by Cat Cavaleri
When the news camera swings to Connor, my heart stops.
He looks nothing like himself.
He looks aloof, indifferent. Heartbreakingly sexy, but utterly cold. Like a character in one of his movies.
He’s decked out in a slick suit. His hair is combed into a sleek side part that would turn wild in the first gust of wind here on the ranch. He’s got a huge, empty smile plastered on his face. He raises his hand to the mob with the smooth polish of a politician and waves at his fans.
I grip my knees, fighting against a strange pain I can’t explain. On the couch next to me, Dad glances my way, then turns up the volume. We listen as Connor is interviewed at the mall by a TV reporter.
“Oh, it’s great,” he booms in a voice that sounds like it belongs to a cheap salesman, not the man I know. “I love getting out and mixing it up with my fans—my real fans, am I right?” He turns to the crowd behind him, which lets out a shrill whoop of approval.
“What do you like most about Wyoming, Connor?” the reporter asks.
“Big blue skies and the best wildlife in the whole country. It’s like I’m in a nature documentary. I can’t wait to check out Yellowstone.”
Why doesn’t he say anything about the café, about the ranch, about me?
“Do you have any big plans before you go back to Hollywood?”
Connor gives the reporter a shrewd grin. It’s so calculated, so false, it turns my blood to ice water.
“I’m gonna take as many selfies with as many fans as I can. It’s my favorite thing to do, hands down. I love you guys!”
And the crowd screams like a pack of rabid coyotes.
I can’t take it.
I jump to my feet and rush out of the room. I slam my bedroom door and sink down onto my bed.
I’m confused and hurt.
The Connor Larson I saw on the news is nothing like the Connor Larson I flirted with and joked with and made love with.
I’m so stupid. Connor Larson is an actor. Either he was acting when he was with me, or he’s acting for his adoring fans.
Which Connor is the real Connor?
What if there is no real Connor? What if he’s whoever you want him to be? Just an empty shell.
Just an actor.
I hear a gentle tap on my door.
“Missy?” my dad says, opening the door. “You wanna tell me?”
I shake my head.
“Just leave me alone,” I say. “Please, Dad.”
He lets out a little sigh and makes to close the door.
“Looks can be deceiving, Missy. It’s what’s inside that counts.”
As the door softly shuts, my eyes fill with tears.
I know, and that’s exactly the problem.
The words I thought the day I met him echo in my mind:
Who on earth is Connor Larson?
8
Missy
“Where is he?” the director fumes for the fifteenth time. “Where the hell is that damned diva?”
The director, the crew, Dad, and I have been waiting nearly three hours for filming to start. The repaired camera is mounted on its rig, the new lens is in place, the lighting equipment is powered up, the sound gear is on, my dad and I are in our costumes. The only thing missing is the star.
Connor is nowhere to be found.
According to the director, whom I’ve eavesdropped on to pass the time, Connor held up his end of the bargain. He went to the TV and radio studios for his interviews, he made his appearance at the mall, he even glad-handed the local VIPs at the hotel where he and the crew were staying. Then, at six o’clock last night, he informed the director that he would find his own way back to Bryce in the morning, and he vanished.
“Where the hell is he?” the director exclaims, cramming three ginger candies into his mouth and crunching down on them hard.
To me, it’s obvious where Connor is. Last night, he went out partying with his fans. He lost track of the time. And he slept with one of them. Or more than one. I don’t want to believe it, but what other explanation could there possibly be?
I’m just one in a string of girls for him. He’s a famous movie star. He can—and surely does—have any woman who catches his eye.
He had me, after all.
How could I have been so naive?
I glance across the café and catch Dad gazing at me sympathetically from behind the grill.
“Where is he? Where the fu—”
But the director doesn’t get to finish his thought because at that moment Connor rushes through the front door of the café.
His leather jacket is on his back, the fake dust is in his hair, and the scar is on his cheek.
“Sorry. Let’s go,” he says brusquely.
He slides into the booth, grasps the coffee cup, and inhales deeply.
“I’m gonna murder you to death, you elusive son of a bitch,” the director growls as he and the crew hurry to get into place.
“Marks!” the director’s assistant bellows.
I try to catch Connor’s eye, but he’s in character and he won’t look at me. The designated assassin isn’t supposed to look at the waitress.
I step onto a little X made of masking tape that denotes my starting place and pick up my coffee carafe. A grip activates the steam machine on the grill, then Dad picks up his prop spatula and beings poking at the rubber fried eggs laid out across the cold surface.
“We’re rolling,” the director of photography announces.
“Action!” the director calls out.
The camera glides forward on a set of miniature train tracks fixed to the floor, smoothly moving toward Connor. He clutches the empty cup in one hand and clenches the other in a fist on the table. A camera operator fluidly lifts the camera off its wheeled platform and swings it toward the coffee cup. I step forward and pour a thin stream of coffee into the cup. The camera stays on the now-full cup, then slowly pans up to Connor’s face.
He clenches his jaw, makes it twitch, then abruptly rises and stalks out of the café. The cameraman follows him out the door and is joined by three other crew members. Together, they hook the camera onto a small crane.
I step to the window to watch. I’m not supposed to, but nobody can see me.
