The Small-Town Seduction Plan

1. Avery

“How doesit feel to be the most hated woman in America?”

“Come on!” I protest, driving up Cape Cod with my phone on speaker and the AC working overtime against the summer humidity. “What about the woman who sent death threats to that TikTok kitten? Or that girl who catfished six different guys into taking her to Disneyland by pretending she had cancer? Or Meghan Markle?”

My cousin, Brooke, laughs down the phone line. “You’re right. You’re not famous enough to be number one.”

Not famous enough… yet. But I’ve spent the past ten years giving it my best shot: clawing my way up the Hollywood ladder, from sketchy modeling assignments and bit parts in soap operas and soup commercials– all the way to the red carpet, and a real acting career.

Starring roles. Decent movies. Fame.

I was so close to the A-list dream I’ve always wanted, I could almost taste it. But now, when I’m finally making headlines, it’s for all the wrong reasons.

Be careful what you wish for, babe.

I give a rueful sigh, watching the sandy highway speed by outside the windows; the ocean roiling in shades of grey under cloudy summer skies. “I don’t understand it. All I did was call off my wedding– to a man who didn’t want to marry me all that much, either,” I point out.

“A massive, multimillion-dollar spectacle of a wedding, packed with famous celebrities,” Brooke points out gently. “You’d already invited all those photographers and magazines… did you really think they would just shrug, and go home, and leave all those column inches empty when you handed them an even bigger scandal to write about?”

“But it wasn’t even a scandal! Robert’s fine. He was relieved when I called it off.” I argue. “Why isn’t he getting bitchy gossip items written about him?”

“Because of a pesky little thing called patriarchy,” Brooke replies, sounding amused. “Nobody cares when powerful men hook up with women half their age. Didn’t Taylor Swift write a song about that or something?”

“You’re supposed to be on my side,” I grumble.

“I log into your social media accounts every day and delete every mean, awful, and pornographic comment so you never have to look at them,” she replies, and I wince.

“You’re right, I love you,” I reply immediately, grateful. “I just thought it would have died down by now. Can’t they find someone else to write about?”

“I guess it’s a slow news season,” Brooke says sympathetically. “And those old photoshoots didn’t help…”

I wince. “Note to eighteen-year-old Avery: if some shady dude pays you three hundred bucks to play ‘trophy wife caught cheating on ancient husband with the pool boy’ for a stock photo site… don’t.”

Talk about adding fuel to the tabloid trash-fire. If leaving a bigwig producer at the (million-dollar, custom-made) altar wasn’t bad enough, those old pictures are what took me from “minor scandal” all the way up to “Hollywood laughingstock”. Somehow, I managed to kick off a debate about gold digging and the modern economics of marriage that made it all the way to the Opinion pages of the New York Times.

Never mind that I didn’t actually marry Robert in the end. Never mind that I chose to walk away from a lifetime of ease and security for the chance at finding real honest love one day. Those are just pesky details when it comes to tabloid news.

Now, half the country thinks it was a betrayal of feminism. The other half thinks it was a “post-feminist betrayal of traditional family values”– whatever that means. And everyone uses it as an excuse to run those damn photos of me in a cheap pink Victoria’s Secret panty set, pouting like a barely-legal porn star.

It doesn’t exactly scream ‘Avery Lawrence, future Oscar-winning actress’, that’s for sure.

I shake off the unpleasant memory, catching sight of a gas station up ahead. “I better go stock up on Diet Coke and Jack Daniels while I have the chance.”

“Are you traveling back to 1923?” Brooke teases.

“I might as well be,” I reply grimly, easing off the highway. “I haven’t seen a Starbucks in forty miles.”

“However will you cope without your skinny venti no-whip oat milk chai?” Brooke laughs, and I can’t really argue, because yes, that’s my order, and yes, the thought has definitely been running through my mind the farther up the Cape I drive.

“Call me when you get there,” she adds. “And enjoy the vacation! Fingers crossed, if you lay low for the summer, the gossip machine will move on. One of the Real Housewives could come out as gay, or be indicted for tax fraud. Or both!”

“Here’s hoping!”

I pullover at the gas station, fill my tank, then grab my sunglasses and shove a baseball cap over my blonde hair before venturing inside, incognito. I know I should bypass the magazine rack and save myself the torture, but some punishing instinct draws me over and I can’t help but look at the row of tabloid headlines.

