2. Willa
Chapter two
Willa
W hen my alarm blares, I slap it off, wishing I had another five hours to sleep. My flight was delayed yesterday, so I didn't check into my hotel until late last night. Between the jetlag and the lack of sleep, my brain feels fuzzy. With a tortured groan, I extricate myself from the bed.
"Only for you, Maggie," I mutter, shivering in the bathroom as the shower water heats up.
Maggie, my childhood best friend, is the director of marketing at the Saltside Animal Shelter, and somehow, she's talked me into volunteering at the shelter on my first day back in town.
If I weren't so exhausted, I'd be more excited about it because I love spending time with Maggie and I love dogs.
At least, she was kind enough to agree to meet for coffee beforehand. I'm going to need about a gallon to kickstart my brain.
Less than an hour later, I shove my feet into my tennis shoes and pat the pockets of my jacket, feeling the dog treats inside them. I'm not above a little bribery to get the animals to like me. Grabbing my purse, I slip out of my hotel suite .
As I drive through the quaint streets of Saltside, I observe the changes that have taken place since my last visit a few years ago.
Old businesses have shuttered, replaced by chains and big-box stores.
A strip mall has been built where there used to be an old church.
Billboards advertising new housing developments now line the roadside.
Change is inevitable, especially in a popular beach town like Saltside, but it still saddens me to see my hometown slowly losing its smalltown charm.
I arrive at the coffee shop just a few minutes late, park my car, and trot across the street, delighted that my favorite spot remains unchanged.
Cozy Corner Coffee is located in the street-level unit of an old brick building that's been limewashed, muting the original red brick to a softer shade of terra cotta.
There's a patio area to the left of the front entrance with black wrought iron tables, each shaded by elegant black and white tasseled umbrellas.
Pots overflowing with vibrant flowers catch my eye.
But then something else snags my attention. There's a man sitting at one of the outdoor tables and sitting beside him is the most beautiful dog.
The German Shepherd’s intelligent brown eyes track me as I jog. He's gorgeous. Mostly black with just a little brown around his muzzle and ears. His confident posture and serious demeanor give off a dignified, authoritative vibe. Regal, almost.
Without any conscious thought in my jetlagged brain, I change course and beeline for the dog.
The dog's owner rushes to his feet, yelping, "Bruno isn't friendly!"
But his warning comes too late. Like a missile locked on its target, I don't stop advancing. Not because I don't want to, but because I can't.
In my hurry to reach the dog, I completely missed seeing the curb.
And now, my arms windmill helplessly through the air as the concrete rushes toward me.
With the grace of a toddler enrolled in her first gymnastics class, I land on my hands and knees at the feet of the man's dog.
The dog, who is nearly as big as I am, immediately relaxes his posture and starts thumping his tail noisily against the sidewalk.
He obviously does not see me as a threat. Gee, I can't imagine why.
My body smarts from the landing, but before my wounded pride takes over, the dog distracts me.
He jams his huge, wet nose in my face, sniffing and licking, before he moves down my body, quickly zeroing in on my jacket pockets where I stashed the dog treats.
With his giant paw, he gingerly digs at my pockets.
Ah, it's no wonder the unfriendly dog has made an exception for me.
"Are you alright?" the dog's owner inquires, sounding horrified.
"I'm fine," I murmur. After brushing the sediment from my palms, I stroke the dog's fur, scratching him behind his pointy, upright ears. Without taking my eyes off the dog, I address his owner. "I'm sorry. I should have asked before approaching your dog."
"Bruno seems to like you, so it worked out."
I didn't notice the man's polished voice the first time he spoke, as I was too focused on Bruno to pay his owner much attention, but now, I listen closely. He has a subtle European accent, though I can't quite place the dialect. His tone is deep and husky and more than a little sexy.
Unbidden, I imagine what it would sound like for him to call out my name in the throes of passion. That crisp, cultured accent could make anything innocuous sound dirty. And so, so hot.
God, I must be desperate. Fantasizing about a man just because of his voice. I've hit a new lonely low.
I look up at Bruno's befuddled owner with an apologetic smile. But my smile droops as I take him in .
