She patted my hand. “Have you rented out your next-door cottage for the summer?”
I was grateful she’d changed the subject. “Actually, it was booked months ago for six weeks. A family from Boston arrived yesterday. I haven’t met them yet, but their car is in the driveway.” My best friend Ruby and I rented out a house we jointly owned that was a carbon copy of my cottage. When my father died, I couldn’t bring myself to live in my childhood home, so I’d decided to sell that house and reinvest in two clapboard cottages next door to each other on the beach less than a ten-minute walk from where I’d grown up. My father would have approved. He’d always been a big believer in brick-and-mortar-based income.
“That’s great news, dear. See, there will be lots of good in with the turmoil.”
I sighed. I wished she’d drop it. My life wasn’t in turmoil, and I’d make sure it never would be. And it was no surprise about the rental cottage. Fact was, the house was popular and rented well year-round, but six weeks was a nice long period of time, especially for the money Ruby had managed to secure. She dealt with bookings from her home in New York, and I handled the things on the ground—welcome basket, weekly maid service and generally organizing any necessary maintenance. Often, I never even met the renters. Most people spent their days out exploring the coast.
“Well, I’m looking forward to a great summer for all of us,” I said as I stood and straightened out my skirt.
“With all that’s coming into your life, it’s going to get interesting for you. That’s for sure. It won’t all be bad. But you’re going to have to listen to your heart.”
“Mrs. Wells!” I scolded, trying not to stamp my foot like a three-year-old. I couldn’t have been clearer that I didn’t want to hear her predictions. And I knew full well that listening to my heart was the last thing I needed to do. That got me nothing but trouble. “I’ve told you before that I’m perfectly happy with my life as it is. I don’t do turmoil. And I don’t want to hear any more.”
She clearly couldn’t resist. “I’m sorry,” she said, pressing her palm to her chest. “I want you to find someone who will love you just like Mr. Wells loved me. And when I got that message from your scarf about the handsome man in your future, I just couldn’t hold it in.”
“A man?” Her prediction had gotten worse. The very last thing I wanted was a man. I’d learned that I couldn’t trust men. And I couldn’t trust my judgment of men. It was an easy solution—I just avoided them. Not that there were many single men under thirty-five in Worthington. Which was exactly why this place was so perfect.
I loved my life here—the lilacs, the thunderstorms and the ocean that I saw every time I looked out of the window. It was home—a harbor of happiness, familiarity and shelter. I might have been a little lonely every now and then on a Saturday night, but Netflix and the sound of the waves crashing against the beach just beyond my cottage plugged most of the gap. I had what I needed. Life was good.
“Okay, Mrs. Wells, I need to get back to the shop.” I stood up again. I’d put the closed sign up while I delivered Mrs. Wells’ groceries, and I didn’t want to miss people on their way home from work.
“Very well, but make sure you’ve got an umbrella. It’s going to rain.”
I frowned. “It’s a beautiful day, Mrs. Wells. I don’t need an umbrella.” I picked up my purse and headed out.
If she couldn’t even get the weather right, hopefully Mrs. Wells was losing her touch. I needed my life to remain as it was. Handsome men had never worked out well for me.
Two
Matt
It had been twenty-seven hours, ten minutes and roughly forty-five seconds since I’d arrived in Worthington, Maine, from LA. Which meant it had been twenty-seven hours, ten minutes and roughly fifty-five seconds since I’d last been recognized.
My heart rate was 132 and the muscles in my thighs had begun to burn but I kept running, taking in the fresh sea air. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d run outside. Most of the time it was just too goddamn hot in Los Angeles, though the freaking heat was the least of my problems. Being chased by fans, or worse, the paparazzi, was the bigger issue. But, apparently nobody in Maine went to the movies.
I should have been grateful. After all, fame was simply a byproduct of being a successful Hollywood actor, although some stars loved the attention. They kept the paparazzi on speed dial and let them know whenever they were stepping out for a hike. For me, the fame came with the territory and I put up with it because the upside outweighed the down. I liked that I could run here, but anonymity wasn’t worth giving up on success. Fame was a price I was willing to pay.
I shivered as a huge gray cloud slid across the sky like the alien aircraft straight out of Independence Day. Fuck. That seemed ominous.
I’d marked out a route before I left, so I crossed the street and headed toward the park I knew was a shortcut back to my rental. As I passed the entrance gate, my cell vibrated in my pocket. Shit, my agent. I slowed to a walk and answered.
“Hey, Brian,” I said, the crack of thunder from above nearly drowning me out.
“Where the fuck are you?” Brian asked.
Big, fat drops of rain began to splatter the path leading through the park. I was about to get drenched. “In a thunderstorm. What’s up?”
I scanned the park and spotted a small white gazebo. I headed toward it, hoping I’d be able to finish the conversation without my cell getting waterlogged.
“So, I got a call from Anthony Scott. He loved you in Vanity Fair. Wanted to know what your schedule looked like eighteen months from now.”
Wow. Anthony Scott had a way of turning things into box office gold. I couldn’t say I loved his movies, but an Anthony Scott film would be the next step up—a well-respected director, a sure-fire hit. “What project is he thinking about?”
“Who the fuck cares? If Anthony Scott wants you, that’s all you need to know. This is proof that your reputation is beginning to bounce back from your past indiscretions and that you’re on track.”
Indiscretions. Right. Nice of Brian to put it so delicately, when we both knew I’d lost sight of my goal when I wrapped my third leading role and cashed the corresponding huge paycheck. I’d partied way too hard. Drunk too much, known far too many women. It was almost as if I’d forgotten who I was and where I’d come from.
My dad and Brian had pulled me back just before I’d managed to ruin a bright career and future. The last eighteen months I’d rediscovered my focus and worked non-stop. I’d had two hit movies and a cover of Vanity Fair. Everything was coming together. My indiscretions, as Brian discreetly called that dark period, had been a bump in the road that I knew I was over, though I was still having to convince everyone else that I wasn’t about to go back there again.