Chapter 9Ethan
Chapter 9
Ethan
The look on Amy’s face makes my chest ache in a way I’m not prepared for. I can tell she’s trying hard to hold it together, but her bottom lip gives her away as it trembles with each step she takes, her hand gripping the handle of her fancy leather suitcase so tight her knuckles have gone white.
Maybe I should feel vindicated that I was right about that guy. But you know what? All I feel is an overwhelming urge to comfort Amy—and to punch Greg in his sweaty, duplicitous face.
So, yeah. There’s that.
I blow out a breath. I need to look at this logically. Amy seems like a totally decent, genuine person, and definitely a person who doesn’t deserve to be duped by some catfishing jerk with a sweat gland problem.
I feel bad for her. That's all.
And that weird protective feeling I’m getting for her? Maybe it’s just jet lag? Or something I ate? Or … I don't know.
Whatever it is, the woman is hurting, unshed tears pooling in her eyes, and if there’s one thing I hate to see, that’s a woman cry.
“I can’t believe that happened. I'm such an idiot,” she says, more to herself than to me.
“Hey, don't do that.” I stop and turn to face her. “You’re not an idiot. You thought that guy was someone he clearly wasn’t. He’s a scammer. A professional manipulator.”
My belly twists with irony. Not that I'm a scammer or a professional manipulator, but I'm not exactly being honest with her about who I am.
“So you got duped. It happens to the best of us. Move on. Forget about him. You’re worth a hundred of that jerk.”
A tear rolls down her cheek, leaving a smear of eyeliner in its wake. “A hundred of me? That's a lot of Amys.” She lets out a watery laugh, and the tension in my chest loosens.
The fact that she can joke about this is a good sign. She's stronger than she knows.
“And he’s a catfishing jerk,” she adds.
“A prize catfishing jerk.”
“A prize catfishing jerk who used an actor’s photo.”
“Yeah.”
“And he did it to more than just me.”
“A guy that practiced at sweating nervously is definitely running his scam on at least twenty people.”
She lets out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Is it working?”
She wipes at her eyes, smearing her makeup further. “Maybe a little.” She looks at the black on her fingertips. “Oh, no. I must look an absolute fright.”
“You look like someone who's just had her hopes dashed. So, actually pretty on-brand for a goth, when you think about it. You’d better change back into your goth outfit right away.”
This wins me a genuine smile.
“See? You're moving on already.”
Amy heaves out of breath. “It might take more than ten minutes. And now it’s getting late, and you’ve been more than kind. I should let you go.”
“Have you got a place to stay?”
She nods. “A bed and breakfast. It shouldn’t be far from here.” She pulls her phone from her purse and taps at it. “It’s only half a kilometer, apparently. See?” She turns her phone around and I see the map.
“Let me walk you there.”
“Are you sure? I’ve already used up half your evening.”
“I’d like to make sure you’re okay.”
Her lips lift into a smile that gets me, right in the chest. “You’re so kind, Mav. Thank you.”
I give a self-effacing shrug. “I’m just trying to be the man my parents brought me up to be.”
“Well, your parents did a fine job.”
We follow Amy’s map, winding through the streets and getting further and further from the sea, the buildings turning a whole lot less pretty, and a whole lot sketchier. By the time we reach Amy’s B&B I’ve already made my mind up what’s going to happen next.
We take in the crumbling walls, the broken windows, and the barbed wire running along the top of the fence. There’s a drunk old man I can smell before I see, slumped against a nearby wall, half-drunk bottle in hand.
It looks like a place from a cop show where a grisly murder has taken place.
“It said it was charming online,” she murmurs.
“I think we’ve learned not to trust the internet so much today, right? I don’t think you should stay here.”
The man groans, muttering something to himself.
“You’re right. I’ll need to find something else.” She looks up and down the street as though the answer might lie close by.
And then the words are out of my mouth before I can think better of them. “Come stay with me. I’m heading to a friend’s place on a lake not far from here. Apparently, it's super nice and secluded. There's a small town, but not a lot else.”
Wait. Did I really just invite her to the lake house?
Yes. Yes, I did.
Smart move? Time will tell. But it's probably the right move—at least for Amy.
For me? The jury’s still out.
And referring to my slimeball agent as a “friend” is a stretch, even by Hollywood standards.
Her eyes widen. “Do you mean that?”
“Unless you have another investment meeting scheduled for later tonight?”
Her eyes dance as she grins at me. “No further plans. I'm done with investment opportunities for now. And online dating. And quite possibly human interaction in general.”
I nudge her with my elbow. “It’s not that bad. Is it?”
“I suppose not. But I did have some rather high hopes for Greg.”
“I get that, and you know what? It’s probably best you found out now rather than in the next few days when you’re in a position where it’s not so easy to walk away.”
“I suppose you’re right. Where is this friend’s place? And in no way does that sound suspicious, by the way.”
She’s teasing me.
