Chapter 28
LUKE
Anna had agreed to stay with me. A rare win, though the responsibility now felt heavier than I’d anticipated.
As I watched Joan’s sons pack what remained of Anna’s belongings into soggy boxes, it hit me how much her life had been upended.
It wasn’t just her roof that had been crushed; it was her sense of stability.
I glanced at my phone. Missed call from Topher. Great. When I called back, he answered almost immediately. “Luke, do you have a moment to discuss the neighborhood drama you’ve caused?”
I sighed. “Topher, a literal tree fell on the cottage where Anna was staying.”
“I know. Her aunt reached out, by the way. Lovely woman, but she wanted to know if you’re ‘a heartbreaker.’”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Her aunt called you? How does her aunt even have your number?”
“I went to high school with Anna’s cousin. Anyway, she asked if I thought you were ‘stable.’ Stable. As if you’re a stallion up for auction.”
“Fantastic,” I muttered. “Did you tell her I’m a paragon of emotional stability?”
“Not exactly. I said you’re mostly harmless, except when someone cheats on you and you punch their co-star in the jaw.”
“Topher—”
“Kidding. She has no idea who you are. Listen to me carefully. Do not, under any circumstances, mess this up. Her aunt already sounds like she’s ready to send a cousin with a baseball bat to ‘sort you out.’”
I groaned. “Anna’s staying here because her roof caved in. That’s it. I’m not exactly proposing marriage.”
“Good, because based on that shower incident, you can barely handle bathroom appliances,” Topher quipped.
“Wow, thanks for the support.”
“Anytime,” he said breezily. “Keep your head down. No unnecessary complications, no bad press.”
I rubbed my temples. “She’s a friend who needs help.”
“Sure, sure.” He was unconvinced. “But just in case, I told her aunt that if anything goes wrong, I’ll personally fly down to New Orleans and drag you back to LA.”
“Looking forward to it,” I muttered, hanging up before he could get in another dig.
I turned back to the house and saw Anna’s belongings being unceremoniously dumped into a box. Something in me twisted at the sight. This wasn’t how someone’s life should look: wet, crumpled, and shoved into a cardboard rectangle.
Before I could stop myself, I threw open the window and yelled, “Don’t toss anything. Bring it inside. Carefully.”
Joan’s sons looked startled but nodded, quickly adjusting their approach. I stepped back, shaking my head. Why was I getting so worked up over this?
Because Anna deserved better, that’s why.
An idea struck, and I grabbed my phone again. My stylist answered on the second ring. “Darling, tell me you’re finally ready to refresh your look.”
“Not me,” I said quickly. “I need a wardrobe for someone else. A woman. Casual, functional, but nice. And nothing with price tags that scream ‘Hollywood.’ Think casual and approachable. And fast.”
“Say no more. I’ll keep it chic but understated. This will be my priority. Give me the sizes for your friend, and I’ll call in the orders to stores down there.”
* * *
The next morning, after a restless night and one too many cups of coffee, I wandered into the kitchen, needing something to distract me.
My thoughts kept circling back to Anna. I couldn’t shake the image of her standing in the wreckage of her cottage, soaked to the bone, trying to salvage pieces of her life with that unshakable determination in her eyes. She hadn’t asked for help. Didn’t even hint at needing it. But it was obvious.
I wasn’t used to caring for someone else. Not like this. I’d spent so long being managed myself that stepping in for someone else felt unfamiliar. Uncomfortable, but not in a bad way. Maybe it was because Anna didn’t want anything from me. No demands, no expectations. Just honesty.
A knock at the front door pulled me out of my head.
Delivery people arrived with garment bags and boxes.
I directed them toward the guest room closet, watching as a mini department store unfolded before me.
I peeked inside one of the bags, marveling at my stylist’s ability to curate perfection with almost no instruction.
Then I caught a glimpse of a price tag and winced.
Approachable. Casual. Right. If you lived in a luxury magazine spread.
A few minutes later, Anna appeared in the doorway, hair still damp from a shower, wearing borrowed clothes that didn’t quite fit but somehow still worked. Her eyes landed on the neatly arranged wardrobe. She froze, gaze sweeping from one designer label to the next.
“What is this?” she asked, her voice cautious.
“Just a few things,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant. “I figured you might need replacements for the stuff you lost.”
She picked up a T-shirt, her jaw dropping when she saw the tag. “Two hundred dollars for this? For a plain white T-shirt?” She rifled through the rack, pulling out a pair of jeans. “Three hundred for these? Luke, this is insane.”
