Chapter 7 – Leo #2
“Leo!” she says, moving my way. Her blonde ponytail sways from left to right as she walks in my direction.
“I didn’t know you’d be here!” Her blonde hair is pulled into her signature neat ponytail, which she wears whenever she’s not on stage or at an event, but her eyes are brown rather than the captivating blue magazines and tabloids talk about nonstop.
She’s in a pair of shorts that are almost impossible to see beneath a worn, oversized Atlas Oaks T-shirt in a dark navy blue.
I don’t know if I’ve ever seen her wear that color, but it suits her.
Or maybe it’s the genuine smile on her lips.
“Is this where you bought your house?” I continue to stare, unable to process her question before she continues.
“I can’t believe you’re also here! It’s like our own little crew is fleeing to Holly Ridge.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask, looking around.
“I came here to hide away for the summer.” Her words are filled with excitement, but all I can feel is dread.
I came here to escape, and now the exact life I’ve escaped has followed me here.
Even worse, it has to be fucking Willa, a temptation who has always plagued me and a temptation I can never have.
“Why?” I ask, and she gives me another one of those stunning smiles, this one tinged in humor, before she explains.
“Well, I’ve been told I need to keep myself on the down low, and I was going stir crazy in my apartment. Adam suggested a change of scenery to deal with my—” She hesitates, the faintest blush blooming on her cheeks. “Boredom. I showed up yesterday, and Wren said she knew a place I could stay.”
“You came to Holly Ridge to avoid being bored?”
Something crosses her face before it shifts behind her expert-level mask, gone as quickly as it came.
“Well, you told me I couldn’t be in the spotlight.”
Without meaning to, the stress-induced frustration breaks free from my normally cool demeanor, and I snap.
“I meant go out to dinner without Jackie calling up the paparazzi, not move.” There’s a momentary freeze, a shift that if I weren’t so frustrated, I might take better note of and ponder why she looks almost confused, but I’m not, so I don’t.
“I meant stay away from premieres. I meant don’t start dropping hints about your next fake relationship for a bit.
I did not mean to go to the small town; I came to avoid work, primarily you. ”
It happens right before my eyes, in a devastating display of emotion on her face: the tentative excitement melting away and turning sour, a wall rising that I belatedly realize has always been there.
I don’t pay it any mind, continuing my accusations.
“Did Jefferson send you here?” I ask, trying to find an explanation for this, to understand what’s happening because fate can’t possibly have this fucked up a sense of humor, can it? To guide me to a small town to escape the stress of work, only to lead my biggest stressor right to my doorstep?
I’ve spent the last eight years maintaining a strictly professional relationship with Willa Stone and succeeding.
I’ve done that for countless reasons, all of them sound and well-thought-out and incredibly important both for my career and my sanity, and yet here she is, standing toe to toe with me, confusion written clear across her face.
“What?”
“Jefferson. The owner of Perfect Image Publicity. My boss. Did he send you here? He knows I’m here, and he’s pissed I told you to take a break, pissed you’re my client and not his. Did he send you here to piss me off?”
“What? No. I don’t even know if Jackie knows I’m here.” A blush burns over her cheeks, and she bites her lip. “It was kind of a last-minute decision.”
Well, that’s an interesting turn of events. Jackie knows when the woman breathes wrong, keeping her on a tight leash and an even tighter schedule of appearances, new releases, and what she calls brand-building moments.
So she’s not here as a punishment. If I take a moment to think about what she said when she saw me, I don’t think she even knew I was here.
According to her, she’s here to relax and write her next album, to lay low somewhere new.
The too-familiar grip of my anxiety around my chest starts to loosen, and I take in a deep breath, trying to think rationally.
Willa is here, but I’m overreacting. It’s not a big deal. How much of a problem could she be? Hell, I bet she’s less likely to get hounded by the paparazzi in a middle-of-nowhere town than in the city. Maybe this will actually work in my favor.
“Fine. But can you please stay out of trouble while you’re here?”
She blinks at me once, twice, three times before she speaks, confusion in the words. “Stay out of trouble?”
“I came here to avoid work, and you’ve followed me here. The least you can do is make it so I don’t have to swoop in and clean up any messes you make.”
Again, silence and staring before she speaks, her words slow and chosen meticulously.
“What messes of mine have you had to clean?”
I stare at her, confused for a moment, and that confusion only deepens when I take in the foreign expression on her face.
It looks like it’s not just foreign for me to see, but for her to feel, as well.
It looks so out of place that it takes me a moment to realize what it is I’m actually seeing: utter irritation. Frustration. Anger.
Willa Stone is standing in front of me, hands on her hips, angry at me.
“You can’t think of one. Because I might have a lot going on and put work on your plate, but I never get into trouble.
I follow the plan, I do what you say—what everyone says—and you never have to come in and clean up my messes.
” Her face is going a bit red now, her words coming out faster.
“I’m not some headache, going out to bars and dancing on tables and getting hammered.
I’ve never even been drunk, because it wouldn’t fit the brand.
” She steps closer, poking me in the chest, and I stand there, completely silent.
The woman in front of me is not America’s sweetheart; she isn’t the delicate flower that the world sees, the loveable girl the world can’t help but fall for. The woman in front of me is not the yes-woman who agrees to everything everyone says. She’s not fragile or quiet or meek.
She’s fierce. She’s strong.
She’s fucking beautiful.
It’s the woman I met in a coffee shop years ago.
“But don’t you worry, Leo. I won’t get into any trouble, and if I do, I won’t make it your problem.”
I’m still in awe when she turns on her heel, her jaw tight, and I try not to watch her as she goes.
I try to ignore the way her long ponytail swags along her shoulder blades, exposed by the backless sports top she’s wearing with some kind of halter neck.
I try not to wonder if I’ve ever seen her this casual—even in her press photos on her way in and out of the expensive Pilates classes she takes, she’s done up, makeup on, hair perfect, those annoying blue contacts in place.
“Looks like you’ve got your hands full with that one,” a voice says, knocking me from my dazed state, and when I turn, Madden is walking toward me, hands in his pockets, a grin on his lips.
“What?”
“Willa. She’s a handful.” I shake my head.
“Not my handful.”
The smirk on his lips turns into a full-blown grin, clearly not buying what I’m selling.
“Sure, she’s not,” he says, slapping a hand to my shoulder. “I forget this is how this always starts.” With one last laugh and a shake of his head, he walks away to where Wren is calling his name.
I don’t bother to ask what he means—something tells me I wouldn’t love his answer.