Chapter 10
Kiera Emmerson
My heart is hammering so hard I’m surprised it hasn’t cracked a rib. I stand at the back of the truck, staring at a box labeled “Kitchen Supplies” without really seeing it. My hands are shaking as I reach for it, and I have to grip the cardboard tighter than necessary to keep from dropping it.
River Stone almost kissed me. Worse—I wanted River Stone to kiss me. I almost closed those last few inches between us and kissed him right there on that narrow staircase like some character in one of his stupid Korean dramas.
What is wrong with me? I have a plan. A good plan.
Get the scholarship, go to culinary school, build a career, become independent.
Nothing in that plan involves getting tangled up with a guy who could break me into a million pieces without even trying.
Nothing in that plan involves risking my heart on someone who’ll probably leave the island in six months when the novelty wears off and Hollywood comes calling again.
I clutch the box against my chest like armor. Focus, Kiera. You have goals. You have dreams. You do not have time to develop feelings for your impossibly attractive employer who makes you laugh and listens when you talk and looks at you like you’re something precious instead of something broken.
Nope. Not going there. Not doing this.
Every single time I’ve trusted someone, they’ve destroyed that trust. My ex turned me into a bet. My parents kicked me out like I was an unwanted rodent. Even the universe itself seemed determined to prove I wasn’t worth keeping around, leaving me under a bridge for six weeks.
River Stone is different, sure. He seems kind and genuine and safe. But that’s exactly what makes him dangerous. Because I could fall for him, and when he inevitably leaves or realizes I’m not worth the effort, it’ll hurt worse than anything that came before.
Plus, let’s be realistic here. I’m not even close to being in his league. He’s got money, a gorgeous house, residuals from a hit TV show. He’s been on magazine covers. People recognize him on the street.
And me? I’ve got a beat-up Honda, a studio apartment I can barely afford, and a collection of emotional scars that would make a therapist weep. We’re from different worlds, and pretending otherwise is just setting myself up for heartbreak.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs makes me tense. River appears, and I focus very intently on the box in my arms.
“Hey.” His voice is gentle, careful. “You okay?”
No. Absolutely not. I almost kissed you and it terrified me and I can still feel your hands on my waist and I don’t know how to process any of this.
“I’m fine.” I keep my voice light, casual, like my heart isn’t still trying to escape my chest. I shove the box at him without meeting his eyes. “Here. Just a few boxes left.”
He takes it, and I see him hesitate like he wants to say something. Please don’t. Please don’t acknowledge what almost happened. Please just let me pretend it didn’t.
“Okay,” he says finally, and I could kiss him for not pushing.
Except I definitely cannot kiss him. That’s the whole problem.
We make quick work of the remaining boxes, moving in silence that’s thick with everything we’re not saying.
I keep my distance, staying on the opposite side of the stairwell, making sure our hands don’t brush when we pass boxes between us.
By the time we carry the last box upstairs, I’m wound so tight I might snap.
“I’ll start on the bed frame,” River says, surveying the pile of pieces we’d left in the middle of the floor. He’s giving me space, I realize. Letting me retreat to a safe distance while he works.
“Thanks.” I grab a box labeled “Clothes” and carry it to the tiny closet. “I’ll start unpacking.”
River sits on the floor with Tobias’s socket wrench and starts to assemble. I focus on hanging up my limited wardrobe, trying not to watch the way his shoulders move as he works or how his forearms flex when he tightens the bolts.
Very professional, Kiera. Very focused on your goals.
“So,” River says after a few minutes, his voice breaking the silence, “what kind of music do you like? I realized I don’t know.”
I pause with a t-shirt halfway into a drawer. Safe topic. Music is fine.
“Uh, I guess I’m into indie stuff mostly now. Singer-songwriter type things. Phoebe Bridgers, Brandi Carlile.” I shove the shirt into the drawer. “But when I was younger, I was really into pop-punk and emo.”
“Yeah?” He sounds genuinely interested, not mocking. “Like what bands?”
Heat creeps up my neck. “Fall Out Boy was one of my favorites. But like, their early stuff. Before they got all mainstream pop.”
“Take This to Your Grave era?” River looks up from the bed frame, and there’s this spark of excitement in his eyes. “I love that album. ‘Grand Theft Autumn’? ‘Dead on Arrival’?”
