Stuck: A Movie Star Romance

by Logan Chance

  He stops and lowers the passenger window. “Where you headed?” he asks.

  “Grocery store,” I tell him.

  “Get in. I’ll give you a ride.”

  I slide in the patrol car and wait for the questions. They don’t come. At least not the ones I expect.

  “So,” he starts, “you’re staying with Nova?”

  “Yeah, for now,” I answer.

  “I’m Beau,” he introduces himself, “and I know who you are.” His reflective shades look over at me. “Just a heads up, I keep an eye out on her.”

  What is he like some potential boyfriend? Doesn’t seem her type, if I were to guess her type. He’s got short, almost buzzed, brown hair, beefy muscles, and just doesn’t seem like what she’d be into.

  “This is a quiet town,” he continues, barreling down the open road, “so there’s bound to be excitement over you being here, but for the most part, I think they’ll leave you alone.”

  Well that would be wonderful, and highly unlikely, I don’t say to him.

  “So, you have a thing for Nova?”

  He laughs like I caught him off guard watching porn. “What? No. It isn’t like that.”

  “What’s it like then?”

  He eyes me for a second. “I look after her like a big brother would a kid sister.”

  “Ah, ok.”

  He laughs again. “I guess I won’t have to do that now, since, technically, you’ll be her big brother.”

  I wish people would stop bringing that up. I don’t know why it bothers me, but it does.

  Maybe because I don’t like the idea of this whole wedding thing happening, or maybe because I can’t think of Nova as a sister. It’s gross. Who checks out their own sister’s tits?

  “Yeah, I guess.” He pulls up in front of the Walmart to let me out. “Thanks, man,” I tell him.

  He nods, and I exit his car.

  A blast of chilly air hits me as I step inside the near empty store. Seems like a lifetime since I went out with no bodyguard. No cameras are flashing in my face. No one shoving each other to get the best shot or yelling things to piss me off so they can snap away and slap a headline on it. I have to say, it’s fucking nice. Reminds me of when I used to be able to hang with my buddies before things got so crazy.

  I get a cart and follow the signs to grocery. A few people shop, meandering down the aisles, but they have no interest in me. They’re doing their own thing. I’m temporarily anonymous, so I take my time, because I can. Before I check out every department, I browse the lighting section. Nova has a broken light on her patio in need of fixing. She really needs to be more careful. I grab the supplies I need, make a mental note to come back for the cool machete, and save the most important thing for last—ice cream. It’s fucking cheap, so I get five and head to the front.

  Lucky number seven is the winning checkout aisle, and that’s when I see the magazine covers with my face decorating the shelves above the packs of gum and to-go Nutella.

  Hollywood’s Hottest Bad Boy and Harley Morgan caught leaving a hotel in Los Angeles together.

  I fucking swear, man. These assholes selling their made-up stories, with no regards to who it affects, is enough to drive you to a drug-fueled orgy. I snatch up all the lies, plus a pack of Swedish Fish flavored gum, and plop them down on the checkout conveyor belt, then, unload my cart.

  The red-haired cashier observes my pile squint-eyed but doesn’t comment. There’s a steady beep as she scans all my items with about as much enthusiasm as a zombie.

  “Six hundred seven dollars and nine cents,” she tells me.

  After I’ve paid, I realize there’s a problem. How the hell do I get this home? I’m not sure pushing this cart two miles back to Nova’s is going to work. I pull out my phone and shoot off a text.

  “Hey, sis. Got a problem.”

  “Stop calling me that, please. What’s wrong???”

  I smile at her extra question marks, as if one wasn’t enough.

  “I’m stranded. Can you pick me up???” I give her a few extra back, and then she calls.

  “Where are you? I have a thirty-minute break,” she says.

  The sound of her voice takes me a little off guard. It’s breathy and hushed and probably not something I should be noticing.

  “Walmart. Can you hurry? I’ve got ice cream.”

  Instead of being annoyed, she surprises me with a laugh. “You’re at Walmart?”

  “Yeah, what’s so funny about that?”

