Seeking Sam (Broken Heart Creek #1)

Chapter 1

“I’m sorry, Char, but there’s nothing I can do.” Frederick sighs, running a hand through his silver-streaked hair like that’ll magically conjure a solution. “The network just isn’t thrilled with the content you’ve been bringing in these past few months.”

I flinch. Char .

Four years at this network, and my boss still can’t be bothered to use my real name. It's always Char do this , Char get that . Never Charlotte . I’ve corrected him more times than I can count, but it’s like talking to drywall.

“Frederick,” I say, keeping my voice even, “there has to be something you can do.”

He leans back in his leather chair, the creak louder than it should be in the too-quiet office.

“Unless you land the story of the century, your days are numbered.” His gaze softens, pitying. “Look. I get it. You came out here with stars in your eyes. But not everyone makes it.”

I was making it until my ex torpedoed everything.

Kurt stole my idea, my pitch, even my interview contacts, and handed it over to Frederick like it was his own.

Now he’s got an office with a view and a promotion I should’ve earned.

Not only that, but he took our cat when he moved out of my apartment.

I miss Fluffy more than him, if I’m being honest.

To add insult to injury, if I get fired, I’ll have to walk past that smug little corner suite on my way out.

“Take the weekend,” Frederick adds, offering a smile that’s supposed to look encouraging but only feels final. “Maybe inspiration will strike.”

We both know it won’t. My last idea was the story of the century. One-in-a-million. Which is exactly why Kurt’s betrayal still feels like a knife between the ribs.

And like some kind of sick cosmic joke, he walks by the office just then, laughing about something with Jenny, his new favorite accessory. I don’t know what’s worse. Seeing them together, or knowing the only reason Kurt’s liked around here, is because he stole my future.

“I’ll see you Monday,” I say, even though we both know that’s far from guaranteed.

I leave Frederick’s office without another word, turning in the opposite direction of Kurt and his smug, thieving face. My heels click too loudly on the polished floors as I make my way back to my cubicle—the little four-walled kingdom of the overlooked.

There’s a photo pinned to my corkboard that catches my attention.

Me and Kurt, arms slung around each other at the last holiday party, all teeth and champagne and lies.

I yank it down with a sharp tug. The pushpin clatters to the desk.

The photo flutters into the trash without ceremony. Right where it belongs.

Tish, my cubicle-mate and unofficial emotional support person, pops her head over the flimsy divider between us. Her hair is in a messy topknot and there’s a half-eaten protein bar in one hand.

“How’d it go?” she asks. “Didn’t hear any sobbing, so I’m guessing not catastrophic?”

I snort. “I don’t cry.”

“Ever?” She raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Damn. They make ‘em strong in Ohio.”

“Oklahoma,” I correct automatically.

“Even tougher,” she says with a smirk, disappearing back into her side of the cubicle.

A moment later, Tish is standing in my cubicle, hands planted on her curvy hips like she’s about to stage an intervention.

“So,” she says, eyes blazing with determination that I’m definitely not feeling, “what are we going to do?”

I lean back in my chair and gesture vaguely at the ceiling tiles. “Pray for a miracle, I guess.”

“Fuck waiting on miracles.” She says it like a war cry. “Women like us make our own destinies.”

I arch a brow. “And how does one do that?”

She plops into the extra swivel chair beside me, mimicking my lean with a dramatic sigh.

“No idea,” she says. “But doesn’t it sound badass?”

“It does,” I admit, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.

Tish snaps her fingers. “Exactly. What we need is inspiration. And it’s Friday night. There’s a whole city out there just waiting to hand us the next big story.” She jumps to her feet like she’s been struck by genius. “Come on. We’re getting drinks, and then we’re going to figure this out.”

Going out tonight sounds like a personal form of hell.

I’m exhausted, disillusioned, and dangerously close to being unemployed.

But what else am I going to do? Go home and stare at my ceiling until I drift off in a sea of anxiety?

It’s not like anyone’s waiting for me. No partner.

No kids. Not even a pet to pretend someone cares I made it through the day.

I think about Fluffy and sigh before grabbing my bag.

“Fine. But if we end up in jail, I’m blaming you.”

Tish grins. “That’s the spirit.”

Forty minutes later, we’re posted up at a trendy bar in downtown LA—the kind with moody lighting, overpriced cocktails, and a DJ who thinks volume equals talent.

As much as I hate to admit it, I’m actually having fun.

Tish has that effect on people. She’s loud in the best way, the kind of person who makes even terrible nights feel like adventures.

We’re already on our second drink. Mine is something with too much lime and not enough vodka, but it’s cold and fizzy and I don’t complain.

Inspiration still hasn’t struck, but for the first time all week, I’m not spiraling. I’m not thinking about Kurt. Or Frederick. Or the fact that my career is dangling by a thread.

Right now, there’s just music, laughter, and the occasional cheer from the people watching a game on one of the TVs.

I glance at Tish, who’s telling some elaborate story to the bartender and gesturing like she’s directing traffic.