‘But I Don’t: Behind the Wedding Scandal of the Year!’

‘The Runaway Bride Keeps on Running’!

‘Avery’s Next Target?’

My heart twists. I should be immune to it by now. Everyone says, to make it in Hollywood you need a thick skin, but I would have to be downright bulletproof not to feel bad every time I read a headline like these.

I grab the nearest copy and flip through, wondering what new angle they’ve found to drag out the story this week.

‘Avery Hitting Rock Bottom: Friends Terrified Over Her Wild Partying!’

Partying? Ha! These days, I spend every Friday night on my couch, watching Grey’s Anatomy reruns. And as for my so-called friends? Well, I’m guessing they’re the ones feeding the tabloids all these bullshit stories. I would laugh, if the massive photo accompanying the article wasn’t so bad. I’ve got stringy hair and a ratty t-shirt on, looking gaunt and exhausted, like I just staggered out of the club at 5 a.m.

I squint, trying to place it, until I recognize the building on the edge of the frame and sigh. My old gym. The paparazzi must have snapped me there a year ago, stumbling out from spinning class, not-so-fresh from a killer workout. They were probably staking out the building, hoping to get a look at someone more famous. Back then, nobody would have been interested in a photo of a C-list actress looking like a mess.

But now?

Now it fits the story they’re telling, so it’s plastered all over the page.

“You try looking good after ninety minutes of high-impact cardio with Mario,” I sigh, shoving the magazine back on the rack. I grab a basket instead, and load up on diet sodas and healthy snacks for the road. I send a longing look at the junk food aisle, full of delicious chips and cookies, but I bypass them for the farm stand shelf of fruit instead. Carbs would feel like quitting right now, and I have to believe that this lull in my career is just temporary. All the work and struggle and spinning classes can’t be for nothing now. My agents are bound to call me up with news about a big new audition. Sometime soon.

Any day now.

“Ugh, can’t they get any decent gossip? Who even cares who she’s screwing?”

Voices drift over to me from the next aisle, a pair of teenage girls chatting over the magazine stand. I freeze instinctively. They’re not talking about you, I tell myself, trying to stay calm. It could be anyone.

“You know she did that movie here last year? I heard she was hooking up with Jackson Kane and the director.”

“Like a kinky threesome?”

“No, like a dirty slut.”

I sag back, my heart sinking. Nope. They’re definitely talking about me.

“I don’t get it,” one of them muses. “I mean, she’s not that pretty.”

“Or talented.”

“You liked the movie though.”

“Yeah, but not because of her. I mean, look at her pores.”

“And her nose.”

“She should have married the old guy when she had a chance!”

They laugh, and then their voices recede as they go pay for their things and saunter out. I see them through the window: young and tanned, careless in cutoffs and tanks, they pile into a Jeep and take off, music blasting.

Meanwhile, my pulse is racing like crazy, and I feel like I’m about to pass out.

“Fight or flight”, my therapist calls it. My primal escape instincts kicking in. I call it freaking humiliating, to be crouching by the packaged pepperoni sticks, waiting for my heart rate to return to normal.

I sink back against the shelves, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. I never used to flinch at gossip, even if it was right to my face. Hell, a couple of months ago, I would have sashayed up to those girls and asked if they had any face masks they recommended, since clearly my pores needed some help. I would have looked them in the eye, stared them down, and then called up Jackson Kane right in front of them to invite him for a lunch date, just to rub it in.

But the brave Avery, the don’t-give-a-fuck starlet on the rise, seems to be taking a vacation right now, because I can’t help wondering if they’re right.

Not pretty enough. Not talented enough.

She should have married him when she had the chance.

Music breaks through my daze, and I realize, a couple more cars have pulled into the gas station, full of college-age kids fresh from the beach. They head for the entrance, jostling and joking around, and something inside me snaps.

I abandon my basket and duck past them, bolting across the parking lot and hurling myself back into the safety of my car. I throw it into drive and take off so fast, my tires screech on the cracked asphalt.

Pull it together, Avery.

I hit the highway again,rolling down all the windows to take big gulps of the salty sea air. There’s only one main highway running up Cape Cod, a sandy two-lane road fringed with pine trees in places, and glimpses of the ocean glinting through the trees. I’m sure it’s all quaint and picturesque on a sunny day, but right now, it’s sticky and overcast, and looks like rain. I take in the scenery as the miles slip by, and feel my trepidation grow.