Oh, holy hell, he's even more gorgeous than his dog.
He's dressed in athletic wear, and his clothing fits him like it was custom tailored to his body, emphasizing his broad shoulders, toned biceps, and every ripple of his washboard abs.
My eyes slowly trail up his body, and I stifle a groan when my gaze settles on his face, because as hot as his body is, his face is truly a masterpiece.
His features are perfectly proportioned, from his chiseled, wide jaw; to the aristocratic, straight nose; his thick, perfectly kissable lips; and his artfully mussed dark blonde hair.
I wish I could see his eyes, because I'm positive that they must be as perfect as the rest of him, but they're hidden under mirrored Ray-Ban sunglasses.
Mirrored sunglasses which clearly reflect my wide-eyed, open-mouthed, gaping stare!
An amused smirk plays on his lips as he catches me ogling him.
Mortified, I snap my jaw shut before I embarrass myself any further. Then, as fast as my short legs can carry me, I dart into the cafe where Maggie is watching me from the window, laughing.
Because, of course, she witnessed my humiliation.
As I swing open the coffee shop's door, I point my finger in her face. "Zip it! Not one word, Maggie."
Smashing her lips together, she nods as I march to the counter to place my order. With a piping hot vanilla latte in hand, I head over to the table where Maggie's sitting.
As I approach, Maggie scrutinizes me from head to toe. “You look good, Willa. You look more like you, the real you, than I’ve seen in years."
I think she's referring to the fact that I'm wearing workout clothes, no make-up, and my wet hair is in a ponytail. Plus, I've gained a few pounds and added some curves in the past few months .
In other words, I no longer look like the actress whose face graces the covers of magazines and stars in blockbuster movies.
With a smile, Maggie adds, "Seriously…you look happy, Willa.”
“Thanks, love.”
Since I took a sabbatical and left my life in Hollywood behind six months ago, I’ve let go of the movie industry beauty standards that I rigorously held myself to for over a decade.
Instead of counting calories, hitting the gym, or getting another facial, I've spent my time traveling the world.
Seeing the sights. Learning new hobbies and picking up old ones.
Donating my time, not just my money, to those in need. Creating new experiences.
And finding myself again. I spent so many years acting and becoming the characters I portray in the movies that I lost touch with my true self.
When I don't offer more information, Maggie pries, as best friends often do, "And are you? Happy, I mean."
"Yeah, I am. I'm doing good, Mags."
"Good?" she queries with a raised brow. She's always quick to call me on my bullshit.
"Good-ish," I amend as I sip my coffee. "The time away from work has been healing.
" I exhale slowly. "After everything that happened, I didn't deal with my feelings.
I just jumped into my next project and pushed everything down.
I tried my best to ignore my pain in hopes that time would heal my wounds.
But this past winter, I realized I couldn't keep using my acting roles as a means of escape.
Getting out of LA and traveling has helped me a lot.
It's been tough facing my feelings and dealing with my anxiety without any professional distractions, but it was necessary.
" I roll my eyes with an embarrassed half-smile.
"Lots of self-exploration and personal growth. "
“I'm proud of you, and I'm glad you're doing what you need to heal, Willa.” Smiling, Maggie shakes off the serious vibes and peppers me with questions about my travels and we finish our coffees.
“Did you meet any handsome men while you were abroad?
Hey, maybe you'll meet someone here in Saltside.
" She wiggles her eyebrows mischievously, "Or maybe you just did. "
"Maggie!" I groan.
"Manifest, my dear," Maggie singsongs, but it sounds more like a threat than a passive comment. Maggie has an uncanny way of bending the universe to her will, so I fight another groan, hoping she doesn’t adopt my lackluster love life as her next project.
Pushing her empty coffee mug away from her, Maggie props her forearms on the table and leans forward. "Okay, now can we talk about what happened outside?"
Narrowing my eyes, I mutter playfully, “Bitch."
"Willa, you blatantly gawked at that man for at least a minute in awkward silence, and by the time you made it inside the coffee shop, you were as red as a tomato," she gasps, pushing out the words between fits of laughter.
Shaking my head with a small smile, "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist teasing me.”
"What are friends for?"