5. Unexpected Visitor
UNEXPECTED VISITOR
ESTRELLA
Icouldn’t stop thinking about him.
Which was ridiculous. I was Estrella Flores, not some lovesick teenager. I had been married twice, had two children, had performed passionate love scenes with Mexico’s most desirable men. I did not get butterflies in my stomach over coffee with a footballer.
Even if he did have the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen.
“Senora Flores, you’re not focusing,” chided Mrs. Feldman, my dialect coach, as we sat in my small living room the following afternoon. The children were at a neighbor’s, giving us space to work on my troublesome accent.
“Lo siento... I mean, I’m sorry,” I corrected myself, earning an approving nod.
“Let’s try the passage again. Remember, the ‘th’ sound should be between your teeth, not behind them.”
I sighed and began reading from the script she had provided, focusing on the precise placement of my tongue, the careful shaping of my lips. It was exhausting, this constant self-monitoring. In Mexico, my voice had been my instrument, part of my charm. Here, it was a liability to be corrected.
After an hour of tongue twisters and repetitive phrases, Mrs. Feldman packed up her materials. “You’re making progress,” she said, her tone encouraging. “But it will take time. Keep practicing.”
As I showed her out, I noticed a sleek black car parked across the street, its driver leaning against the hood, seemingly absorbed in a book. It took me a moment to recognize Leo without his glasses, dressed in athletic wear that emphasized his fit physique.
“Do you know him?” Mrs. Feldman asked, following my gaze.
“Yes,” I said, trying to sound casual. “He’s a... friend.”
She raised an eyebrow but said nothing more, simply waving goodbye as she headed to her own car.
I hesitated in the doorway, suddenly conscious of my appearance. I had dressed comfortably for my coaching session—loose pants, a simple blouse, my hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. Not exactly the glamorous image I had cultivated in Mexico.
But before I could retreat inside to change, Leo looked up, saw me, and waved, his smile visible even from across the street. I waved back, my heart performing an unexpected somersault in my chest.
He crossed the street, tucking his book into a backpack. “I hope I’m not intruding,” he said as he reached me. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.”
“And how did you know which neighborhood was mine?” I crossed my arms. It should have bothered me, this unexpected appearance at my home. With my history of overeager fans and persistent photographers, I had become cautious about my privacy. But something about Leo’s earnest expression disarmed me.
The most adorable swash of pink topped his cheeks and he looked down at his shoes. “I, uh, maybe asked my agent to find out who your agent is and when your agent found out who I was, he gladly told me where you live.”
“I need a new agent.”
His eyes snapped up to mine, and he saw my grin. He was fun to tease. “I’d feel pretty awful if I got the guy fired. But I may have also warned him not to give your address to any other men. Ever.”
“I’ll keep him on then, just for you,” I assured him. “Would you like to come in? It’s not much,” I added with a self-conscious gesture at the modest apartment behind me.
“I’d love to,” he said, following me inside.
I watched as he took in the small living room with its worn furniture, the kitchen table covered in scripts and English language workbooks, the children’s toys neatly organized in a corner.
“It’s cozy,” he said, and I could tell he meant it. “Where are your children?”
“At a neighbor’s. They’ll be back soon.” I moved to the kitchen. “Can I offer you something to drink? Water, coffee...?”
“Water would be great.”
As I filled two glasses from the tap, I noticed him examining the framed photographs on my bookshelf. Me in costume for various roles, the children at different ages, a family portrait from happier times.
“You really were a star,” he said, picking up a magazine cover featuring me in a dramatic pose, my name emblazoned across the top.
“I still am,” I corrected him, a touch of pride in my voice. “Just... taking a different path now.”
He smiled, accepting the water I offered. “Of course. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise.”
We settled on the couch, a respectable distance between us. “So,” I said, “you were ‘in the neighborhood’?”
He had the grace to look sheepish again, and I savored a warmth pooling in my belly. “Not exactly. I wanted to see you, and I didn’t have your phone number.”
The directness of his admission caught me off guard. In my experience, men played games, hiding their intentions behind smooth words and calculated gestures. Leo’s honesty was refreshing.
“Why did you want to see me?” I asked, holding his gaze.
“Because I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said simply. “Because talking with you is the most real conversation I’ve had in years. Because when I’m with you, I feel like myself, not like a character I’m playing.”
This man definitely did not play games. I’d never had anyone of the opposite sex shoot so straight with me. And... I think I fell a little bit in love with him for that.
His words echoed my own thoughts so perfectly that for a moment I could only stare at him, speechless.
“I’ve been through two marriages,” I said finally, my voice soft. “I have two children. My life is... complicated.”
