38. Chris Pitt?
38
CHRIS PITT?
Mara
When my alarm went off the next morning, I was alone in bed. I could hear Ford moving around in the kitchen. I smiled. He was probably cooking something delicious.
My groggy self only bounced off the wall once as I headed to the bathroom where I took a regrettably brief shower. As I turned off the water, I heard the bathroom door open with a click.
“I already took Zephyr for a walk,” Ford said. “I have to run back over to my place to get cleaned up. I’m meeting Chris for brunch in the city.”
“Chris?”
“Chris Pitt. He texted me he has the day off from shooting. I need to discuss the screen test with him.”
My stomach clenched. Him again. Things were moving fast on the Chris Pitt front. I opened my mouth to repeat my concerns about casting him as Ghost, but instead, I heard myself saying, “Drive carefully.”
Wimp .
An instant later, my brain caught up to the first part of what Ford had said. “And thanks for taking Zephyr out.”
“No problem.” The bathroom door clicked, and he was gone.
I grabbed a t-shirt from the top of the stack in my dresser. One of my favorites. Black with a sketch of Ghost in white ink.
I smoothed my hand over it. I’d brought Chance the black t-shirt and he’d created this for me with a few quick strokes of fabric paint. It was my very favorite t-shirt. Fingers crossed it would bring me luck today.
I tugged on my jeans, shoved my feet into my red Chucks, and then pulled my damp hair into a ponytail.
Running on autopilot, I scurried downstairs, turned off the security system, unlocked the front door, and flipped the sign to read “open.” My first customers of the day were already waiting.
My brain was having a hard time processing the idea that my boyfriend was hanging out with Chris Pitt today. Of course, my brain was also currently doing cartwheels about Ford being my boyfriend in the first place, so apparently it was a bit overtaxed.
Ford and I led vastly different lives. He was used to the spotlight. Me... not so much. In fact, I avoided it, especially after what happened with Doug.
Just thinking about the ambush Doug had arranged with the local news station a few months ago made my skin crawl. That interview had been a disaster—everything I said twisted to make my business look like it was failing. My trust in the media shattered that day, and so had my sense of safety.
What would it be like to live in a world where reporters were always lurking, where having brunch with a movie star was just another Tuesday? Could I ever get comfortable with that, knowing how easily things could spiral out of control? Spending time with Ford in our little Sewickley bubble had made me forget he was a celebrity in his own right.
Could I handle living in the ambient glow of Ford’s fame? With Doug, it had been all shadows—public attention turned against me. That nightmare had left a mark, one I still wasn’t sure I could shake. If I wanted this relationship to last beyond a few weeks, I’d need to reconcile myself to the idea that some of that light might spill over onto me, and this time, I wouldn’t have control over the narrative.
I grimaced, my chest tightening at the thought of more media attention. At least people didn’t obsess about directors as much as they crushed on movie stars. Since directors weren’t on screen, they could more easily go incognito. But if anything went wrong, if the spotlight shifted just a little, I knew how quickly things could unravel. I’d seen it happen with Doug—seen how easily someone could weaponize the media to tear me down.
What about my sister Rachael’s growing fame on Broadway? Did it ever get to her?
A few months ago, I had visited her in New York City to attend the show she was in. Rachael had landed the part of Frenchy in Grease and was receiving rave reviews. After the performance, we left through a stage door behind the building and stumbled into a swarm of people gathered there. Rachael glowed under their attention as she walked through the gauntlet of theatergoers and paparazzi, and I was pulled along in her wake as she headed toward our waiting car. At that moment, I was grateful for the lack of attention directed my way.
If I attended an event with Ford, the spotlight would undoubtedly be on him. I could fade into the background and enjoy the evening without being the center of attention. It sounded like the perfect scenario.
A customer came to the register, and from that point on, a steady stream kept me busy. Good. Busy was better. Busy kept my thoughts from drifting back to Doug, back to the interview that nearly destroyed me. This felt like it could be the start of something bigger, and I wasn’t ready for another storm of unwanted attention. Not after last time.
Just after lunch, three middle-school-aged girls flung open my door and came tumbling into the store.
“Is he here yet?” a girl wearing a pink t-shirt asked. She looked around, searching for someone.
“No one’s here but me,” I replied, trying to hide my amusement. Did she have a crush on a classmate? Someone should clue her in that stalking was never a good idea. “Who are you looking for?”
