5. The Detour #2
The SUV coasted to a halt beside the curb.
Even through the tinted windows, harsh bursts of white light flickered across the cabin.
A swarm of photographers had already staked out the sidewalk, their camera lenses aimed directly at the rear passenger doors.
I unbuckled my seatbelt and pushed the door open, stepping out into the warm Los Angeles evening.
The ambient hum of street traffic was drowned out by the aggressive, overlapping shouts of the paparazzi.
Blaire slid out of the cabin right behind me, her heels clicking against the pavement. “Step closer, Hayes, we’re blocking the valet stand,” she instructed over the noise.
I offered my arm, letting her tuck her hand into the crook of my elbow. We walked toward the restaurant entrance, presenting a united front for the waiting cameras. I reached out and pulled the door open, guiding her out of the chaotic street.
The familiar scent of roasted garlic and woodsmoke immediately hit my face. I stopped just inside the entryway, letting the door click shut behind us. I stared at the exposed brick walls, the worn floorboards, and the flickering candlelight casting long shadows across the dining room.
This was The Rustic Hearth.
My chest tightened as I recognized the exact layout of the room.
Years ago, before the studio deals and the massive franchise contracts, Sutton and I used to scrape our money together just to share a single plate of pasta in one of these booths.
It was our private sanctuary, an untouched corner of the city where we could just exist without an audience.
Now, it was the staged backdrop for a media circus.
Eleanor clearly chose the location for its hometown aesthetic.
The rustic charm played incredibly well for the cameras, locking in prime placement in tomorrow’s entertainment feeds.
It was a calculated business decision, using our private spot to guarantee a domestic headline.
I forced my shoulders to drop, swallowing the bitter taste of having our history turned into a spectacle.
I just needed to play my part, give the studio what they wanted, and go home to my wife.
The maitre d’ stood at a tall podium, resting his hands on a stack of menus. He offered a welcoming smile as we approached the front of the line, skipping the crowded waiting area entirely.
“Right this way, Mr. Gallagher,” the maitre d’ said, stepping out from behind the stand to lead us into the main room. “We prepared our most secluded booth for you, but it still offers a wonderful sightline to the front windows.”
Secluded, yet intentionally visible to the paparazzi. It was standard industry practice.
“This is perfect, thank you for accommodating us on such short notice,” I replied, maintaining an even, professional tone. “We have a very tight schedule tonight, so we’ll need to put our drink orders in immediately.”
“Of course, sir,” he said, gesturing down the aisle. “Follow me.”
We navigated the narrow walkway between the crowded tables. I kept my eyes focused on the host’s back, ignoring the murmurs and stares from the other patrons. We reached a private booth located right next to the plate-glass window bordering the sidewalk.
I slid in. Blaire took the seat directly across from me, adjusting the hem of her dress.
Flashbulbs erupted from the street, firing strobes into the dim dining room as the photographers kept their lenses aimed right at us.
I pressed my spine against the booth, trying to ignore how wrong it felt to be in our private spot with Blaire.
Blaire picked up the menu, glancing around the room with an approving nod. “It’s so charming in here, Hayes,” she said. “Your mother really knows how to pick the perfect aesthetic to make us look grounded and relatable to the fans.”
I stared at the empty space on the table between us.
My mother was brilliant at her job, orchestrating this entire invasion to secure the domestic press cycle.
My only task was to play my part so the studio would leave me alone for the upcoming European tour.
Sutton understood the sacrifices required for this career, and she would understand this dinner was just a transactional chore.
“She knows exactly what she’s doing,” I replied.
I forced a polite smile, leaning back against the seat as the flashbulbs continued to strobe outside the glass.
The waiter appeared at the edge of our booth, temporarily drawing my attention away from the glare on the street.
He held a bottle wrapped in a napkin. He reached across the table, pouring the wine into my glass.
The thud of the bottle returning to the wood was barely audible over the noise of the restaurant.
“Here is the reserve Cabernet you requested, Mr. Gallagher,” the waiter said, stepping back to leave the bottle on the table. “Please let me know if you are ready to order your entrees.”
I adjusted the silverware resting beside my empty plate. “We’ll need a few more minutes to look over the menu. Just leave the bottle.”
The waiter nodded and retreated into the dining room.
The moment he stepped away from our table, the paparazzi on the sidewalk had a clear view of us again and instantly resumed their assault.
Blinding white flares strobed against the glass, blurring together into one continuous glare.
I blinked against the brightness, forcing a relaxed expression to maintain the illusion.
Blaire leaned over the center of the table, making sure the photographers outside got a clear shot of us looking intimate. She reached across to me. Her fingers slid over my knuckles, her warm skin pressing firmly into my hand.
I pressed my hand flat against the table.
I wanted to yank it away, but the aggressive firing of the cameras outside kept me paralyzed.
If I pulled back now, the tabloids would print a narrative of a hostile feud, and the studio executives would demand a dozen more public appearances to correct the damage.
“You’re so incredibly tense tonight, Hayes,” Blaire said, tracing a slow circle against the back of my hand. “Just relax and let the cameras get a few good shots of us enjoying ourselves.”
I stared at her fingers resting over mine.
The contact meant nothing. She was just doing her job for the cameras, and I was doing mine.
By sitting here and enduring the spectacle, I was guaranteeing my family’s financial security.
Sutton knew the rules of this industry. She knew this was the price of the life we were building.
“I’m just exhausted from the stunt rigging today, Blaire,” I replied, forcing my tone to remain even and conversational. “Let’s just finish the entrees so I can get out of here and get some sleep.”
Blaire offered a practiced, glittering smile, keeping her hand pressed firmly over mine as the flashbulbs continued to strobe against the glass. I just needed to survive this reservation so I could finally escape the glare of the lenses and go home.
I picked up my glass and extended it across the table.
“To a successful premiere and a massive opening weekend,” I said, offering her a charismatic look. “Let’s hope this dinner actually translates to ticket sales.”