A muted TV behind the bar catches my eye as I swirl the melting ice in my glass. It’s tuned to a local news station, recapping current events like it’s checking boxes. Last night’s plane crash in Las Vegas—five dead. A devastating headline, but the newsreader’s plastic smile doesn’t falter.

The screen shifts to a sports segment. Some hockey team I’ve never heard of, doing something that apparently matters to someone. I’m just about to tune it out and turn back to Tish when a photo flashes across the screen .

The man on screen looks like trouble in denim.

His shirt is half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to the elbows, dirt or grease or maybe both smeared across the fabric like he’d been working something out with his hands and hadn’t stopped to clean up before someone took the photo.

His jaw is sharp enough to make my chest hurt.

And that mustache? Completely unnecessary.

Cruel, almost. Because it makes him even sexier.

He's not smiling. Not even a little. Just staring past the camera like he knows something the rest of us don’t. Like maybe he's done things he’s not proud of, or maybe he is proud and that’s the problem.

I can’t hear most of what the anchor is saying over the bar noise, but the scrolling headline along the bottom catches my attention: Country Star Sam Stone Misses Concert.

I blink, eyes still locked on the screen.

Tish notices the shift in my posture. “What’s up?” she asks, half-shouting over the music.

I don’t answer right away. I’m too busy reading the line again and again, like if I stare hard enough, the rest of the story will write itself.

Tish touches my arm, snapping me out of whatever idea I was spiraling into.

“Hey.” Her brow lifts. “You good?”

I nod slowly, still watching the screen as the segment shifts to something else entirely. The weather, maybe. It doesn’t matter.

“I think I have an idea for a story.”

Her eyes widen with glee. “Oh shit ! You know what that means?”

Before I can respond, she’s already waving down the bartender like we just landed a book deal .

“We need shots,” she declares. “Top shelf. This is a celebration.”

I laugh under my breath, still a little stunned, still piecing it together.

Sam Stone. Vanishing act. Missed concerts.

It might be nothing. But it might be something. And if it’s anything —I’m going to be the one to find out.

I spend the weekend in full detective mode.

Coffee. Laptop. Repeat.

I inhale everything I can find about Sam Stone. Articles, fan pages, concert recaps, even the random Reddit threads with titles like Is Sam Stone okay??? I fall into every rabbit hole I can find and burrow deeper than I probably should.

But here’s the weird part. For someone dubbed country music’s top star, there’s surprisingly little out there.

Sure, there are tabloid rumors like bar fights, whirlwind romances, a DUI that got mysteriously buried.

But nothing solid. No long interviews, no profiles, no heartfelt ballads about his hometown in rural Wyoming.

Just smoke and shadows and a voice that sells out arenas and a body to match.

It doesn’t make sense.

Stars like Sam don’t get to be enigmas in the age of the internet. Not unless they want to be.

By Sunday night, I’m sitting cross-legged on my couch, surrounded by empty coffee cups and a growing sense that this could actually be something. Because when someone that famous goes quiet and no one seems to notice? That’s a story.

And my gut says it has something to do with Gwendolyn Stone.

She’s Sam’s ex-wife and the one person who seems to have vanished even harder than he has.

They divorced three years ago, right at the height of his fame.

The headlines were brutal: Golden Boy Leaves High School Sweetheart Behind , Gwendolyn Who?

, Country’s Favorite Stud Back on the Market .

Then, just like that, she disappeared from the narrative. No interviews. No sightings. No social media. Nothing. It’s like she stepped off the face of the earth. And now Sam’s missing concerts, ducking the spotlight, and nobody’s asking the right questions.

But I am.

My finger hovers over my phone. Frederick’s number is right there. One tap, and I could tell him I have a lead. A real one. The kind of story that could put me back on the map.

But I don’t call.

Why?

Because I don’t trust him anymore. I saw what happened last time. How fast he accepted my story from Kurt even though he knew it was my idea. And Jenny? She’s always right behind Kurt, riding the wave of other people’s work with that sweet, harmless smile like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth.

I don’t care how sincere Frederick’s pity face is. I know what it looks like when someone’s already written you off. And maybe the worst part? I think he has. And deep down, I’m terrified he’s right to.

But this story is mine. I can feel it in my bones. So, I don’t call. Not yet.

Instead of calling Frederick, I book a flight from Los Angeles to Sheridan, Wyoming. Just like that. No second-guessing. No overthinking.

Okay, maybe a little overthinking.

I stare at my half-empty suitcase like it might magically tell me what people wear in small-town Wyoming.

Google says the weather’s unpredictable this time of year with sunshine one minute and rainstorms the next, so I throw in layers.

Lots of them. Jeans. Flannels. A jacket that hasn’t seen the light of day since my last failed relationship.

And after some late-night online shopping, I add a pair of cute cowboy boots to my cart.

Are they practical? Who knows?

Do they make me feel like I might blend in better or at least fake it till I make it? Absolutely.

Besides, if I’m going to chase a story in the middle of nowhere, I might as well look the part.

Next stop: Broken Heart Creek.

Home of… honestly, I don’t know what. But maybe, just maybe, the truth.