Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Farley
Istood frozen in the canned goods aisle of Shifflett’s General Store, a cup of coffee growing cold in my hand, watching my neighbor flee the building like it was on fire.
Dr. Brock Blaze.
The name meant nothing to me, but the woman who’d screamed it—now rushing past me and out the front door, phone still raised like a weapon—clearly thought it should mean everything.
“Sam!” she called after him. “Just one selfie! My girls will absolutely DIE!”
Through the window, I watched him fumble with his keys, throw himself into that ridiculous Miata, and reverse out of the parking lot like the hounds of hell were nipping at his perfect California-tanned heels.
The woman—somewhere in her mid-forties, wearing a fleece vest embroidered with cardinals and a disappointed expression—trudged back into the store, shoulders slumped.
“Did you see him?” She was already scanning the aisles, apparently checking to make sure she hadn’t hallucinated the whole encounter. “Did you SEE him? Dr. Brock Blaze, right here in Ashford Gap! In Shifflett’s, for crying out loud!”
“I don’t—” I started, but she was already rushing toward me, eyes bright with a manic energy I’d only seen at author events when fans cornered their favorite writers near the bathroom.
“You were talking to him!” She grabbed my arm with both hands, and I had to resist the urge to shake her off. “I saw you! You two were talking!”
“We weren’t—”
“Oh my God, do you know him?” Her voice pitched higher, and somewhere in the back of the store, I heard the woman behind the deli counter sigh heavily. “Are you friends? Is he staying here? In Ashford Gap? For how long?”
“I don’t actually—”
“What’s he like in person?” She released my arm only to clasp her hands together beneath her chin, practically vibrating. “Is he as charming as he is on the show? He seems charming. Those eyes! And that smile! When he looked at you just now—I mean, I saw sparks, and I was twenty feet away.”
I opened my mouth to explain that I didn’t know who Dr. Brock Blaze was, that my neighbor had introduced himself as Samuel, that until approximately two minutes ago I’d thought he was just an attractive disaster with wet wood and a complete inability to survive mountain living.
But the woman wasn’t done.
“Is it true he’s dating Chandra Reyes?” Her expression shifted from delighted to concerned in a heartbeat.
“Because me and the girls—we’re in the same church choir, you know, been singing together for fifteen years—we’ve been praying it’s not true.
She plays Dr. Sienna Castellano on the show.
Gorgeous woman, but she’s all wrong for Dr. Blaze.
The chemistry just isn’t there. We can tell. ”
“I really don’t—”
“Oh, God.” Her eyes went wide. “He’s not really gay, is he? Please tell me he’s not gay. We’ve been debating it for months. Jenny—she’s our alto—she’s absolutely convinced he is, but I keep telling her, a man that handsome can’t possibly be—”
Something in my chest clenched, hard and ugly.
“I wouldn’t know,” I said, my voice colder than I intended.
“But you were flirting!” She said it like an accusation. Like flirting with another man was evidence of a crime. “I saw you! You were laughing and touching and—”
“Hope Campbell!” The woman behind the deli counter finally intervened, her voice cutting through the chaos like a machete through particularly dense underbrush.
She was in her sixties, with steel-gray hair pulled back in a no-nonsense bun, wearing an apron that said ASK ME ABOUT OUR JERKY.
“For the love of all that is holy, calm your tits down and stop scaring away the customers.”
Hope—apparently that was her name, which felt deeply ironic—turned to the deli counter with an expression of wounded dignity. “Loretta, I am not scaring anyone. I’m simply asking this nice young man about—”
“You’re interrogating him about some TV actor like he’s a witness to a murder.” Loretta crossed her arms over her jerky-promoting chest. “The man just wants to drink his coffee in peace. Let him be.”
Hope’s mouth opened and closed several times, like a fish.
Finally, she turned back to me with a slightly embarrassed smile.
“I’m sorry if I came on a little strong.
It’s just—we don’t get celebrities here, you know?
The most exciting thing that happened in Ashford Gap last year was when the Methodists and the Baptists had that potluck war, and this is—this is Dr. Brock Blaze. ”
“I understand,” I said, not understanding at all. “But I really don’t know him.”
“Of course.” She patted my arm, back to sympathetic now that her initial frenzy had been interrupted. “I’m Hope, by the way. Hope Campbell. My father-in-law owns this store.”
“Farley. Farley Davenport.”
