My first instinct was to argue with her, to tell her it was a breach of privacy, but I’ve heard enough stories from Adam to know it wouldn’t be worth the energy. Instead, I gave her a polite dismissal.
No, thank you.
Where did you get my number?
Wren
I should have known. And since the woman has never contacted me personally, I’m pretty sure she got my number from Adam, the traitor. I sighed, realizing my new reality.
Let me know if you need anything. Once you’re settled in, I want you over for dinner.
It was less of a request and far more of a demand. I gave a thumbs-up, deciding that responding as little as possible without being rude was the key here. When she didn’t text again, I think I may have made the right choice.
Then, this morning, there was a knock on my door, which, at first, concerned me since this place isn’t necessarily easy to find. But when I opened the door, there was a smiling Wren King on my front step, her signature ribbon—this one a pale blue—in her dark hair, a wide, friendly smile on her lips, and a plate of cookies in her hands.
“For you!” she said, handing the dish to me after I greeted her. “Welcome to the neighborhood!” I didn’t bother to remind her that her neighborhood and mine were on opposite sides of town. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to bother you. I just came to drop these off. Gotta head into work now.”
“Oh, uh, thank you?” I asked, unsure. I’ve never been hand-delivered a plate of homemade cookies. If it were anyone else but Wren, I would probably throw them out. But the Atlas Oaks guys bragged about trying her cookies when they went there for dinner when they were in town for the festival. I opted out in favor of working in the hotel while we were in town, and I’d been curious ever since.
She took a step back, that grin still wide on her lips as she waved a hand. “No need! You can keep the plate, too. But I did want to invite you over for dinner sometime soon.” I don’t respond, my mind blanking on reasons to bow out, but she opened her car door before I could. “I’ll have Adam reach out, set something up.” I nodded, then watched the little whirlwind of a woman slide into her car, give me a wave as she executed a K-turn, and drive away.
Still, despite the well-meaning interruptions from my new, far-too-friendly neighbors, I’ve felt a long-forgotten sense of peace since officially moving to Holly Ridge.
As I sit eating one of the admittedly delicious cookies, I let that feeling sink further into my bones as I stare at the trees, picturing them in various seasons once I settle in, and thinking once again that my dad would have loved this place.
He loved being outside and working with his hands, and long before I was born, he built a construction company with my uncle. When my mom was pregnant with me, he bought a rundown place in the middle of nowhere and fixed it up, and that’s the house I grew up in, and my mom still lives in. It was similar to this place, surrounded by trees, just far enough out oftown to be quiet, but not so far out that mom couldn’t have little luxuries, like shopping or a nice dinner out.
I grew up around power tools, home renovations, and, most importantly to my dad, nature. The smell of wood always sends me back to those days, to summers working for my dad, painting rooms or installing trim or adding finishing hardware, or, when I got older, making cabinetry since carpentry was my dad’s specialty, a skill he was determined to pass down to me. Those skills have gone unused, but now, here, as I work on this place, it’s all coming back to me like second nature.
When my phone rings, a group of birds I’d been watching flies off, and I sigh, coming back to reality as I reach over for my phone. When I seeJackie Kleinon the screen, I groan, rubbing a hand over my face.
I do not want to talk to Jackie right now.
I don’t reallyeverwant to talk to Jackie, whom I find myself butting heads with more and more lately, but I really don’t want to right now, the day after I told her that Willa is to lay low. That being said, I know that if I don’t answer, she’ll call Jefferson, and I don’t need to give him any further opportunities to shmooze her. Monday was another blatant sign that Jefferson is trying to secure my clients for himself before my contract is up, and despite her manager being a pain in my ass, I don’t trust Jefferson to take on a star like Willa without being incredibly detrimental to her career and brand.
Though that’s more about not wanting to ruin my hard work than worry about the woman myself, of course.
“Hello, Jackie,” I say, trying to maintain neutrality as I answer. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” Jackie doesn’t bother with niceties, instead jumping right into what she needs. It’s probably the one thing Idoappreciate about the woman.
“A paparazzi harassed Willa today and got his hands on her. I need you to kill a story on it.” I sit up straight, my heart sinking to my stomach at the thought of Willa in a situation like that.
“Fuck, Jackie, is she okay? Where was it? Was Gabe there?”
“What? Oh, yeah, she’s fine, probably learned her lesson.” Her voice is casual, as if her primary client wasn’t just in a precarious situation. If I were talking to anyone else, I’d think I might be overreacting, and the situation wasn’t that bad, but this is Jackie I’m speaking with.
A few years back, Willa had a stalker, and Jackie let it trail on for a full week despite knowing who it was becauseany press is good press,especially if it can win America’s Sweetheart some pity points. I remember the look of panic on Willa’s face every time the cameras weren’t on her during that time, the way she was so pale and nervous at all times. Eventually, I was fed up with it and filed an anonymous tip, ending that nightmare.
“Learned her lesson?” I ask, a sour feeling of disgust curling in the pit of my stomach. Jackie sighs, papers moving in the background as if this call is already going on longer than she would like.
“You told her to stay under wraps, and this wasn’t an activity on her normal schedule. She went to a coffee shop on a whim, spent time there lollygagging with the staff, so by the time she left, there was a crowd. She didn’t even have on a branded outfit; she was just wearingworkout clothes. Really, what did she expect?”
I do my best to read between the lines there and get the idea of what happened: Willa, being sweet Willa, went to get a coffee and then chatted with the staff, probably signed some autographs and took some pictures, and it took longer than expected to get in and get out, giving time for a crowd to form, including an overzealous pap.
“So, what’s going on?” I ask, standing and moving into the dining room where my laptop sits on the table.
“I got a heads up from my contact atFan Magazinethat they’ve got footage and are going to spin it asAmerica’s Sweetheart snubs a fan.”
“A fan? I thought he was a paparazzi?” I ask, a hand lifting to my temple as I feel a migraine coming on.
