Chapter 5 Anna
ANNA
Living in a tiny cottage on the grounds of a sprawling estate wasn’t exactly the worst outcome for someone teetering on the edge of failure.
However, it was my third day there, and for all the charm and postcard-perfect scenery, I still couldn’t write. Not a word.
It turns out that writer’s block isn’t picky.
It doesn’t care that you’ve fled to an impossibly cute cottage.
It doesn’t care that no little nieces are banging on your door demanding snacks or that you’re not vacuuming instead of working.
Writer’s block follows you, stubborn and smug, no matter how far you run or how many distractions you leave behind.
I’d tried everything the experts recommended.
Scribbling whatever came to mind to get the words flowing.
Writing prompts. I took walks, hoping the steady rhythm of my footsteps would unlock some brilliant idea.
I meditated because, apparently, clearing your mind is supposed to make room for creativity, though all it did was make me acutely aware of how quiet my brain actually was.
I even tried the age-old trick of switching to pen and paper, thinking maybe the tactile experience of writing would somehow coax the words out. It didn’t.
I pushed away from the cute little desk, frustration bubbling, and wandered to the big picture window. Maybe the grounds outside would inspire me. Or at least give me a moment to clear my head.
The view offered more than I expected.
There was Topher’s pool, glittering under the midday sun. My pool too, technically, for as long as I was staying here. And then I saw him.
The mystery guest.
Mrs. Brodie had said he was a “friend of Topher’s” staying at the mansion for a month or so. No hints about who he was, but the luxury SUV in the driveway and the careful secrecy surrounding his presence told me he was someone important.
He was swimming, sleek and effortless. And then, as if on cue, he climbed out of the pool, his back to me.
Water streamed down his shoulders and muscled back. His muscles may well have been sculpted by an artist who took their job very, very seriously.
His swim trunks clung low on his hips, droplets falling lazily from the hem as he reached for a towel. The sun caught his golden skin just right. His blonde hair was plastered to his neck, sending tiny rivulets of water running down his corded throat.
I should’ve looked away. I really should’ve. But my brain stalled, and I stood there frozen, clutching my coffee like a lifeline.
Finally, I snapped out of it. What was I doing? Peeking out from behind glass like some creeper? No. I was better than this.
With a deep breath, I set my coffee on the windowsill and headed outside. The air hit me like a wall, thick and warm, carrying the scent of chlorine and jasmine. As I rounded the corner, he was toweling off, his head dipped forward.
“Hi.” My voice was steady, but my pulse was not.
He glanced up, his eyes meeting mine. They were bluer than the pool behind him, piercing in a way that made it impossible to look away.
My brain tried—and failed—to process what my eyes were seeing.
It was him. Luke Fisher.
World-famous movie star Luke Fisher.
The smug jerk who’d insulted New Orleans, my entire existence, and everything I held dear four nights ago.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered.
His reaction wasn’t much friendlier. His eyebrows shot up as recognition dawned. “You?”
I’d seen him on screen up close, in high definition, so many times, that it felt almost surreal for him to be standing there, in front of me, staring back at me with those beautiful blue eyes. The kind of eyes that could make you forget your own name if you weren’t careful.
And then, in that very recognizable, very sexy, world-famous movie star voice, Luke Fisher said, “Are you stalking me?”
My mouth clamped shut. The nerve of him. Did he think he owned the place? Did he think everyone wandered around in his orbit, just waiting to be graced with his presence? I straightened, summoning every ounce of righteous anger I could muster.
“No, I’m not stalking you. I’m staying in the cottage.
I heard someone in the pool, and I came by to say hello.
Then I saw your body—I mean, I saw somebody.
” My cheeks burned as I stumbled over the words, one clumsy syllable at a time.
“Anyway, what are you doing here? I thought a friend of Topher’s was staying here. ”
He raised an eyebrow, like he couldn’t believe someone didn’t know. “I’m the friend. Topher and I went to Brown together.”
Oh. Wow. Okay. That was… a lot to process.
Luke Fisher—the actual Luke Fisher—was standing there, dripping water, looking like he belonged on the cover of a magazine even while trying to accuse me of stalking him. Apparently, in real life, he was far less charming than in the movies.
“Guess we’re neighbors,” he said, like it was no big deal.
Neighbors. Neighbors.
I blinked at him. Then, at the mansion behind him. And then back at him, because my brain refused to process what it was seeing. This couldn’t be real. This had to be some cruel, cosmic joke.
“Small world, huh?” he said, his grin widening like he was thoroughly enjoying the horror etched on my face.
Small world? No. This was a tiny world. A shrinking, claustrophobic world where I was now somehow neighbors with Luke Fisher.
Panic rose in my chest like a flood. Leave. Move your feet. Go. Move.
I forced a smile that felt like it belonged to a hostage. “Right. Well… enjoy your swim. I, uh, have work to do. Very important work.”
I turned on my heel, flip-flops smacking far too loudly as I bolted. I needed to go somewhere. Anywhere. Grabbing my keys, I marched to my car, threw myself into the driver’s seat, and started the engine like I was escaping a crime scene. I didn’t have a plan. I just needed to move.
“Where to?” I muttered to myself, pulling out of the driveway. The gas tank warning light blinked on. Perfect. Fine. I’d go fill up the car with gas. Filling up the tank was something normal people did, right? Not running. Not fleeing. Just responsible car ownership. I could do that.
And then I’d come right back, because where else was I going to go? I figured I’d be able to sneak in without seeing Luke again.
I sighed as I turned onto the road, gripping the steering wheel like it might steer me away from my mounting embarrassment.
How was I supposed to focus on writing? I was already up against a block so big and high that not even three days in a cute cottage had been able to fix it. It could only get worse knowing I was staying across a yard from a Hollywood heartthrob who thought I was a lunatic stalker.