“You can trust me, Amy,” I say, trying to reassure her and fully aware that Greg would have said the exact same thing.
She bites her lip, and I know she’s trying to work out what to do.
I pull up Chelsea’s message on my phone and read, “The house is in a small town called Lack dess Reeves.”
“Lack dess Reeves?” she questions, and I know I pronounced the place all kinds of wrong.
“How should I say it?”
“No ‘s’ at the end of the words. Lac des Rêves. It literally means lake of dreams.”
“Poetic. My friend said the house is quiet, private, and huge. How about you have the west wing, and I’ll have the east?”
She blinks at me. “It’s a palace?”
“Of course it’s not a palace, but there’s a helicopter that can take us there, so I’m making an educated guess it’s not some small, rundown cottage.”
She bites her lip, considering.
“Look, I know it sounds crazy. We just met, and you've had your trust pretty thoroughly destroyed by jerk face back there. I have no interest in getting you to invest in anything, I’m a stand-up guy, and I'm heading there anyway, so it’s totally up to you.”
She bites her lip. With her eyes, ringed in smudged eyeliner, it makes her look like Bambi. If, you know, Bambi was a human. And real.
“Why would you do that? Help me like this, I mean?” she asks.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the million-dollar question.
But I’m not about to tell her that she strikes me as a weird mixture of strength and naivety, an educated woman with fancy luggage who doesn’t seem to know how the world works. A woman who’s just survived a con man. That no matter how capable she appears, I have this instinctive feeling that I need to protect her.
Then there’s the fact that she intrigues me, more so than anyone has in a long time.
Yeah, I’m definitely keeping that to myself.
“For starters, I have a kid sister who would never forgive me if I left someone in distress when I could help. Then there’s the fact you just got duped by a scammer. Plus, you don’t have anywhere to go.”
She studies my face for a long moment. “How do I know I can trust you?”
“You don't,” I say honestly.
Her face morphs into a smile. “This could be part of your masterful plan.”
“Right. My masterful plan to ... what exactly? Teach you the proper way to apply goth eyeliner?”
“It’s smudged, isn’t it?” She touches her cheek, then looks at her black-smeared fingers. “Oh, no.”
It's about now I wish I had a handkerchief like Greg did, although mine would be a whole lot less drenched in sweat.
“Do you want to wipe your tears on my T-shirt?”
Don't judge me. It's all I’ve got.
I take the bottom edge and lift it up.
She shakes her head as she lifts the bottom of her own T-shirt, and I try to avoid looking at the smooth, soft skin of her belly.
Yeah, okay. I fail. I’m a guy and she's a gorgeous woman. It happens.
But I know I’m meant to be all about comfort and support right now, not thinking about what it would be like to kiss those sensuous, plump lips, to feel that curvaceous body pressed against mine, to have her look into my eyes with the same searing heat just one look from her sparks in me.
I clear my throat.
Where was I?
That’s right: comfort and support.
The last thing I want to do is come across as some kind of lecherous creep after what’s just happened to her.
I turn my attention to my phone, sending Chelsea a quick message.
Me:
Would it be okay if I invited someone to stay at the house?
Chelsea:
OMG! Who is it?
Me:
I just need to help someone out.
Chelsea:
Is she cute? Tell me everything.
Me:
Later. Helicopter?
Chelsea:
Fine, keep your secrets. For now.
I fully intend to.
Me:
What about the fact your “friend” is in fact our agent?
Chelsea:
What can I say? You know how it works in Hollywood.
Sadly, I do.
A moment later, a new message flashes up on my screen. This time it’s not from Chelsea. It’s from Dion.
Dion:
Renaldo will meet you and your friend at the hotel helipad in 20. I’ll message you the house address. Look for the guy in the navy uniform standing beside a helicopter.
There’s Dion’s dry wit.
Me:
I totally owe you, Dion.
Dion:
Noted.
Why is that so unsettling? And the fact he and Chelsea are together again? I think I’m going to have to unpack that some other time.
He sends me the hotel address and I do a quick search on my map app.
“Is it all right if I come to stay at your friend’s lake house for a night or two? Just to give me some time to get my plans together?” she asks.
“You can stay as long as you like. I plan on being there for a few weeks, four tops.” I reply, noticing she’s managed to transform herself from raccoon back to regular person.
“Four weeks?” she asks.
“Yeah. Probably.”
The drunk guy seems to notice us for the first time, pointing and saying something in Malveauxian.
“Shall we get going?” I ask.
“Definitely.”
We begin the trek back toward the sea, the wheels of Amy’s suitcase making a clanking sound each time the wheels hit a dip.
“We can catch our ride in twenty minutes from a hotel on the waterfront,” I tell her, casually arranging a private helicopter from a hotel helipad like it's an Uber, when only a few short years ago I was eating ramen in a studio apartment and calling my parents when I was short on paying the rent.
There's probably a metaphor in there somewhere, but I'm too busy playing knight in shining armor to properly analyze it.