Empty beaches… windswept dunes… a lone crab shack by the side of the road offering 2-for-1 on chowder… this place is a million miles away from Hollywood.

Which is exactly what you need right now.

I try to be brave. After all, I’ve been wracking my brains for the perfect place to disappear. Somewhere quiet, and unassuming, to wait out this tabloid storm. Then I remembered:

Blackberry Cove.

It’s a small, beachy town nestled in the curl of the Cape. I shot a movie there last year, and “boring” doesn’t even begin to cover it. There’s no nightlife, no designer shopping, and definitely nobody who cares about the Hollywood Reporter ”Most Bankable Stars” rankings. In other words, the perfect place to hide until some other scandal replaces me in the headlines, and I can get back to the red carpet again.

If I don’t go crazy from Starbucks withdrawal first, that is.

“Call Max.” I announce my agent in LA’s details to the fancy car audio system. The music pauses, and a moment later, his perky assistant answers.

“Max McConnor’s office.”

“Hi, Tish, it’s Avery,” I announce cheerfully. “Is Max around?”

“Sorry, he’s in a meeting right now,” Tish chirps. “But I’ll have him call you right back.”

I grip the steering wheel tighter. “Yes, but you said that last time,” I point out. “I’ve been trying to reach him all day.”

“I’m sooo sorry Avery,” she coos. “It’s just been crazy! But you’re number one on his call-sheet, I promise. I’ll grab him as soon as he’s out.”

I exhale. “Great. Just… tell him we need to talk.”

“Will do!”

I ring off, and try to ignore the shiver of insecurity in my chest. Maybe he really is in an important meeting.

Or maybe he’s decided to cut his losses and move on to the next dewy-eyed starlet?—

My pity spiral is interrupted by a massive jolt, as I hit a huge pothole in the road. I let out a yelp, yanking the steering wheel to stay in control.

That was close.

I exhale, relieved. Then the tire pressure light flashes on.

Damn.

I watch the little light of doom glow steadily on the dashboard. Maybe it’s just a slow puncture, I tell myself hopefully, and I can make it into town before–

THUMP. THUMP.

I can feel the tire deflate fast, until I have no choice but to pull over on the sandy shoulder and come to a stop.

“Seriously?” I groan. If I believed in signs and premonitions, I’d say this whole Blackberry Cove plan is clearly cursed.

But you don’t, I remind myself, getting out of the car and popping the truck. You are an independent, grown woman, who’s more than capable of changing a flat tire.

Except, I’ve never actually done it before. And definitely not with a fresh manicure and white jeans.

I check my cell, but I’m not even getting a bar out here. It must be a dead zone. I look around. This is when I normally recruit some strapping man to help me out. Heavy lifting, cutting in line for a cab… it’s amazing what a few smiles and light flirting can achieve. But the highway is deserted, with no other cars in sight except?—

Yes!

I spot a muddy pick-up truck coming into view around the bend, so I start waving to get their attention. The back is loaded up with lumber, and it looks like the owner just drove it through a swamp, but I’m not picky right now.

I wave harder.

The truck slows as it approaches, and then pulls off the highway and parks just behind my rental Mercedes.

“Thank you for stopping!” I beam, already sashaying over to greet the driver as he climbs down. “I think it’s going to rain soon, and I don’t know what I would have done, stranded here on the side of the road.”

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” a deep voice says. And then he slams the door, rounding the truck, and I stop dead in my tracks.

“You!” I exclaim accusingly.

“Me.” My Good Samaritan glares back at me, suddenly looking just as annoyed.

Six foot two. Broad shoulders. Flannel shirt and old Levis. He’s got a battered baseball cap jammed backwards over his thick dark hair, two-day stubble on his stubborn jaw, and a familiar look of disdain in his clear blue eyes.

Duke Hendricks.

I take it back. I believe in curses, after all.

Not him!

“I thought you said you wouldn’t be caught dead back on the Cape,” he says, leaning back against his truck and surveying me with a scowl.