“Chris Pitt!” The girl in pink squeaked. Her outburst was immediately followed by squeals of excitement from her friends.
A solid weight settled in my chest. This had Ford’s fingerprints all over it. “What makes you think Chris Pitt is supposed to be here?”
“He tweeted it! He said he’s visiting Ghost of a Chance in Sewickley and plans to sign autographs for an hour or so. Are we the first ones?”
“It looks that way.” I tried to control my irritation as I called Ford. The least he could have done was ask if I was okay with this.
The phone rang twice and then went to voicemail. I stared down at my phone as my face grew hotter. Seriously? He’d rejected my call?
I hung up without leaving a message, and a moment later my phone vibrated with an incoming text.
Ford: Be there in five minutes with Chris.
My hand twitched, nearly dropping the phone. For a moment, I just stared at the text, waiting for the anger to hit. When it finally did, it came hard and fast. He didn’t even ask me first.
Me: You’re bringing Chris Pitt here? Why didn’t you ask me first?
Ford: His idea. He sent out a tweet announcing it without telling me. TTYS.
Talk To You Soon? Seriously? My heart pounded. Was Ford really that oblivious? Didn’t he understand how disruptive this was? After everything I’d told him about the last time the media got involved, the least he could do was ask. But no, apparently this was no big deal in Ford’s world, and now I had to scramble to clean up a mess I didn’t create.
I was freaking out. Flashbacks of Doug’s news crew crashed into me. The pushy cameraman. The smarmy reporter from hell, Harry. Harry the hateful.
I’d completely botched that interview. The reporter had twisted everything, editing my responses to make it sound like my store was failing. How could I possibly handle a media event like this with no warning? With a star like Chris Pitt on the premises, Ghost of a Chance would be inundated.
I glanced out the window to see teenagers piling out of two cars.
I let out a frustrated sigh. I’d have to adapt, not that I had a choice. Admittedly, this could give Ghost of a Chance some great publicity if I played it right…
My thumbs flew across my phone screen as I shot off a group text that included my brother Grayson, as well as Conner, Courtney, Lianna, and Scarlet. Rose worked Saturdays at the library, so she wouldn’t be able to come help.
Me: I’m in trouble. I need you ASAP at my store. Chris Pitt just tweeted he’s coming here to sign autographs. It will be a stampede. HELP!!!
I stared at my phone, waiting for a reply.
Grayson: Can’t come right now. I’m out of town judging a high school science competition. I’ll be gone at least four hours, but I can come when I get back.
My stomach sank. Strike one. I texted back.
Me: Don’t bother, Grayson. He should be gone by then. Thanks anyway.
Lianna: I’ll be right there. Gertrude says she’s coming too.
Me: Thank you!!!
Conner: On my way.
Me: You guys are my heroes!
The band of panic constricting my chest eased a bit. I closed my eyes and took a deep, calming breath. With a little help from my friends, I might survive this.
My phone chirped again.
Courtney: Just finished lunch. Be there in fifteen minutes.
Scarlet: Chris Pitt? That’s awesome! I’m calling Chief Brown to help with crowd control. Be there ASAP. Stop freaking out! This is a GOOD THING!
I shook my head. Of course, Scarlet would be thrilled to have a movie star drop into Sewickley like a bombshell. I tried to remind myself she wasn’t wrong. I bet she laid awake at night fantasizing about moments like this.
Over the next few minutes, three more groups of people came into the store asking about Chris. Pretty soon my little shop would be filled to capacity.
Through the front window, I spotted Ford’s car pulling into the last empty spot out front. I couldn’t make out the features of the man in the passenger seat, but then he unfurled himself—all six-foot-three inches of him. Chris Pitt, in the flesh. A blond-haired, blue-eyed, god among mortals.
As he strode into the store, everyone broke into applause. A huge grin split his face. The man was clearly in his element. “Hello, Sewickley!” he called out, his deep, resonant voice filling the store.
Everyone burst into another round of applause.
I tamped down my anxiety. Right now, my job was to pull off the role of the grateful shopkeeper. My brain scrambled, trying to figure out logistics. Where would I put him? Maybe behind my folding table? I’d need to grab it from the back room.
I pasted on a smile as I approached Chris. “Hi. I’m Mara Stellar. Welcome to my store.”
Ford headed into the back room without even glancing at me. What the heck?
“Your brother wrote Ghost , right?” Chris gestured toward my t-shirt, and I remembered I was wearing the one with Chance’s original drawing. “I read the entire series. It’s awesome.”
