Chapter 2
2
RYAN
I close the door to my cabin and flip the lock before slowly turning and taking in my surroundings. The cabin is…rustic. The plaid furniture looks well-loved, but comfortable, and the wood floor is marred with years of activity. There’s a television sitting in a big cabinet, and even though I can’t see it from here, I’m pretty sure there’s a box on the back of it, like the TVs we had growing up.
The kitchen and dining room are combined, if you can really call it a dining room. It’s more of an eat-in kitchen, with a small table and four chairs in a little nook. There’s an old coffeepot on the counter, which I’m grateful for, since I’m pretty certain there isn’t a Dunkin’ or Starbucks anywhere near me.
That’s part of the reason I chose this place. It’s an incredibly small town and the cabin’s completely isolated. There isn’t a camera or a nosy paparazzi screaming my name in sight. I can’t help but smile at that thought.
Let’s just hope sleeping comes a little easier out here than it did under the bright city lights.
I walk through the rest of the cabin, checking it out. It doesn’t take long, since there’s only two bedrooms and one bathroom. They all match the rest of the house, with old fixtures, tile walls, and faded linoleum in the bathroom, a pair of twin-size beds and a dresser in the smaller bedroom, and a big antique bed with matching nightstands and a dresser in the master. There’s even a big quilt covering the surprisingly soft mattress featuring a wooded scene with big black bears.
Everything is exactly as it was portrayed in the online ad I found, including the warning about black bears. Though, at the time, I thought it was an exaggeration. Apparently not.
My mind instantly flashes back to the man who rescued me on the side of the road.
Marcus.
I remember how hard my heart hammered in my chest when he spoke, startling the crap out of me, as I was standing there on the side of the road. My phone wasn’t working, so if his intentions were anything other than honorable, I wouldn’t have been able to do a damn thing about it. Even though I could walk a thousand miles in heels, there’s no way I would have been able to outrun a man of his…size.
Oh, he most definitely would have been able to take me down and completely subdue me with only his pinky. He’s tall and muscular, his dirty T-shirt molded to his biceps like he fell out of some working man’s podcast or something.
Do they even have those?
I’m not sure but if I can figure out the whole Wi-Fi situation, I might do a little checking.
Returning to the kitchen, I find the refrigerator completely bare, except a box of baking soda. Grabbing my phone, I start making a list of all the items I’m going to need to purchase tomorrow. Fruit, the makings for salads, sparkling water, and coffee with sugar-free coffee creamer. The website I used boasted about a small grocery store, as well as a few other restaurants in town. There’s also some big box stores a few towns over, but it mentioned delivery service wasn’t available.
It’s been a long damn time since I went shopping for myself, but I’m looking forward to it. It’s not because I’m too good for it. I’m not one of those hoity-toity rich folks who have “people” to do their bidding.
Okay, fine.
I have people who do my bidding, but not because I want them to. The reason I have a team is for security reasons. I haven’t been able to go out on my own since I was younger, but even back then I was spotted and my photo taken plenty. Now, I can’t do anything without having paparazzi up my ass, cameras in my face as they concoct their latest bullshit headline featuring yours truly.
Though, I do admit, if I wanted a quiet, simple life, I was going about it all wrong. It’s not like starring in my own reality TV show and developing my own makeup brand was going to create anonymity. Not to mention I’m the product of two beautiful people, famous in their own right, and unstoppable when they got married. I was born under the spotlight, and over the years it’s only gotten bigger, brighter, and more intrusive.
Wanting to push thoughts of LA out of my mind, I grab the first of my three large suitcases and wheel it toward the bedroom. This one is packed with summer clothes. Shorts, tank tops, cute little designer tees, and swimwear. Lots of swimwear. When I found this cabin at the last minute, one of the features I looked for was a beach. I didn’t realize Wisconsin had beaches, but whatever. I can’t wait to see it in the morning light, since the listing had beach access as one of the amenities.
The second suitcase has my summer dresses and shoes. Lots of shoes. Sandals, flip-flops, and a few pairs of my fave heels and pumps, all in a variety of styles and colors to complement whatever outfit I settle on for the day.
I hang clothes in the closet, well, until I run out of hangers. Reaching for my phone, I add more hangers to my shopping list. The rest of my stuff I gently place on the floral-lined contact paper inside the six dresser drawers.
When I have the shoes organized on the floor of the closet, I go in search of my third piece of luggage. I find it right inside the front door and very carefully wheel it to the bedroom. It’s heavy and takes a little extra umph to get it onto the mattress. I slowly unzip the bag and gasp when I see the destruction.