Connor stops in the middle of Main Street, hesitating. The camera crane swivels around him from above, filming him in increasingly tight arcs like a circling hawk. Then, as it makes one final swoop, the director of photography himself deftly unhooks it, jams it onto his shoulder, and begins to follow Connor as he stalks purposefully down the road.
For nearly two minutes, Connor walks and the director of photography films him, now from the side, now from the front, now from the back. The two of them are almost out of sight when the director shouts, “Cut!” into his walkie talkie.
Not a word is said within the café as he perches on a folding campstool in front of a computer monitor reviewing the footage. Just as he reaches the end, Connor returns from his long walk.
“My man!” the director exclaims, rising and throwing his arms around him. “That was it, that’s the shot! We got it, people!”
“Is it a wrap?” the director of photography, the camera still on his shoulder and his face slick with sweat, inquires.
“That’s a wrap!” the director shouts.
Connor doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t smile or clap like the rest of the crew. He turns on his heel, slaps his hand down on the counter next to my dad, and rushes out the door of the café.
I’m stunned.
He didn’t spare me a glance.
He just left.
I look down at the booth where we spent so much time together, at the tabletop with the prop coffee cup he held in his hand for so many hours. It’s the only thing he left me.
No…there’s something else.
I frown as I spy a piece of notebook paper lying folded in half on the seat of the booth. I pick it up.
My name is written on it.
I unfold it and read two wor
ds:
“Come outside.”
What does it mean?
Is he afraid I’ll make a scene when he tells me that what we had meant nothing, that it’s over, that he’s going back to Hollywood where he’ll forget all about me?
My spine stiffens. I crumple the note in my fist and head for the door. I’ll let him act out his callous farewell. I won’t say a single word in response. I’ve got more pride than that.
But before I can step outside, my dad grabs my elbow.
“Missy,” he says urgently. “Look what Connor slipped me. What do you make of it?”
He’s holding a piece of folded notebook paper, just like the one balled in my fist.
I take it and read:
“Hank,
The café is yours. You owe me $1.
Connor Larson”
His signature is huge, elaborate, adorned with heavy downstrokes and swooping curlicues.
The perfect autograph for his number one fan.
I’m filled with confusion. What is going on?
From outside, a strange sound suddenly cuts through the noise of the crew dragging equipment to the trucks, banging trailer doors closed, and shouting to one another.
Dad and I step through the café door.
The strange sound grows louder.
It can’t possibly be…
I push past a rack of costumes, dodge a stack of lighting gear, and clap my hands over my mouth in surprise.
It’s an accordion.
Connor is standing in the midst of the bustling crowd with a chunky red accordion strapped to his chest.
He squeezes the bellows in and out as the fingers of his right hand fly over the keyboard, attracting the attention of the film crew. One by one, they stop working to stare at him. He doesn’t spare any of them a glance. His eyes are riveted on me.
He’s smiling.
He plays the entirety of “That’s Amore” without lifting his gaze from my face, and finishes with an intricate arpeggio flourish.
The crew bursts into amused applause.
His smile—the one that’s just for me—becomes a broad grin.
“You have no idea how hard it is to buy an accordion in Cheyenne, Wyoming, after six p.m.,” he says.
I can’t speak. I can only shake my head helplessly.
“As soon as I could get away from the paparazzi and the fans, I went to every music shop, department store, pawn shop, and thrift store I could find, looking for one.”
“Why?” I say.
“Because you wanted to hear me play.”
A smile tugs at my lips. I feel like I’m becoming weightless, like I could float up into the blue sky that hangs above us. But I want to keep my feet on the ground.
“Is that why you were so late today?”
“No.”
He unstraps the accordion and sets it on the ground. He closes the distance between us and gazes down at me.
“This morning, before dawn, I rented a car. I drove from Cheyenne straight to Verna’s place. I made her an offer. She agreed to sell me her ranch and the café. She was pretty excited to be moving—I might have volunteered us to help her pack.”
I gasp.
“My god…why?” I blurt out.
He reaches out and takes my hand.
“I want something new. I want a home. I want you.”
A harsh clatter from the cherry picker lift makes me jump. I glance over my shoulder to see it rattling up toward the roof of the café, the crewman in it preparing to remove the prop sign.
“Hank,” Connor calls out to my dad, who’s hanging back watching all of this. “Maybe we should tell them to hold off on replacing the old sign until we can get one that says, ‘Hank’s Café.’”
“Well…could be,” Dad replies, which is his laconic way of saying, “Hell yes!”
I reach up and wrap my arms around Connor’s neck. His hands slip around my waist.
“I think I’m going to kiss you,” I murmur.
“I think I’m going to kiss you right back,” he replies.
As our lips meet, the crew erupts into whistles, cries of “Awww!” and more applause.
“Is this what you call a Hollywood ending?” I ask.
“More like a Hollywood, Wyoming, ending,” he replies, leaning down to kiss me again.
It’s exactly the kind of ending I’ve always wanted.
THE END
About the Author
Cat Cavaleri writes romance stories you can believe in. From sweet and sensual to steamy and sexy, she loves coming up with unforgettable characters and tantalizing scenes that will fuel your hottest fantasies. Today’s a good day to fall in love!
Connect with Cat on Twitter or Instagram: @catcavaleri
Check out her latest books at catcavaleri.com.