Page 19 of Wildest Dreams

“No, it—it is. I mean, I’m not.” She’s flustered, and I feel terrible. She takes a deep breath. “It’s not you. You’re wonderful. In fact, you’re perfect, as far as I can tell. It’s me. I wasn’t expecting…well, I don’t really know what I was expecting. Ugh. I hate myself. This is awkward.”

I reach out and rub my hand on her arm. “It’s fine. Really. And don’t say you hate yourself. It’s bad for your energy.”

Her face softens. This has to be the first time she’s been on a date since her divorce. Part of me sees red flags but, at the same time, it’s refreshing to see a woman with her heart on her sleeve. It’s also nice to talk to someone who isn’t trying to be some artificial version of themselves that they think will attract a celebrity. She’s genuine.

“Look,” I say, brushing my fingers across her hand, “take a few days. I’ll get in touch with you and if you want to hang out again, great. If not, thank you for a wonderful evening. I’m delighted I got to meet you. No pressure for future dates.”

She nods and relaxes. “That sounds good. Thank you.” She squeezes my hand, then immediately releases it to wrap her arms around me in a hug. I hesitate for a beat, then lean down to return the gesture. She’s tiny in my arms and I feel like if I hug too tight, she’ll break.

When she pulls away, I open her door and she gets in. Keys in hand, she waves at me. I return the gesture and close the door, then walk to my rental car to begin the short drive to the lake house.

KENDALL

Idrive the three blocks it takes to get back to my office/apartment. I could’ve walked but these shoes hurt my feet and I didn’t want to be limping on my date.

Yes, that was actually a date.

I’m still in shock.

And Tucker was there. I’m not sure how I feel about that. Part of me wants to laugh my tail off, but part of me doesn’t want to think of him at all. I don’t want to be smug; I want to be indifferent. I want him to not exist in this town so I can live my life without the cloud of that relationship hanging over me.

I walk up the narrow, uneven steps to my apartment. This building is over eighty years old and the wood creaks under my feet. The paint is peeling from the plaster walls, which makes it look a little haunted. Patsy keeps trying to talk me into some funky floral wallpaper and extra lighting, but I haven’t gotten around to it. She is right, though. It really would brighten things up.

I collapse on my bed, my head still spinning. Pierre Chatham likes me.

Me.

Little nobody me.

Pierre f-ing Chatham.

The bad thing is, I like him too. He’s so open, so matter-of-fact, so attentive. I don’t feel like I have to try hard to keep his attention the way I always did with Tucker. Pierre is down-to-earth. He’s polite and not at all pretentious about being famous. On top of all that, he has that irresistible Hollywood hunk look that makes me want to internally combust.

I pull my phone from my purse and text Pierre to let him know I got home okay. A few minutes later, it dings in return, letting me know he made it home—to my old home—as well. He tells me he hopes I have a good night, but I don’t respond.

I can’t let this go on. I’m already smitten, but the thought of losing my heart again makes me physically ill. As soon as I let down my guard and see him again, I know I’ll fall harder, and it’ll be that much worse when he leaves in a few weeks.

I cannot go through that again. The divorce nearly killed me. It’s not worth the risk. But damn if he isn’t tempting.

* * *

The next day my mom calls me at exactly eight in the morning, right as I’m unlocking the front door to my office.

“What’s this I hear about you dating a movie star?”

“How did you?—”

“Calista saw you and texted your dad.”

I roll my eyes. “Dear lord.”

“So? How in the world did you end up on a date with Pierre Chatham at Cattywampus?”

I tell her the short version and we end the call with my promise to keep her updated, but the last thing I want is my parents involved in my love life. After the whole Tucker debacle, they’re understandably a little overprotective. The less they know, the better.

Patsy arrives earlier than usual, throws her purse on the front desk, and comes straight into my office without so much as a good morning.

“So?” she asks, her hands shaking with excitement.

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