“You own a helicopter?” she asks.
“No. Definitely not. It belongs to Dion, this guy whose house we're heading to.”
“The place with the east and the west wings that’s not a palace?”
“That’s the one. We need to get to the helipad.”
She nods her head rapidly. “Okay. You know, Mav, this evening has taken a very unexpected turn.”
“You're telling me. This morning, I was just a guy trying to avoid ... err, tourists. Now I'm apparently running a damsel in distress rescue service.”
She nudges me with her elbow. “I might be in distress but I’m no damsel, that I can assure you. I mean, what does a damsel even look like?”
“I dunno. A beautiful woman with her hands and feet tied, lying across some train tracks as piano music plays?”
She giggles and the sound makes me smile.
“So, if you’re not a damsel, what would you call yourself?”
She thinks for a moment. “A princess having a temporary setback.” She looks up at me, and there’s something about the way she says it makes me watch her more closely.
Is there a joke here I'm not quite getting?
I decide to play along. “Well, in that case, Your Royal Highness,” I say with a bow. “Shall we quicken our speed to reach the royal helipad?”
She curtsies back, surprisingly graceful for someone in jeans and sneakers. But then Amy is an enigma, as I’m quickly learning. “Lead the way, Sir Maverick.”
We reach the helipad on top of one of the town's fancy hotels. Renaldo, the pilot, doesn't even bat an eye at my goth appearance. All in a day’s work when you’re on Dion’s payroll, I guess.
As I help Amy into the helicopter, she navigates the awkward entry with poise, making what should be an inelegant scramble look somehow the opposite. I've done enough wire work and complicated set pieces to recognize exceptional body awareness when I see it.
Who is this woman I’ve invited to stay with me?
As the helicopter lifts off into the dark sky, Amy presses her forehead against the window, watching the lights of C?te-des-Papillons shrink beneath us. The intimate glow of the cabin's minimal lighting sculpts her profile perfectly.
“You know, Mav,” she says, turning to me, her voice muffled and tinny through her headset. “When I planned my great escape, I didn't expect it to involve air travel.”
“Great escape?”
She presses her lips together before replying, “You know, my escape from my everyday life.”
“And what kind of life is it that you need to escape from?”
“One with a lot more rules than I'd like.”
Rules. Huh . Maybe she’s an athlete on a strict program? That could explain her poise and body awareness. Or maybe she’s on the run from some crazy cult? Or maybe, much more likely, she’s just got a super strict family, and she needs a break?
I think of her fancy luggage. Yeah, probably the strict family, some wealthy parents with high expectations of their daughter.
“What about you? What are you escaping from?” she asks.
“Who said I’m escaping?”
I’m keeping my secret. At least for now. But that doesn’t mean I can’t give her a partial truth. So I add, “I needed a break from being me.”
She nods, like it makes perfect sense to her. “Tell me something,” she begins, and I freeze, wondering how deep under cover I might need to get. “Does being you usually involve rescuing strange non -damsels in distress from dating-slash-business opportunity disasters on the southern coast of Malveaux?"
“Only on Wednesdays.”
She giggles again, and I decide it’s a sound I wouldn’t mind hearing more often. “It's Monday.”
“Then you must be special.”
“That’s nice to hear.”
For a moment, we look at each other in the dim light of the helicopter cabin and I’m struck again by her beauty, and there's something real about her vulnerability, something that cuts through all the pretense and secrets we're both maintaining.
Amy's beauty isn't the carefully manufactured kind I've become accustomed to in LA, where everyone's face is artfully crafted with fillers and Botox.
Pageant was the last woman I properly dated. She had a whole team of people, from curating her social media presence to which brand of water she drank, to the “spontaneous” photos taken of us on our morning runs. It had felt like our entire relationship was choreographed with the precision of a military operation, all in the name of publicity and fame.
Amy is the opposite of someone like her. She’s who she is, an intriguing mix of capability and naivety, and I’m finding it impossible not to be drawn to her the more time I spend with her.
She grins at me, and for a moment I forget about all the reasons bringing a stranger to a borrowed house in a town I’ve never been to is probably a completely terrible idea. “Thank you for helping me, Mav. You’re a good person.”
A good person who’s keeping my true identity from you .
Yeah, I’m not sure how “good” that makes me exactly.
But then she’s obviously not telling me her full story, either.
I guess that makes us even.
What would she think if she knew the truth about me? Would her expression change, eyes widening with recognition, that familiar transformation I've seen countless times as people mentally replace Guy I’ve just met with Ethan Roberts, famous actor ? Would conversation suddenly become stilted, peppered with questions about what it's like to work with this director or that co-star?
The thought makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest. I don't want to see that kind of transformation in Amy. I want to keep seeing her laugh without checking how it photographs. I want to keep watching her navigate the world with that strange combination of sophistication and wide-eyed wonder.
And as for me? I want to remain as Maverick Mitchell. A regular guy helping out a woman who's had a rough night.