I freeze, staring at him. “You know Fall Out Boy?”
“Know them?” He grins, going back to work on the bed frame. “‘Champagne for My Real Friends, Real Pain for My Sham Friends’ is one of my favorite song titles ever. And ‘Saturday’ off From Under the Cork Tree? I used to listen to that on repeat.”
“You’re messing with me.”
“I’m really not.” He attaches another piece of the frame, not looking at me. “I had a lot of downtime on the Kid Logic set. Spent a lot of time in my trailer between shoots, listening to music. Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, My Chemical Romance—all of it.”
I sit down on the floor, temporarily abandoning my unpacking. “River Stone, former child actor and current K-drama enthusiast, listening to emo music in his trailer. That’s almost too much.”
“What can I say?” He glances at me, and his smile is self-deprecating and genuine. “I’m a complicated person.”
“Apparently.” I pull another box toward me, but I’m smiling now despite myself. “Did anyone else on set know about your secret emo phase?”
“Are you kidding? I was like thirteen and trying desperately to seem cool. I definitely wasn’t advertising my music taste to the crew.
” He fits another bolt into place. “Though the hair and makeup people definitely noticed when I tried to grow my hair out during summer break to do the side-sweep thing Pete Wentz had going on.”
The image of teenage River with emo hair makes me laugh—actually laugh, not just the sarcastic huff I usually give people. “Please tell me there are pictures.”
“Absolutely not. Those photos have been destroyed for the good of humanity.”
“That’s a tragedy. I would pay good money to see those.”
“Trust me, you really wouldn’t.” But he’s grinning, and the tension from earlier is dissolving into something easier. Something that feels almost like friendship.
We fall into a comfortable rhythm—him working on the bed frame, me unpacking boxes, both of us talking.
He tells me about the Kid Logic set, how surreal it was to be twelve years old and have people fussing over his hair and makeup, how he’d sneak off during lunch breaks to film random stuff with borrowed cameras.
“Did you ever get in trouble for that?” I ask, folding a blanket and setting it aside for the bed.
“A few times.” He moves to the other side of the frame, checking that everything’s level.
“There was one time I accidentally filmed part of the set that wasn’t supposed to be released yet, and the producers freaked out because they thought I was going to leak it.
Had to delete everything and promise I’d clear it with them first from then on. ”
“Were you going to leak it?”
“No! I was eleven. I barely understood what spoilers were.” He shakes his head. “But it taught me to be more careful. And eventually, the director started letting me film behind-the-scenes stuff officially. That’s when I got really interested in filmmaking. They said I had an eye for it.”
I pull out a stack of books and start arranging them on the small shelf by the window. “So even then, you knew you wanted to do more than just act?”
“Actually, no.” His voice gets quieter, more thoughtful.
“I loved acting. I thought that would be my main career. But over the last few years the roles became fewer and fewer, and then my agent dropped me. I like filmmaking, so I’m taking a stab at it.
If this doesn’t work, I don’t know what I’m going to do. ”
His voice is raw, vulnerable, and I glance over to find him focused intently on the bed frame, not looking at me. This is really important to him. This isn’t just a fun project—he needs this.
“Your documentary is going to be really good,” I say, and I mean it. “The stuff you showed me the other night, the way you talked about those people and their stories—that’s real. That matters.”
He looks up, and our eyes meet. “Thanks, Kiera.”
The moment stretches between us, warm and fragile, and I have to look away before I do something stupid like cross the room and hug him again.
Or worse.
I turn back to my boxes with renewed focus, determined to keep things light and friendly and absolutely not romantic.
"Captain Joe taught me how to cook fish," River says after a minute, and I glance over to find him studying the bedframe instructions with a slight frown. "Well, he tried to. I'm not sure I retained much beyond 'don't burn it.'"
Despite myself, I smile. "Revolutionary advice."
"He had this technique though—the sear-and-tent method.
You get this perfect crust on the fish, then you remove it from the heat and tent it with foil.
Let it finish cooking with the heat it's already built up.
" He looks up, meeting my eyes. "He said the best fishermen know when to trust the heat they've already built, instead of trying to force it with more fire.”
Something about the way he says it makes my chest feel tight. Like he's talking about more than just fish.
"Sounds like Captain Joe was pretty wise," I manage.
"Yeah." River's smile is soft. "He was."