“I know. And I’m not asking for anything,” he assured me quickly. “I just... I’d like to spend more time with you. Get to know you better.”
I studied him, this man who had appeared in my life like a character from one of my telenovelas. Handsome, thoughtful, seemingly too good to be true. In my experience, such perfect men always harbored dark secrets or hidden agendas.
“What’s the catch?” I asked bluntly.
He looked genuinely puzzled. “Catch?”
“With you,” I clarified. “Are you married? A man-whore? A serial killer?”
He laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “None of the above. I’m just a man who plays soccer, tries to write, and finds himself captivated by a beautiful, strong woman who isn’t impressed by his minor celebrity.”
I felt myself softening, the walls I had carefully constructed around my heart beginning to crumble. “I should warn you, my life is not always as... calm... as it appears. The tabloids in Mexico called me ‘La Dramática’ for a reason.”
“I like a little drama,” he said with a grin. “It keeps life interesting.”
Before I could respond, the front door burst open, and Luz and Pedro tumbled in, followed by my neighbor, Mrs. Martinez.
“Mamá!” Luz exclaimed, then stopped short at the sight of Leo. “It’s the library man!”
Leo stood, smiling at my children. “Hello again.”
Pedro, typically shy with strangers, hid behind his sister, peeking out curiously.
“Thank you for watching them, Mrs. Martinez,” I said, moving to greet my neighbor.
She waved off my thanks, her eyes fixed on Leo with undisguised interest. “Any time, querida. And who is your... friend?”
“This is Leo,” I introduced him. “Leo, this is Mrs. Martinez, my neighbor and lifesaver.”
Leo extended his hand, which Mrs. Martinez took with a little too much enthusiasm. “Encantada,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “You’re Leo Ramirez, aren’t you? You play for the Real León FC, yes? My husband is a big fan.”
I glanced at Leo, surprised. I knew he played professionally, but I hadn’t realized he was well-known enough to be recognized on sight.
“Yes, that’s right,” Leo confirmed, looking slightly uncomfortable.
Mrs. Martinez beamed. “My Carlos will be so jealous. Perhaps you could sign something for him?”
“Of course,” Leo agreed graciously. “Next time.”
After Mrs. Martinez left, still fanning herself with excitement, I turned to Leo with a raised eyebrow. “Just how famous are you, exactly?”
He shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with the question. “Famous enough to be recognized sometimes, not famous enough to be mobbed on the street. At least not here in the States.”
“He’s really, really famous, Mamá!” Luz interjected, apparently having overcome her initial shyness. “Juan at school brought a poster of him to show and tell. He’s a super, enormous, gigantic, really, really big football star!”
I looked at Leo with new appreciation. “A super, really, really big football star, hmm? And here I thought you were just a struggling writer.”
He grinned, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “I am a struggling writer. The football just pays the bills.”
Pedro, who had been watching our exchange with wide eyes, suddenly darted forward and tugged on Leo’s pant leg. “Do you know how to play with cars?” he asked, his English careful and precise.
Leo’s face softened as he knelt to Pedro’s level. “I know lots of games with cars. Would you like to show me yours?”
Pedro nodded eagerly, taking Leo’s hand and pulling him toward the corner where his collection of toy cars was neatly arranged.
I watched, something warm and unfamiliar blooming in my chest, as this apparently famous athlete sat cross-legged on my worn carpet, making engine noises and crash sounds that delighted my normally reserved son.
Luz sidled up to me, her expression thoughtful. “I like him, Mami,” she whispered. “He looks at you the way Robin Hood looks at Maid Marion, and he plays with Pedro like a real papá.”
I smoothed her hair, unsure how to respond to her innocent observation.
My children had seen too many men come and go in their short lives.
Their respective fathers, my second husband, various directors and co-stars who had briefly been part of our world.
I couldn’t allow them to become attached to Leo only to have him disappear when he tired of our chaos, as men inevitably did.
“He’s just being friendly, mi amor,” I said softly. “Why don’t you show him how pretty the butterfly clip that he found looks in your hair?”
As Luz skipped over to join the car game, proudly displaying her recovered treasure, I retreated to the kitchen, needing a moment to collect my thoughts.
Through the doorway, I could see Leo fully engaged with my children, his face animated as he admired Luz’s clip and then returned to racing cars with Pedro.
It was a domestic scene that stirred longings I had thought long buried—not just for romance, but for partnership, for someone who would embrace not just me but the entire package of our little family.
But I had learned the hard way that fairy tales were just that—tales. Real life was messier, less predictable, and far less kind to women who dared to hope for happily ever after.