Page 28

“You basically manipulate rich men into taking in the poor people around you, huh?” I say, testing her.

That does it.

Her jaw tightens. Her grip on the book turns white-knuckled.

I catch the flash of anger in her eyes before she turns to face the window.

Good.

Let her be mad.

It’s easier than admitting that I notice her.

That I’m curious about her.

That part of me actually wants to know if she really can match people… or if she’s just another pretty face in a long line of them.

Brody tries to jump in, probably to smooth things over, but I’m already reaching for my earbuds.

I slide them in and lean back.

Let her stew.

Let her hate me.

At least that means she’s paying attention.

MIA

Iswear, if Jack Calloway talks to me one more time, I might actually strangle him with the strap of my carry-on.

No one has ever managed to crawl so deeply under my skin this fast. Not even the bratty twin girls I had to babysit one summer in high school—and they lit my curtains on fire because I told them bedtime was non-negotiable.

Jack Calloway? He’s a walking spark with a gallon of gasoline in each hand and a press team on speed dial. Everything about him screams self-importance—from the way he talks to how he leans back like the world should just tilt itself to keep him comfortable. He doesn’t even have to speak to be aggravating. His entire existence is somehow engineered to test my patience.

I shift in my seat, arms crossed tightly over my chest, eyes glued to the window as the plane begins its descent. I’ve spent the entire flight pretending he doesn’t exist, even though I can practically feel his smirk burning a hole through my peripheral vision. Every time I think he’s finally stopped looking, I feel itagain. That faint pull of attention, like he’s just daring me to acknowledge him.

The plane finally touches down at the tiny regional airport closest to Bardstown. The difference is immediate. There are no flashing lights. No paparazzi. No screaming fans. Just birds, wind, and a sleepy afternoon sun that warms my face through the window.

While we taxi, I call our ride. Jack’s got his headphones in and looks like he’s dozing, but I still grip my phone tighter and whisper into it, “Emma, please tell me you’re at the airport.”

“Already here,” she says with a chuckle. “Sam and I are in his truck, parked right outside. You better be ready for stories—I’ve missed your face.”

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. “I’ve missed yours, too. And I need a full debrief, including what the cottage looks like now, because I swear if he complains, I’m shoving him back onto the next flight.”

Emma laughs, light and knowing. “You sound stressed.”

“Stressed?” I whisper-yell. “You should sit next to Hollywood’s biggest ego for a two-hour flight and tell me how serene you feel.”

“I bet you think he smells amazing, though.”

“Emma!” I hiss.

From the phone, I hear Sam’s voice cut in, dry and unimpressed. “Seriously?”

She bursts out laughing. “Okay, okay. I’ll behave.”

“You’re a psychotherapist,” I mutter. “You should absolutely diagnose whatever condition makes him such a giant jerk.”