  “Nothing,” she denies, knowing as well as I do that nothing means something. “I’ll be there in five.”

  And she is. She parks in the loading zone and has a dazzling grin on her face when she gets out wearing a short black sundress and sandals.

  “Wow, you really stocked up,” she says as I load her trunk with my purchases.

  “Well, I had some time to kill.”

  I close the trunk and try to avoid looking at the swell of her breasts straining against the top of her dress. I’ve seen lots of tits in my life, real and fake, and Nova may be the winner. Which is absolutely the wrong thing to be conscious of, but I’m a man, so there ya go.

  She drives us back to her place, and on the way there, I can’t stop my eyes from wandering to the creamy skin of her exposed legs or the black material nestled between her thighs. She’s really beautiful, and I see exactly why Beau keeps an eye on her. I can’t imagine there’s much better things to keep an eye on than her in this town.

  She helps bring the bags in, and thankfully, says she’s going back to work before I do something absurd like ask the color of her panties.

  When she’s gone, I make a ham sandwich and step outside on her patio. It’s cute, with a weathered picnic table and umbrella.

  I get to work on fixing her light, then I take a seat. The blue sky is so heavy I could touch it. There’s no skyline just trimmed green grass and mountains in the distance. I feel very small here. My phone buzzes with a text.

  Fuck, my agent.

  I may have forgot to mention I was taking a trip. But, that’s ok, she may have forgotten to mention a lot of things.

  “Where are you?” the text reads.

  I snap a picture of the mountainous scenery and send it. “Not in LA,” I reply back.

  My phone rings.

  “Don’t start,” I answer.

  “You have obligations,” she starts anyway. “I was just told by your assistant, Jared, you had him rearrange your schedule.”

  “Yeah, I’ll fly in on the weekend.”

  “Look, I know you’re pissed at the studio about this, but…”

  “Well you’re wrong,” I bite out. “I’m fucking livid.”

  “Ethan, listen…”

  I disconnect. I’m done listening.

  Chapter 5

  Nova

  It’s much too early for Eminem. Loud, pissed off lyrics about how hard it is to be famous pound from my living room, assaulting my ears. It’s time for a hotel. Or a tent. I roll over onto my back, slamming my pillow over my face. Doesn’t help a bit. Lord, take me now.

  For five days he’s been here. Five long days. Complaining about anything and everything.

  He’s bored.

  He’s cold.

  He’s hot.

  I should be thankful Ethan fixed my light on my porch the other day, and truthfully, I am, but all that kindness is forgotten with the rap melodies blaring from my living room.

  I toss the pillow down and spring up from the bed. My footsteps stomp down the hall to the beat like I’m in some music video, and I enter the living room to be greeted by the unexpected sight of upside-down abs— a true six-pack.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  Completely unaware of the havoc he’s causing, Ethan hangs from my living room entryway frame by his feet, doing these effortless suspended pull ups, and I don’t know if it’s from an overabundance of sexiness or just pure shock, but I need to get on team pull yourself together and quick.

  “
I’m working out,” he pants. “You think I can land movie deals with just my talent alone?”

  He releases the black strap holding his feet in place and jumps down to land right in front of me. I step back a little. It’s hard not to objectify him, but damn. He’s nearly naked in athletic shorts that sit low on his hips, exposing a perfect V. He picks up a very lucky white hand-towel from the chair to wipe the sweat from his brow. His eyes amble down my tank top and sleep shorts, and I’m suddenly aware of the fact I’m not wearing a bra. Mainly because my nipples are now as hard as the muscles on his bare chest.

  “I saw your last movie, and there’s definitely no talent there,” I mutter, heading past him and straight into the kitchen to hide the stiff peaks.

  He gives a small laugh as he follows me in. “You’re feisty in the morning. What happened to polite?”

  “I guess polite flew out the window when I was woken by your music. Don’t you have earbuds like every other normal human being?”

  “I’m no normal man.” He opens the fridge, pulling out a water bottle and popping the top. “I like having the music loud. It energizes me, energizes my surroundings.” He takes a gulp of water.

