“So Lucy Lee is a brand. The whole thing is a character… for marketing.”
I didn’t answer right away because that was uncomfortably close.
I dug into my seafood platter.
“I didn’t think of it that way when I started,” I finally admitted. “I was writing what I wished was true.”
I glanced out at the ocean waves beyond the window, seagulls flying in lazy loops.
“By the time I figured out the difference between the life I was writing and the one I was actually living, I realized I was singing about a dream and not the real world.”
The words hung in the air between us longer than I expected.
Then he leaned forward and caressed my arm, sending jolts of heat through me. His boyfriend act was in high-gear now.
He rumbled, “It’s not a fiction. Places like that really exist.”
“Like your hometown?”
His eyes settled on me warmly. “Yeah. I think you’d like it there.”
Then he added, “It’s private. And quiet. You can be yourself there. I don’t think I’d want all the fame you’ve got. It doesn’t look like a fun way to live.”
I stared back at him in surprise.
Almost everyone in my orbit was hungry for fame. It was rare to meet someone who actively avoided it.
“I spent my career making sure nobody knew I existed,” Bronson rumbled. “Privacy matters more to me than just about anything.”
There was something about that, solid and unshakable, that made my heart ache.
The way he described it, I could almost see that a different life was possible for me. One that didn’t involve touring ten months a year, never having a home base… roots.
“I didn’t know what I was giving up,” I said. “I was sixteen and alone in the world other than Valerie. Then Jimmy strolled in and offered me the world.” I let out a small breath. “I would have done things differently if I’d known better.”
We sat there with that truth stretched out before us.
Outside, the ocean moved in a steady rhythm, and when I finally looked down, I realized I’d eaten most of my food without even noticing.
Which meant, for a few minutes, I’d actually felt… normal.
This man seemed to bring that out in me.
Bronson’s eyes darted to the door as a group of customers walked in.
His demeanor instantly changed, and he tensed up, back in protector-man mode. “Enough playtime. We should go.”
By the time the beach house came into view at the end of the drive, my earlier warmth had disappeared.
Real life filtered back in, and not even the high of a good day at the studio and a hot date at a restaurant could stop the worry knotted in my stomach.
“Wait,” Bronson stopped the car.
He was staring at the gate, completely still. This was different from his usual watchful quiet. He was tense.
Something was wrong.
“We’re going in together,” he growled. “You stay behind me. Don’t move until I tell you.”
