Page 6 of The Small-Town Seduction Plan

I wake, groggy and confused in a strange bed, until I realize I’m wrapped snug in a mountain of blankets in Blackberry Cove, listening to the rainstorm drip steadily outside the windows.

I sink back into the pillows and yawn, still exhausted from my water-logged adventures last night. I had to hike another mile towards town, cursing Duke Hendrick’s name in the pouring rain before luckily, I flagged down the local tow truck heading out in the opposite direction. Still, by the time I was finally dropped me at my rental house, I was too tired – and waterlogged – to do anything but hurl myself into a hot shower and fall face-first into bed.

The bed I now see has a massive wooden headboard, hand-carved with birds and animals and?—

I squint, looking closer at the figures dancing together across the wood. Dancing, or… doing other, energetic things.

Is that some kind of orgy?

I sit up, looking around the room in daylight for the first time. All the good rentals in town were booked up months ago, but this place had a last-minute cancellation, so I was able to snap it up for the summer – and for a bargain price, too. I’m watching every dollar in my savings account since I don’t know how long it’ll be until my next paycheck. Still, the leasing agent warned me it wasn’t exactly a luxury listing.

“One-of-a-kind local artist’s cottage. Secluded location, eye-catching décor,” the description said.

Looking around the place, I can see, that was a serious understatement. The bedroom walls are hand painted with some kind of jungle scene, with green twisting vines and bright exotic flowers – and the glowing eyes of various wildlife peeping through the foliage. Overhead, the ceiling is midnight blue, dotted with gold astrology constellations, and all the furniture is mismatched, painted wild bright colors. It’s a long way from the California coastal luxe of my LA apartment, that’s for sure.

It's… charming, I decide, climbing out of bed. A fun change of scenery. And with the embroidered drapes pulled back and warm sunlight flooding the room?—

Wait a minute. I stop by the window, looking out at the view. The cottage really is secluded, I’m surrounded by lush trees and rolling fields, peaceful and green with the ocean glittering in the distance under a cloudless sky.

Cloudless. Sunny. I realize, it’s not raining anymore.

Drip. Drip. Drip.

My head snaps around, following the sound of dripping water all the way over to the corner of the room – where water is seeping through the ceiling and forming a wet puddle on the floor.

The floor where I threw my suitcases, and perfect vintage suede jacket in a heap last night.

A very wet heap.

“Noooo!” I wail, diving to drag my things clear. Luckily, my jacket seems to be out of splash-range, and the hard-shell cases have protected the rest of my stuff. Still, there’s wet patch on the rug, and a steady stream of water sprinkling down from the peeling corner of the ceiling. I shove the wastepaper basket to catch the flow, and make a mental note to call someone in about the leak.

But first, coffee.

I pull on a fluffy bathrobe, and head downstairs. The interior design only gets wilder as I go. Orange walls. Aquamarine shag rug. Shelves of misshapen pottery and sculptures. And the art – it’s everywhere, even balanced precariously above the toilet in the pink-and-green patchwork bathroom. I pause to examine the massive canvases hanging on every wall, splashed with bright abstract shapes and swirls, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what, exactly, I’m looking at. Is that a piece of fruit… or a man’s naked butt cheek?

Both? Neither? Who knows, I’ve never been much of an art critic. Maybe this place belongs to a visionary artiste, and I’m lucky to even step foot in their space; one day I’ll be giving interviews about the inspiring summer I spent getting in touch with my inner muse and soaking in their genius.

Literally soaking, if this place springs another leak.

But wild décor choices aside, I’m relieved to discover the cottage is actually a warm, welcoming space. There’s a cozy little living room with an open fireplace, a dining room crammed with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and a tiny kitchen painted in cheerful shades of buttercup yellow. It’s small, sure, and I’m guessing there’s no under-floor heating, spa bathtub, or voice-activated surround sound, but if I couldn’t swing a sprawling mansion like Kate Winslet in The Holiday, then I can definitely live with Cameron Diaz’s charming cottage life.

Especially if it turns out there’s a suave British Jude Law look-a-like ready to stop by and entertain me. He wouldn’t have left me on the side of the road, that’s for sure.

I think of Duke and scowl. So much for small-town hospitality. He’s the kind of guy you’d find armed with a pitchfork, running the poor tourists out of town. And the way he was smirking at me…

Nope! I’m not going to let that asshole ruin another moment of my summer, so I push the infuriating memory aside and go in search of caffeine. I manage to find a jar of instant coffee in a cupboard, and brew myself a mug, then take it outside onto the back patio, which is full of hand-painted flowerpots and old garden furniture, with a view of the rolling fields stretching down to the bay.

There. I take a deep breath of salty sea air, relaxing. It’s so peaceful out here, all I can hear is the chirp of birdsong, and the distant crash of the ocean waves. The sun filters through the trees, dappling the paving stones and warming my bare feet.

Everything’s going to be OK.

I repeat it again in my mind, and for the first time since running out on my wedding, I believe it. So what if my life has been a disaster for the past few months, and my career is hanging on by the tips of my French-polished fingernails?

I can turn it all around. I always do.

Nobody in my old neighborhood expected anything of me, not with a drunk for a father, and an underwhelming B- grade average in school. I always knew, algebra and social science stats wouldn’t get me out of that place, but my pretty face? My body? They were my real golden ticket out. I started landing teen modeling gigs when I was thirteen, and I hoarded every dollar, saving for the day I turned eighteen and could head for Hollywood. I waited tables, scraped up the cash for acting workshops, had my ass grabbed by a hundred drunken dudes, and fought my way past every other doe-eyed wannabe starlet to grab my chance at fame – and I’m not letting go now. Not a chance. If I lay low for the summer, this whole thing will blow over, and I’ll be back on the red carpet again. Glittering, polished.

Untouchable.

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