  “Well, I think you surrounded all of Pity Falls with your music.”

  The sun catches his eyes and the blue sparks to a lighter shade. I see why he gets the movie deals, and it has nothing to do with his Herculean physique or acting. No, this man owns Hollywood because of his bedroom eyes. He slays every girl with one glance from his lethal weapon.

  But, truthfully, it’s more than just that, he’s funny. Like really funny in interviews and onscreen. I’m just waiting to see some of that personality seep into his time here.

  “Are you making breakfast? I’d sure like that egg white omelet.”

  I start the coffee maker, and the stout aroma of roasted beans fills the space. “I’m not your personal chef while you’re here.”

  Which, normally, I’d be a fabulous hostess, but he seems to have found every button I have to push in a ridiculously short amount of time. Besides, I have this nipple situation that, much like him, is not going away.

  I take the creamer carton from the fridge, close the door with a little hip bump, and reach up for a mug from the cabinet.

  This kitchen always seemed oversized until he was in it. Now, it seems like I’m moving in a dollhouse.

  He watches me, his brow raising in the sexiest arch. “I’ll just have some coffee. Dad is picking me up in a few to go to the construction site.”

  I turn to him. “Coffee?”

  “I love coffee.”

  He selects a mug, my ‘Bad Hair Day’ mug, which he certainly isn’t having, and picks up the pot.

  My mind time travels back to the moment I first met him and the coffee he refused. “You didn’t seem to love it so much when I bought it for you the other day.”

  He raises the mug, and before taking a sip, he smiles. “Well, that was the other day.”

  “You’re impossible. I need to get ready for work.” I make my coffee in record time and rush back to the safety of my room to get ready for my job and out of here.

  “So, what’s he like in person?” Charla asks as she foils the hair of Mrs. Durwood from the diner down the street.

  Something holds me back from saying what I really think about Ethan Hale because it doesn’t seem fair. It’s one thing to think it to myself, but another to put it out in the universe where I can’t take it back. And honestly, I don’t know what he’s like beneath the surface. All I know is I missed my chance at a cinnamon roll this morning because I was distracted by abs.

  “I’m still trying to figure that out,” I answer back, sweeping up the remains of my last client’s hair littering the terrazine floor.

  “Are you talking about Ethan Hale?” Mrs. Durwood chimes in. “I heard he was in town for the wedding.”

  “Yes,” Charla replies to her, then looks over at me. “Nova, you have the hottest Hollywood star sleeping on your couch. Come on, you can’t hide all the details. Did you walk in on him in the shower yet?”

  “Yet?” I scrunch my nose. “Try never.”

  I head to the back room to wait on my next client in peace. But I don’t find it.

  “Nova, there you are,” Evie, the owner of Lavish Locks, says, sashaying into the break room. Her glossy ebony hair swipes her ass, and her leather boots ride up her legs to just about the same spot. She’s a mix of Morticia Addams meets runway model and has always been the most glamorous woman I’ve ever known. Today, her silk shirt and lipstick are the same shade of scarlet, and she looks like she should be walking down the red carpet at some awards show. “I was looking for you.”

  “I’m just waiting on Mr. Jenkins. He’s running late.”

  “So, I heard the famous soon-to-be brother made his landing here in Pity Falls.” She moves closer, stopping at the dinette table. “How’s it going?”

  “It’s fine,” I answer, washing my hands in the porcelain sink.

  “Only fine?” She crosses her arms, expectantly. “You’ve got to give me more than that.”

  “Sorry, there’s not much to tell.” I snag a paper towel from the basket beside the sink, dry my hands, and toss it the trash. “He just got here.”

  “I read a story a few months back that he was dating his co-star, Harley Morgan. Did you see that?” she asks.

  Before I can answer, Charla is at the door to the break room with stars in her eyes.

  Oh god, I know what this is. That’s the same look I’m sure I had at the airport.

  He’s here.

  Before I can even get my thoughts together, my worst nightmare is confirmed.

