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Well…shit.

She was the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen.

Long, lush blonde hair, stunning blue eyes, and a killer figure—from the waist up, at least, since the counter hid her lower half.

That's the polite, appropriate version of how I’d describe her.

I couldn’t look away.

The sharp cheekbones. The plump, pink lips. The deep, alluring eyes.

The giant tits.

Fuck.

I just stood there, dumbfounded, for way too long, staring.

"My guy, you gonna come in and get a sammich or just ogle my boobies all day?" She straightened behind the counter and pushed her chest forward, so her absurdly voluptuous chest strained the pale, stretchy gray fabric of her V-neck T-shirt, which had Ella's written across it in the same curly, cursive pink font as above the door, but on her shirt it was stretched out by the sheer volume of her breasts.

"Oh. Um.” I ripped my eyes away and up to hers, sheepishly. “Sorry, sorry. Jet lag."

She just laughed and pulled the shirt down a bit further, teasing a bit more flesh out of the cleavage, which was, in a word, spec-fucking-tacular. "Get a good enough look, bro-chacho?"

I frowned. "Bro-chacho?"

She relaxed her shirt and picked up the tabloid again, shaking it out. "Order a sandwich or keep movin', bub."

I wandered in and perused the menu, which was under a sheet of clear glass over the counter by the register; the menu was designed to look like it was from the fifties, too, albeit with current prices.

"Eighteen dollars for a sandwich?" I said, looking at her—or at the newspaper.

Sorry, "news" paper. Heavy emphasis on the quotes.

"You haven't had one of my sandwiches yet," she said, not looking at me.

"Okay, well I’d like to try one of your sandwiches, then. Surprise me. Just no tuna and no stinky cheese."

She folded the newspaper and set it down, headline facing up…which had a giant close-up of me coming out of a gym in NYC. It was taken months ago while I was training for the movie; I was sweaty and bedraggled and looked like shit, but it was clearly me.

She looked at the picture, then at me. Picture, me; picture, me. This girl is out of a fucking cartoon.

She even held the tabloid up next to my face to compare. "Am I on drugs?" she said, absurdly, “or are you you?"

I couldn't help but laugh. "I'm me," I assured her. "But I’m also him." I tapped the image of me, then paused. "Unfortunately."

"You fled Hollywood amid a new scandal, huh?"

"No, not quite."

"Old scandal?"

"No scandal, just a break in filming." Not a lie.

"So you come to…" She arched an eyebrow. "Ketchikan?"

"I needed a break. Somewhere new. Somewhere…" I shrugged, unsure why I was saying any of this to this supremely strange—but stunning—girl. "With wilderness."

"Well then, you came to the right place. There's all sorts of trails for hiking. I have an uncle who does day hikes and longer camping trips." She rummaged under the counter and pulled out a pamphlet advertising day hikes, camping trips, and hike-in-hike-out hunts.