44
I didn’t ask for permission. I slipped out the cottage’s back door like a cat burglar at midnight.
Mountain air slapped me in the face—crisp, pine-scented, laced with secrets nobody had bothered to hide.
A few yards away, parked under the porch, the black limousine waited. Still. Silent. A sleeping beast.
I already knew what I had to do. No doubts, no alternatives—Tess’s plan left zero room for hesitation. And for reasons I’ll probably only unpack years later in therapy, I decided to follow it to the letter.
I crept across the gravel, cursing every treacherous pebble intent on broadcasting my presence. Moonlight slid down the limo’s glossy body like over a grand piano, making the car look even more absurd out here in the woods. I tried the driver’s door. Just in case. Nothing. Locked.
Which meant my only hope was the kind of hiding spot favored by paranoid chauffeurs… or the kitchen’s junk bo wl.
First, outside. Kneeling on the gravel—each stone stabbing my knees like a signed confession—I swept a hand under the bumper, along the frame, until my fingers brushed something cold and square. A magnetic box. Bingo. I tugged it free, heart pounding… Empty. Perfect. Life loves me.
I kept searching: wheel wells, the wobbly license plate, the tow hitch. Nothing. Just dust, cobwebs, and a crystal-clear picture of how bad I’d be as a car thief.
Plan B: the kitchen.
The service door creaked with sadistic glee.
I tiptoed inside, wrapped in the scent of wet wood and detergent.
On the counter, next to a basket of apples, sat a ceramic bowl: coins, a lighter, two badges, two sets of keys.
One jingling with a rubber fob that said “Be Nice” and two remotes.
The other? Simple. A plain metal key, label half-erased.
No helpful “Limo” tag, of course. I grabbed them all.
Better to beg forgiveness than permission.
Back outside. Test one: beep somewhere out in the woods. The gardener’s pickup. Test two: nothing. Test three: the plain key in the driver’s door. No fancy electronics, no chirps. Just one sharp, clean click. The lock gave way.
The moment I cracked the door, the interior light blazed at me like an FBI interrogation lamp. I threw my hand over it until it dimmed, holding my breath. A window flicked on upstairs—a brief yellow square in the dark—then went black again. Good. Or bad. Depending how you look at it.
I slid behind the wheel. In the console, under the armrest, sat a small black pouch. Inside: the limo’s fob, tucked away so it wouldn’t “signal.” Dead. Silent. Sleeping. I pulled it out. It had just the right kind of weight—the kind that whispers: “Your move, genius.”
Deep breath. Foot on the brake. START button.
The engine woke with a low, pleased growl, like it recognized the right voice. I grinned. “Good girl,” I whispered. “Now pretend I know what I’m doing.”
I shifted into gear as delicately as if I were combing a hedgehog. “Relax,” I added. “If they catch me, I’ll say I’m the driver. I’ve got the cardigan—winter uniform.”
The limo hummed approval. Or maybe that was my imagination.
Either way, I pulled her around the cottage with all the grace of an elephant on roller skates.
The driveway opened ahead like a runway.
At the gate, beyond the wrought iron, they waited: the paparazzi.
A whole flock of dozing zombies, leaning on the fence, some slumped in folding chairs, cameras drooping in their laps.
One guy was literally asleep, mouth open, camera sliding off his knees. I swear.
The second the headlights cut through the dark, it was like a rock dropped into a pond.
A stir. Then chaos. One shutter clicked, then another, then the entire swarm jolted to life as if someone had yelled “Release the hounds!” Flashbulbs.
Shouts. Stumbling feet. They crowded the gate, shoving for the best angle.
I eased the limo to a stop right in front of them, letting the beams spotlight their half-excited, half-groggy faces. I leaned against the wheel, calm as a woman ordering a latte. Inside, my heart was pounding like a rock band’s soundcheck. Outside, I was ice. Or trying very hard to be.
“Okay, boys,” I muttered under my breath, watching them scramble like they’d just uncovered King Tut’s tomb. “Ready for the show? Because I’m definitely not.”
And I waited. With the flashes exploding against the hood like a thunderstorm.
The front doors of the cottage flew open like theater curtains.
And there she was.
Tess.
Completely naked, wrapped in nothing but a white sheet that slid over her body like silk stolen from a dream. She walked slowly, deliberately, her gaze locked on the paparazzi as if she were Cleopatra herself granting an audience to her subjects.
For one suspended beat, silence fell. Even the flashes seemed to hold their breath, stunned by the sight.
Then—chaos.
A storm of blinding lights turned the driveway into a battlefield. Photographers screamed, elbowed, clawed their way up the gate. They were feral—every click pure gold, every shift of that sheet a holy relic.
I, sitting behind the wheel of the limo, lowered my chin onto the steering wheel. “There she is,” I whispered. “The Countess. Live, worldwide. In couture bedsheet chic.”
Tess didn’t flinch. Not a trace of shame. On the contrary—she actually paused halfway down the drive to adjust her makeshift toga with a rehearsed flick of the wrist, turning the move into pure choreography. The shouts grew louder. The flashes went berserk.
And that’s when it hit me: with nothing but a sheet and a madwoman’s plan, Tess had just won her game.
Right on cue, the door behind her opened again. A man stepped out, still half-asleep, hair mussed, bare chest on display above a pair of boxers.
Zane Ryder.
Time froze.
Then—BOOM. Armageddon.
The paparazzi howled like wolves at the moon. Cameras exploded in bursts of light like machine guns. “Ryder! Ryder! Over here! Mystery girl, look this way! Give us a kiss!” It was pandemonium. Some climbed the fence, others lifted their arms like they were witnessing a divine revelation.
I pressed my forehead lightly against the steering wheel. “Ladies and gentlemen… jackpot.”
Tess didn’t miss a beat. She turned toward Ryder with the serene air of someone who’d merely stepped out for fresh air—clutching the sheet in one hand and waving with the other like Miss Universe on stage. Her smile was surgical: one part invitation, one part promise, one part unsolvable riddle.
Ryder, dazed and barefoot, made the fatal mistake: he stepped one pace outside. That was all it took. Tess in her white sheet, Ryder half-naked behind her. A perfect tableau. The shot tabloids would drool over for months was already in the can.
The limo door opened and Tess slid inside like a queen concluding her coronation. The sheet still clung to her, but now it looked more like a royal cloak. “Well?” she asked, hair a wild halo, eyes glittering with victory. “Was I iconic or not?”
“Iconic?” I shook my head, shifting into gear. “You just short-circuited half of Hollywood’s press corps. Some of them are filing early retirement as we speak.”
She laughed, pulling the sheet tighter around her shoulders. “About time someone did the industry a favor.”
The limo glided down the mountain road, paparazzi flashes still strobing behind us like improvised fireworks. My veins buzzed with adrenaline—but for once, it wasn’t weighed down by dread. It felt almost like triumph.
Then, suddenly, I froze. “Wait. Bernie.”
Silence. Tess stared at me, eyes wide, as if the thought had been struck from heaven by lightning.
“Oh my God,” she gasped, hand flying to her mouth. “We forgot Bernie.”
A beat of panic. Then it cracked into laughter.
“Relax,” Tess waved it off. “Ryder’s obsessed with him. He’s probably fluffing pillows and planning a continental breakfast in bed. He won’t even notice we’re gone.”
I smiled, tightening my grip on the wheel. “Right. Bernie: the only man who could seduce a rockstar entirely by accident.”
And the limo disappeared into the mountain night, carrying with it the sheet, the laughter, and the kind of plot twist no paparazzo on earth could have staged better.