“Well, Farley Davenport.” She leaned in conspiratorially. “If you find out whether Dr. Blaze is single—or, you know, which way he swings—you just let me know, okay? I’ll be in here most days. My number’s on the community board by the door.”
I had no intention of letting her know anything, but I nodded anyway, and she finally, mercifully, drifted off toward the produce section, already texting furiously on her phone.
The woman behind the deli counter caught my eye and shook her head slowly. “Don’t mind Hope. She means well, but she’s got the subtlety of a runaway train.” She nodded toward the menu board behind her. “You look like you could use something to settle your nerves. What can I get you?”
“Ham sandwich?” I managed. “On sourdough, if you have it. Extra mustard.”
“Pickle on the side?”
“Please.”
She smiled, softening her stern features. “City boy with good taste. Give me five minutes.”
She turned away, and I finally had a moment to breathe.
Dr. Brock Blaze.
I pulled out my phone, grateful that the mountains had decided to grant me at least two bars of service today. The search engine loaded slowly, but it loaded, and I typed in the name with fingers that weren’t entirely steady.
Samuel Bennett Dr. Brock Blaze
The results populated almost instantly, and there he was—Samuel.
My wood-challenged, inappropriately dressed-for-mountain-winter neighbor—staring back at me from dozens of photos.
Red carpet shots in designer suits. Shirtless promotional images that made my mouth go dry despite my better judgment.
Magazine covers declared him “TV’s Hottest Doctor” and “The Face That Launched a Thousand Thirst Tweets.”
I scrolled down, reading faster than I should have.
Samuel Bennett (31) is best known for his portrayal of Dr. Brock Blaze on the long-running daytime drama “Midnight at Magnolia General.” Bennett has played the roguish heart surgeon since 2018, earning three consecutive Daytime Emmy nominations for Outstanding Lead Actor.
Born in San Diego, California, Bennett studied theater at UCLA before landing the role that would make him a household name.
There were more articles.
“Is Samuel Bennett Secretly Straight? Sources Close to the Star Say...”
“Bennett and Co-Star Chandra Reyes: TV’s Hottest Couple or Just Friends?”
“Inside Samuel Bennett’s Luxury LA Home: The Bachelor Pad Every Gay Man Dreams Of!”
And then, dated just one week ago:
“Samuel Bennett on Break from ‘Magnolia General’—Contract Negotiations or Creative Differences?”
I lowered my phone.
So my neighbor wasn’t just attractive and charming and terrible at building fires. He was a celebrity. A famous, recognizable, tabloid-fodder celebrity who probably had women like Hope Campbell screaming his character’s name everywhere he went.
No wonder he’d run.
I thought about the way his expression had shifted when that woman appeared. The panic in his eyes. The way he’d denied knowing who she was talking about, even though they both clearly knew it was a lie. The desperation in his voice when he’d said I have to go.
And I thought about something else—something I hadn’t fully processed until now.
He’d been about to ask me something.
Before Hope burst in with her church choir enthusiasm and her intrusive questions about his sexuality, Samuel had been leaning closer. His voice had dropped to something private, intimate. He’d been about to say—
It didn’t matter now.
I didn’t date celebrities or liars. I didn’t date anyone at all, actually, not anymore, not after Ollie had blown a hole through every assumption I’d had about trust and commitment and what it meant when someone said I love you.
But I couldn’t help feeling sorry for Samuel.
Working in publishing meant I understood, at least peripherally, what it was like to be recognized.
Some of my authors had fans as devoted as soap opera viewers—fans who felt entitled to their time, their attention, their personal lives.
I’d watched authors struggle under the weight of public expectation, watched their writing suffer when every creative choice was dissected by strangers on the internet, watched them learn to curate every aspect of their existence until even they couldn’t remember what was real anymore.
Samuel Bennett had looked at me like I was a miracle.
Not because I was special. Not because I was charming or attractive or interesting.
Because I hadn’t known who he was.
“Ham sandwich,” Loretta announced, sliding a perfectly wrapped package across the counter. “You need anything else, honey?”
I looked down at my shopping basket—currently containing only the coffee I’d been clutching like a life raft and a box of crackers I had no memory of selecting—and made a decision.
“Actually,” I mumbled, “I think I need to double my order. On everything.”
Forty-five minutes later, I pulled my rented Range Rover into the gravel driveway of Samuel’s cabin and parked beside his completely ridiculous Miata.