“Oh my God!” I carefully start pulling out the contents. Everything is a complete mess. It looks like a bomb went off in here. My hair products are all over the place, and don’t get me started on my body care stuff. Some of the lids popped off, and everything is coated in what could either be my heat shield hair protectant or my night cream. Or both.
I gingerly pull out my travel bags containing my makeup and carry them into the bathroom. The entire time I clean white cream off the bags, I curse at the man who clearly took very little care of someone’s personal property and just tossed it around without worrying about damage. All I can do is gape at the mess, my anger slowly building.
My mirror is cracked. Even wrapping it in bubble wrap didn’t protect it from the wrath of Marcus. What kind of person just throws people’s luggage around without having an ounce of respect or decency in regard to the contents? An animal, that’s who. A filthy, careless jerk. How would he feel if I haphazardly threw his stuff around, breaking half of it in the process?
Of course, I can only imagine his luggage for a trip. The man probably doesn’t even own a suitcase. He’d throw a couple pairs of stained jeans, a few T-shirts, and some boxers into a gym bag and call it good. Hell, he’d probably use a plastic sack!
My mind goes to my travels, and I realize my anger might be a little misplaced. I flew commercial because I didn’t want anyone to track my travel plan, and my father’s private plane was a well-known source for travel-stalking. It is used by all kinds of people in the movie industry, a who’s who amongst actors and executives who don’t want to fly commercial. My dad is one of the most giving people I know and lends out his plane regularly, but this was one time I couldn’t use it. I needed to be lost, not tracked, and traveling on a commercial jet was the way to do it.
Of course, flying out of an airport like LAX was a recipe for disaster if I was looking to blend in. My name alone was attached to some of the biggest in the industry, which is why I used Burbank. A smaller airport, a bit of a disguise, and a name not always associated with my family is what it took to get from point A to point B without everyone in the world following behind with their cameras, and surprisingly, it worked. No one seemed to pay me any attention, which was something new on its own. Usually, I didn’t mind having photos snapped while I was jet-setting for the weekend, but today, I needed to blend in. I wanted to be invisible, and the name Ryan Marcotte is anything but invisible.
I look down at my stuff, realizing the destruction could have very well been caused by the airline. I’ve seen those horror videos of staff tossing and stacking luggage in the belly of an airplane, so chances are, it wasn’t entirely caused by a rugged mountain of a man in Wisconsin. Still, I can’t completely squelch my ire at the stranger, even if he did rescue me on the side of the roadway.
Just as I get the rest of my stuff cleaned up and put away in the bathroom, there’s a knock at the door. It’s loud, insistent, and scares the ever-loving daylights out of me. My heart is pounding like a steel drum in my chest as I creep out of the bathroom and move toward the front door. Of course, my heels give me away, the steady click echoing on the wooden floor.
A second knock hits the door, followed by, “Ryan, it’s Marcus. Are you still awake?”
I stand up tall and look through the peephole, confirming it’s the man who delivered me to my rental just an hour ago. The moonlight illuminates his broad frame, somehow painting him in a gorgeous light.
Wait, what?
No, Ryan. He’s not gorgeous. He’s…infuriating at best, and completely not your type.
I reach for the lock and turn it before slowly opening the door. “It’s a little late to be dropping by, isn’t it?” I ask, keeping my chin high as I level him with a look of annoyance.
He seems completely unfazed by my irritation and holds out his hand. Out of my peripheral vision, I catch sight of something pink and sparkly. “You left this in my truck.”
“Oh,” I reply, reaching for my small bag. Our fingers touch as I grab my purse, the same electrical current from earlier shocking my senses. “Thank you.”
He stares at me as we both hold the purse, his penetrating gaze looking straight into my soul. I can’t help but wonder if he felt the same zip of electricity I felt and what it means. Of course, the moment he opens his mouth, all thoughts of chemistry and sparks fly straight out the window.
“You should be more careful with that. We’re a small, friendly town, but not everyone who’d stumble upon a purse would turn it over to the authorities or the owner. Especially during the summer. Never leave your stuff lying around unsupervised, Princess,” he states, muscular arms crossed over his chest as he chastises me like a small child.
My eyes narrow as I snatch the small bag from his grip. “I’m from the city. I’m well aware of the dangers of leaving my purse exposed.”
He nods. “Yet, you still left it in my truck.”
A wild sound comes from my throat. It’s a cross between a gasp and a growl, and if he’s supposed to be intimidated by it, he’s clearly not. Not if the smirk on his too-kissable lips is any indication. My eyes narrow into little slits.
“Listen, buster, I grew up in LA. I don’t need some country bumpkin giving me advice on security and protecting my identity,” I reprimand, my bright pink-and-silver French-manicured nail poking him in the middle of his hard chest, right over his crossed arms.
