step out, fully prepared to thank Travis profusely for driving me all the way out here. Maybe even casually mention that I’d love his boss’s cell number and, no, I’m not mentally unhinged.
But he’s already back on his side of the car.
“Enjoy your stay,” he says, patting the hood once before sliding behind the wheel and pulling away.
I mumble a thanks and give a little wave, pretending I’m not a total nutjob. Though telepathically, I’m begging him to turn around and toss me a lifeline.
Lumberjack’s name would be great.
It doesn’t work.
Why does my brain refuse to believe my run-in with Lickable Mount Saint Hot Guy is over?
Spoiler alert, Ava.
It is.
CHAPTER 11
Ava
Eight hours later
I’ve been primped, pawed, pinned, and poured into more outfits than a Barbie in a preschool.
Twelve wardrobe changes.
Twelve.
Because Myra’s little PR panic tour has officially turned into a three-ring circus. She knows I hate this. And frankly, a full-blown invasion of privacy under a spotlight is the last thing I need.
Yet somehow, she’s crammed in four times as many appearances as she promised. As usual, I’ll be her sacrificial lamb to “all publicity is good publicity.”
If only she could do that for my next film.
If there is a next film.
The driver checks his map app.
“Is everything all right?” I ask.
He nods. “Just verifying the drop-off point.”
“Thank you.” I hope he knows where he’s going.
I grab my mirror and check my lipstick, the motion automatic.
My pulse picks up. Not from nerves.
From memory.
Crooked letters written on my dressing-room mirror. In lipstick. My lipstick.
You’re in my thoughts, Ava.