Pride filled me. “Thank you so much.” Was I blushing? The heat in my cheeks made me feel like just another silly fan girl. “Chance would be thrilled.”
I spotted Ford returning, carrying my folding table. I’d hosted a couple of signings for local comic book authors, and the table had been perfect for them to sit behind while they signed autographs.
Ford caught my eye as he set up the table near the cash register. He grimaced and gave a resigned shrug in what I think was meant to be an apology.
Seriously? He and Chris ambush me and all I get is a shrug? Not good enough. Not by a long shot. Pulling this off could make or break me.
“Let’s get organized,” Conner called out to the crowd, taking me by surprise. When had he arrived? He’d gotten here fast. I’d assumed he’d be busy handling the lunch crowd down at Not A Yacht Club. “If you all form a line that weaves through the shelves, I think we can fit more people in the store. The ones stuck outside will appreciate the air conditioning.”
As people shuffled around to comply, I finally cornered Ford.
“What the frack?” I couldn’t help feeling a little freaked out about this. “Why would Chris Pitt tweet he was coming here without checking with me first?” I whisper-shouted. “You know how I feel about getting the wrong kind of publicity. What if this backfires like last time?”
“I know—I’m sorry. I didn’t plan this. I think Chris got caught up in wanting to promote your store. He sent the tweet without thinking it through.”
I shot Chris a scowl, but his attention was focused on the girl in pink, starry-eyed as he signed her red backpack. For a moment, my anger wavered as I watched her excitement—but then it came rushing back. Ford didn’t get it. This wasn’t just about Chris Pitt or a tweet. This was about my store, my business—my life. He hadn’t seen how easily things could spiral out of control.
“Don’t be mad at him,” Ford said. “He just wanted to help you out. Give your store the boost it needs.”
My eyes widened. “Wait. What made him think my store is in trouble? What did you tell him? I told you about my problems in confidence.”
He looked contrite. “I told him your store would get a needed boost once people figured out the connection to the movie. I think I said something about turning things around for you. I’m sorry. It was careless of me.”
I stared at him, appalled that a casual conversation could create a media frenzy like this. “We’ll talk about this later,” I said, then let it go—for now. I had other things to worry about.
Ford was distracting, though. He always was. But right now, I didn’t want to be distracted. I wanted him to understand what this meant for me. He’d changed into a clean shirt and khakis, looking effortlessly put-together, while I was running on fumes, barely keeping my panic at bay. He looked calm and collected; I was fraying at the edges.
“No time to shave?” I asked, trying to keep things light, but my voice was tight.
“I was running late. Someone kept me up late last night.” He leaned in to kiss me, and for a second, I softened, feeling that familiar warmth. But it wasn’t enough to dissolve my frustration. I needed more from him—more understanding, more reassurance.
“I’m still annoyed with you,” I said, letting the truth slip out. He might be able to charm his way through this, but I couldn’t. “Especially since you look so much better than I do right now.”
He grinned, clearly thinking I was teasing, but I wasn’t in the mood for jokes. This wasn’t something we could brush off. I was stressed, overwhelmed, and fighting the urge to let my temper spill over. Why couldn’t he see that? I tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear and forced myself to smile, but inside, I was anything but calm.
“Mara!”
I whirled around and spotted Courtney at the entrance. A broad-shouldered customer I didn’t recognize stood there like a storm trooper on crowd control, blocking her way.
I lifted my arm and shouted, “She isn’t a rebel invader! Let her in. She’s here to help me.”
The big guy shrugged and moved aside.
I glanced at Ford. “Shouldn’t someone like Chris Pitt have a bodyguard with him?”
Ford winced. “Yeah, he should. Chris ditched him. Matty is pissed. He’ll be here any minute.”
As Courtney approached, her self-assured attitude had everyone clearing a path for her. She didn’t pause as she passed me and claimed the spot behind the sales counter. “I’ll handle the purchases. You deal with everything else.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Courtney. You’re a lifesaver.”
Lianna arrived a moment later with Gertrude in tow. The storm trooper glanced at me. At my nod, he stepped aside to let them pass. They were dressed casually—Lianna in black yoga pants and an athletic top, and Gertrude in jeans and a pale blue t-shirt.