His hazel eyes drop down to where my nail digs into the cotton of his T-shirt. A cocky smirk spreads across his mouth, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, Princess, I don’t give a rat’s ass where you’re from. Ya might want to take better care of your shit.”
Then, he takes a step back, dislodging my finger from his shirt. “I’ll have that tire patched up first thing in the morning and will get it dropped off to you by ten. That sound good?”
My throat is completely dry, and I have the sudden desire to fidget with my fingers. Crossing my own arms, I level him with an indifferent gaze. “Fine. Great.”
He stares at me for a few seconds before nodding once. “See ya in the morning, Ryan.”
“Thank you,” I say because I’m a polite person and I do appreciate him fixing and delivering my rental SUV, but I don’t appreciate his condescending tone.
I close the door, refusing to peek through the little hole in the door to watch him go. He might have a great ass in a pair of worn denim, but his self-righteous attitude makes me want to punch the smug little smirk off his face. And despite what has been printed about me in the tabloids a time or two, I am not a violent person.
After making sure the door is locked, I move to the kitchen and set my purse on the counter. There’s a detailed list of important information on the counter, including the Wi-Fi password, so I quickly take a moment to enter the access info into my phone. As soon as I do, chimes echo through the room as texts, emails, and missed calls hit my device.
I sigh, knowing many of the texts and missed calls I’ll be ignoring, and pull up the texting app. I ignore all of them except the one from my dad.
Dad
Please let me know you made it safely; I don’t care what time it is. Love you.
Smiling, I type out a reply.
Me
Made it. Cell service isn’t great, but as long as I’m at the cabin, I have Wi-Fi.
The bubbles appear immediately.
Dad
Good deal. Do you need anything? I can have Rosemary overnight whatever it is.
Me
I’m good for now, Dad. Thank you though.
Dad
My phone has been buzzing all day. Vaughn is looking for you.
Me
I don’t care. I said what I needed to say and that’s that.
Dad
I understand, honey. Just wanted you to know he’s looking for you.
Me
Please don’t tell him where I am. I made it all the way here without anyone recognizing me.
Dad
Your secret is safe with me, promise. The only person who knows is your mother. She sends her love. She went to have drinks with the reps from the Sullivan Foundation.
Me
Tell her I love her and will call her soon. I better finish unpacking and get to bed.
Dad
Call if you need anything, Ryan. Anything. I’m worried about you.
My heart skids to a stop in my chest and my eyes fill with tears.
Me
I’m fine, Dad. Promise. Love you.
Dad
Love you too. Good night.
Me
Night.
I glance through the rest of the texts, finding several from friends and business associates, all of whom I’ll return tomorrow. Then, I find the name I expected to see, yet had hoped wouldn’t be there. My finger hovers over his name, and ultimately, I decide not to open the message. Whatever he has to say doesn’t matter. From the moment I watched the episode where he told the world how he really felt about me, all blame was placed on me.
You’re always busy.
You’re making a bigger deal out of this.
It was for ratings, stop overreacting.
This business is ruthless, and we have to stick together.
Why the hell is he still texting me? All he has to do is walk away and we both move on. Instead, he keeps blowing up my phone, calling my family and friends, trying to find out where I am.
I’ll tell you why.
Because my last name is Marcotte.
Because my father has more influence in his pinky than half of Hollywood.
Because he’s starring in my dad’s next movie.
Because it’s all about appearances, and he isn’t looking so hot right now.
I set my phone down on the counter, knowing I should just block him but not having the brainpower to deal with it right now. Instead, I go to the cabinet, grab a glass, and fill it up with water. Water that has a slight yellowish tint to it and smells a little musty. I quickly dump out the contents of the glass and set it aside, knowing I’ll have to make my trip to town sooner rather than later. As soon as I get my SUV back, I’ll retrieve what I need, because there’s no way I’m drinking whatever contaminated water is coming out of the tap.
Gross.
I take a look around, for the first time wondering if I made a mistake. I’m not a country girl, one who’s fine sleeping in a little cabin in the woods. I’ve never stayed anywhere that isn’t a five-star hotel or resort, so why did I think this was a good idea?
Tears burn my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall.
I can do this.
I am strong, capable, and independent.
I don’t need lavish hotels or fancy cuisine.
This space and time away from Los Angeles and the dumpster fire that became my life, when it exploded on national television, is exactly what I need.
For one month, I’ll cut off everyone and everything and find out who the real Ryan Marcotte is. Well, except my parents. And my business. Even though I took a small leave of absence, I’m still very much in control of Ryan Holmes Cosmetics.
I don’t need anyone but myself.
I’ve got this.
I just pray I don’t see a spider…