  “Ethan’s here,” she whispers as if he’s Jesus come to save us all.

  Evie is out the door in a whir of black.

  “Ethan Hale,” I hear her say, “welcome to the salon.”

  Reluctantly, I follow behind Charla to where he stands by the front counter looking gorgeous in jeans and a basic white tee.

  “I need a haircut.” He might as well have said ‘I need a blow job.’ Same difference in his seductive voice. It oozes sensuality as if he’s delivering a line in some sex scene.

  I’ve never seen Evie rattled. She’s one of those people who is always calm and collected. Once, she put the wrong color on someone’s hair, and when a clump came out in her hand, you’d have thought she was holding a color swatch. Not today. Her cheeks are as red as her lips.

  “Of course, sit here,” Evie says, patting the back of my leather chair. “Nova will get you all set up.”

  He takes a seat, and the salon is silent—like hear a strand of hair float to the floor silent.

  “Let’s get back to work,” Evie announces, demanding normalcy. “Ready, Nova?”

  I’m not, but I walk toward the chair.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask him once everyone is back to business and we’re alone on this side of the salon.

  “I needed a haircut,” is his dry answer.

  “You don’t have a stylist who normally cuts your hair?”

  He glances around. “Well, I don’t see her here. Do you?”

  I place a towel around his neck and then snap the black robe into place. “I just figured you’d fly her in to cut your hair. Isn’t that what movie stars do?”

  He catches my reflection in the mirror. “Can you just cut my hair? Isn’t that what stylists do?”

  “Follow me,” I say. “Let’s get your hair washed.”

  He doesn’t make a smart-ass remark back, and I silently make a wish to the hair gods that I’ll be able to get through this as quickly as possible.

  At the shampoo station, I lean his head back until his neck rests on the porcelain edge. His eyes flutter closed, and I’m such a creep watching the way his lashes rest against his tanned skin.

  With the water gun in hand, I make first contact with his hair. His eyes spring open, and my heart stammers in my chest as they crash with mine.

  “That’s
cold,” he tells me.

  “Oh, right, sorry.” I adjust the temperature and bring it back to his hair. “Better?”

  “Yeah,” he breathes out, his eyes closing once again.

  My hand rushes through his thick hair. If it could sigh, it would. This is what I’d do if I ever kissed him. I’m ashamed to admit, it’s not a new fantasy. I love hair, and my fingers would tug, pull, and plunder until I robbed him of everything a kiss should be.

  Not any product is worthy of his head, so I reach over and squeeze out a bit of the luxury shampoo, and then my hands have a mind of their own as they make love to his hair. I massage his scalp, exploring with just the right amount of pressure. He lets out a slight ‘Mm’ as I dip my hands down to the base of his neck and knead the tense muscles until they relax. This is my specialty and why my client list is the longest. Although, I’m sure every stylist washes his hair like this. How could anyone not?

  At this point, I can no longer lather his hair without it looking odd, so I rinse the shampoo out and grab the conditioner. When I turn my attention back to him, his eyes are open, watching me.

  My hands shake just the tiniest bit. I wish he’d close his eyes, it was easier to admire him when I couldn’t be seen.

  I try to look everywhere and anywhere that isn’t directly in his eyes. It’s very hard. It’s a stare I’ve never experienced.

  Finally, his eyes shut again, and I can relax.

  “That feels so good,” he says.

  I need to get this over with before I respond with ‘Tell me more.’

  A quick rinse and then I wrap his head in a black towel. “Back to my chair. I’ll be right there.”

  He rises and heads back over, and I suck in the deepest breath I can muster before joining him.

  I don’t think I’m going to survive this haircut. As he tells me what he wants, I feel a little like Delilah about to shear away Samson’s strength.

  But I do.

  And better yet, I don’t say another word to him, except, the occasional question that pertains to his likes and dislikes about his hair. I keep it professional. He does not.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be talking?” I brush the stray hairs off his neck and his eyes meet mine again. “You’re the least talkative stylist I’ve ever met. This is supposed to be sort of like hair therapy.”