“You had great timing with that text,” Lianna said as she reached me. “Gertrude and I had just finished loading my car when it arrived. We moved the last of my personal stuff out of Paul’s house today. He and I still need to divide up the furniture, but at least I have all my clothes and personal things.” She inched closer to me to let someone shuffle past her. “I’ll handle crowd control inside the store.”
“Wait, you’re dividing up stuff?” I asked.
“We’re getting a divorce,” she said.
I stared, not sure what to say. Sorry? Congratulations? “Let me know if you need help with anything,” I said.
“I can help Courtney at the register,” Gertrude added. “I’ll bag purchases.” She laid claim to the stool next to Courtney.
A flash of sunlight through the front window caught my eye, momentarily blinding me. When I blinked away the spots, a white van had pulled up in the middle of the street, the logo for W-ZZZ TV unmistakable on the side.
My stomach twisted, a sickening dread taking root. Not them. Not again. This was the station that had ambushed me six months ago, Doug’s station. The one that had nearly destroyed me.
The memory slammed into me with the force of a freight train—Harry the Hateful, the smarmy reporter Doug had sent, twisting my words, turning my store into a joke. I’d spent months clawing my way out of that mess. What if they were back to do it again? My store couldn’t survive another media disaster.
What if Doug sent them this time, too?
Panic pushed me into motion before I even had time to think. I was halfway to the door before Ford noticed, falling in step behind me.
Scarlet stood next to the news van, chatting casually with the driver, as if this were nothing unusual. My heart pounded. Did she not realize who this was? Scarlet pointed toward the alley, directing them to move the van out of the street, but I could barely focus. All I could see was the station’s logo, and the memories it dragged up.
A young woman stepped out of the van, all crisp suit and low heels, her confident smile putting me on edge. Another reporter. She looked nothing like Harry, but that didn’t matter. They were all the same—ready to tear apart my life for a headline.
I scanned the rest of the crew, half-expecting to see Harry himself, but he wasn’t there. Good. Still, it didn’t ease the knot in my stomach. They’re here to do a story. About Chris Pitt. About my store. And I had no control over how it would go.
I hesitated, my feet glued to the sidewalk. Do I confront them? Or do I run?
“What’s wrong?” Ford asked, his gaze assessing me.
I jutted my chin toward the news van. “That’s the station Doug works for. I’m kind of freaking out that they’re here.”
Ford tensed. “Your ex? Is he here, too?”
I shook my head. “I haven’t seen him.”
“They’re probably just covering the story. With luck, this will bring you some free publicity.”
I frowned, still worried. “In my experience, not all publicity is good publicity.” Then I let out a sigh as I tried to release some of my anxiety. “But maybe you’re right. Maybe this will all work out.”
I turned, preparing to follow Ford back into the store, but then I spotted it.
A sleek black Camaro slid into the alley behind the van, a car I knew all too well.
Doug. Of course.
My breath hitched, a mix of rage and panic bubbling up, fighting for control.
“He’s here,” I muttered, barely able to get the words out.
Ford whirled around, but I barely noticed.
Doug stepped out, calm as ever, mouth curled in that infuriating smirk—the one that used to make me melt, but now made me want to scream.
Asshat. Bantha poo-doo. Disaster wrapped in an expensive suit. He always knew how to show up just when things were already on the verge of spiraling.
My hands clenched into fists, my pulse hammering in my ears. What was he doing here? Was he behind the news crew? Had he sent them?
I could feel the anger burning hot in my chest, but underneath it was the fear—the memory of how he’d burned me last time, how easily he could ruin everything again.
My heart pounded harder. This couldn’t be happening. Not today, not again.
Seeing Doug standing there, smug and confident, sent a chill down my spine. Last time, he’d used the media like a weapon, blindsiding me with an ambush that turned my life upside down. Now, he was back, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was round two.
I glanced at the news van again, and a fresh wave of nausea hit me. Doug had orchestrated that last disaster—why wouldn’t he be pulling the strings again?
The reporter from W-ZZZ wasn’t Harry, but she didn’t have to be. The station, Doug, the cameras—it all felt like a ticking time bomb, and I was stuck standing in the blast zone.
My mind raced through the worst-case scenarios. Another twisted story. Another hit piece. Another reason for people to turn away from my store. From me.
This time, I couldn’t let him get to me. Not again. I squared my shoulders, bracing myself for the confrontation. I wouldn’t let Doug blindside me this time.
But as I locked eyes with him, I wasn’t sure if I was ready to face what was coming.