I shrugged, trying to keep it light. “They’re just clothes.”
She held up a sleek black dress next, her eyebrows shooting up. “Two grand for this? Where exactly am I supposed to wear it? A royal ball?”
I ran a hand through my hair, realizing how this looked. “I told my stylist to keep it simple, casual,” I said defensively. “Clearly, she and I have different definitions of that.”
Anna’s disbelief melted. “Luke, I can’t accept this. It’s too much.”
My chest tightened. The last thing I wanted was for her to feel like she owed me something.
“We have brand deals, so this stuff is basically free,” I said quickly.
“After everything that’s happened, you shouldn’t have to stress about stuff like this.
And you should be taken care of, treated like a queen. ”
She set the dress down, her fingers brushing the fabric as she glanced at me. “Why are you doing this?”
Her question caught me off guard. Why was I doing this? Because seeing her struggle made something inside me twist, and I wanted to make things easier for her, even in small ways. But how could I explain that without sounding like an idiot or a chauvinist?
Instead, I led her to the desk I’d had set up by the window of another guest room, complete with a new notebook and a stack of her favorite pens. “That,” I said softly, “is because you need a space to write. And the clothes are because you deserve to feel like yourself again.”
For a moment, she stared at me, her expression unreadable. Then, she wrapped her arms around her chest and let out a sigh. “You’re impossible.”
Impossible. That’s what Sienna used to call me. But when Anna said it, it didn’t sound like an insult It was endearing. “So I’ve been told.”
The desk was nearly identical to the one in her cottage, down to the arrangement of the pens and notebooks. Her fingers brushed over the surface, and her expression shifted into something almost wistful.
“This feels like home.” Her words were barely above a whisper, but the words hit me harder than I expected. I’d been trying to fix things with grand gestures, but all she needed was a sense of normalcy. Of belonging.
And as I watched her hand tracing the edge of the wood, it struck me how much she’d been holding back. The fear of taking up space, of letting someone help, mirrored my own. Maybe that’s why I’d pushed so hard.
I thought of her wall of rejection letters, now gone. She’d carried them like armor, and now that they were destroyed, I wasn’t sure how she felt about it. I didn’t want to poke the wound, but maybe this was my chance to say what had been swirling in my head.
“You know,” I began carefully, leaning against the doorframe, “those rejection letters being gone... maybe it’s a fresh start. You don’t have to quit at one hundred.”
She looked up at me, the corner of her mouth lifting into a determined smile. “No, I think that means this story, my hundredth, will be my masterpiece.”
She was extraordinary, plain and simple.
A smile crept onto her face. “You’ve got good taste. Even if you’re terrible at understanding budgets.”
I grinned. “That’s what they all say.”
She shook her head, but a warm smile lingered. She walked to her bedroom, to the closet full of new clothes, and swept her hand gently over the sleeve of a cashmere sweater. Then, she looked up at me with something happier in her eyes.
And that’s when it hit me. I didn’t just want her to feel at home here. I wanted her to feel at home with me.
It wasn’t just about giving her space to heal, write, or find herself.
It was about us. Together.
The thought was terrifying, exhilarating, and utterly undeniable. She made me feel like the best version of myself—the real me, not the polished version Hollywood paraded around. And I wanted to take a leap of faith, not for a role or a career move, but for her.
I exhaled, leaning against the doorframe of her bedroom as she folded a T-shirt. She glanced up at me, her brow furrowing slightly. “What’s up?”
I walked into the room. My voice wavered, but I pushed through. “I need to tell you something.”
Her hands stilled, the shirt forgotten on the desk. “What is it?”
I hesitated, my heart pounding, but then I took another step closer. “I don’t want just to be the guy you give tours to, or the one who happens to share a roof with you. I want to be more. I want us to be more.”
For a moment, she didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The silence stretched, and my chest tightened as the fear of rejection clawed at me. But then, her lips curved into a tentative smile. “You’re serious?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
I nodded. “Completely.”
Her smile grew, lighting up her whole face. “Then yes.”
Relief and joy crashed into me all at once, and I didn’t think. I just closed the distance between us. My hand found her cheek, and I tilted her face toward mine. When our lips met, it wasn’t hesitant or cautious. It was full of everything I’d been holding back—hope, fear, want.
Her hands gripped my shirt, pulling me closer, and the kiss deepened. The world outside faded away until it was just us, wrapped in a moment I never wanted to end.
When we finally pulled apart, her cheeks were flushed, her eyes sparkling as she looked up at me. “So, what happens now?”
I leaned in, pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. “We figure it out. Together.”