Duke is a local from Blackberry Cove, some kind of grumpy boat-building craftsman straight out of a Hallmark movie. Minus the heart of gold, that is. He made it perfectly clear when we were filming the movie last year that he can’t stand Hollywood in general – and me in particular. He spent all of the summer grumbling about the movie and glowering at me across the town square, like I’d personally offended his mother, or stolen his favorite wrench.

Clearly, he hasn’t mellowed since then.

“It wasn’t my first choice, that’s for sure,” I reply, trying to sound cheerful and friendly, and like someone you’d want to help out in a jam. “But clearly, the universe is full of surprises, because voilà! Here I am again.”

“Here you are,” he says flatly.

I beam a big smile at him, but Duke’s expression doesn’t change. His gaze drifts over my white linen pants and gold jewelry, then moves from me to the rental car. “Now, why am I getting a serious case of déjà vu?”

I flush. I may have gotten my car stuck in a ditch last year, and needed Duke’s help getting the thing out. Not that he was a gentleman about it; the man huffed and complained so much, I was tempted to leave it there altogether. “It’s not my fault,” I protest quickly. “There was a pothole. It must have caught the tire!”

“That’s what this is about, princess?” Duke asks, and it’s clear from his tone that he’s not impressed. “You need help changing a tire?”

“You don’t need to say it like that,” I mutter, and his eyebrow quirks up.

“Like what?”

“Like you think I’m a useless, shallow waste of space.”

“You said it, darlin’,” Duke drawls, with a lazy smirk. “Not me.”

I scowl. “Just so you know, I have plenty of skills,” I inform him icily, putting my hands on my hips. Somewhere, a little voice is reminding me that snapping at the man isn’t going to help with the whole flat tire situation, but there’s something about the way Duke is looking at me that prickles, hot under my skin. Like he’s wasting his time even talking to me.

Like he’s got me all figured out.

“Skills, huh?” Duke looks me up and down. “I’m sure you do.”

I gasp. “Not like that!” I exclaim, furious now. “Although, you wish you could have a glimpse of what I’m capable of in the bedroom,” I add, stabbing an angry finger in his direction. “You couldn’t handle what this body can do. I make grown men weep!”

“Is that right?” Duke smirks, amused, and my flush only deepens.

What is it about this man that makes me fly off the handle?

“You know what? I don’t need your help,” I snap. “I can handle it myself.”

“Suit yourself.” Duke gives a shrug, turns, and ambles back towards the truck.

“That’s it?” I blurt, infuriated. “You’re just leaving me here, on the side of the road? Whatever happened to chivalry?”

He sends me another smirk. “You tell me where to find a lady, and I’ll start acting like a gentleman.”

My jaw drops. “You… you…” I stutter, trying to think of the perfect put down, but Duke doesn’t stick around to let me.

“Drive safe, princess.”

He climbs in the truck, revs the engine, and cruises past me. The last thing I see is him sending a mock-salute in my direction, before he turns back onto the highway and leaves me in the dust.

AARRGH!

I let out of cry of frustration. Of all the smug, arrogant, self-satisfied pieces of work…

I march back to the car, determined to prove him wrong. I can change my own damn tire. I don’t need him – or anyone – to help.

I shove my bags aside, and lift the floorboard to grab the spare…

And that’s when I discover, the wheel well is empty.

There is no spare tire.

Thunder rolls overhead. There’s a crack of lightning, and then the skies open in a sudden gush of torrential rain.

I shriek as the cold water hits my skin, soaking through my thin silk T-shirt in an instant. “Are you kidding me?” I cry, looking up at the stormy skies. “Are you seriously serious right now?!”

Unsurprisingly, the skies don’t talk back.

I dive back into the car, as the rain pours down, drumming on the windscreen. I stare out miserably at the deluge. I’d give everything I have to magically teleport back to Los Angeles right now, but clearly magic, and the universe, aren’t on my side.

Think.

I check my phone reception again to call for Triple-A, but there’s still no signal. It’ll be getting dark soon, and God knows if anyone else will be along to help me. And since I don’t feel like spending the night sleeping in my car…

I grit my teeth, grab my purse, and hoist one of my suitcases out of the backseat.

So much for a relaxing vacation. I’m stuck in a rainstorm, three miles from Blackberry Cove, already soaked to the skin…

And there’s nothing left to do but walk.

Walk, and plot my revenge.

Because I swear, Duke Hendricks is going to pay for this.