Dean whistled his way back down the hill to Hazel’s house. He was laden with mops and buckets; it was like Stella ran a cleaning company she was so stocked up. His mind was full of the image of lovely Hazel, makeup free, soaking wet and tousled. She’d looked so vulnerable and so unlike her usual, uptight self. And she’d agreed to let him come back. Score!  

“Knock, knock! The cleaning man is here!”

A breathless Hazel appeared at the back door. She’d tied her wet hair into a quick bun but loose blonde waves were escaping in a very alluring manner. Unfortunately, she’d changed her clothes, exchanging her wet, white t-shirt for a clingy black one. Fortunately, she’d kept on her shorts giving him an eyeful of her long, tanned legs as she raced down the steps to help him with the buckets.

She laughed, “Wow! Your friend must love cleaning. We’ve got like the Ferrari of mops here.” She lifted up an intricate mopping contraption for his examination, it looked like a set of gears on the shiny handle. “They take their mopping seriously in Italy!”

He laughed along with her, enjoying this surprise moment of camaraderie. “Well let’s get to work then,” he said. “I have a feeling we have a few tiring hours ahead of us.”

Hazel smiled, gave his arm a feather light touch, and it happened again, that jolt of connection. His blood hummed beneath her touch. “Thank you for doing this, Dean. It’s kind of you.”

He tried to keep his voice level. “I’m happy to! Didn't you hear? I’m an action hero. My action usually amounts to more than just wielding a mop, but I’m always happy to help damsels in distress.”   

“Well, we’re not damsels and we’re not in distress!” He realized that had been the wrong thing to say. Hazel cast her eyes to the ground, picked up a bucket he’d dropped there, and marched away toward the house. “But we’re happy to have help,” she threw over her shoulder, in an obvious effort at civility.

He’d need to be more careful with his choice of words. No damsels. No distresses. Right. He followed her, but she was up the stairs and out of his sight before he could manhandle all the equipment into the kitchen. Her mother was standing waiting in the kitchen. Clearly she’d been listening. She patted his shoulder. “She’s a prickly thing,” she said, “but trust me, she has a kind, soft center.”

He put down the stuff he was carrying. No sign of Hazel. She must have headed upstairs. “I’m sorry, but I’m terrible with names. Could you tell me yours again?”

The mother blushed and held out her hand, “Indigo,” she said. “Really, you must excuse Hazel. Life's been challenging for her, what with her father dying when she was so young.” She tucked her bottom lip under her top teeth and gave him a sad look. “You and Hazel have a lot in common, you know? You see, I was so busy with my life and career, she was practically an orphan herself.”

So she'd found out he was an orphan. Maybe her daughter wasn’t a fan, but Indigo was. Either that or his sudden appearance had prompted her to do some research. He tried to change the subject. “So you were a career woman, were you? What did you do?”

“Oh, I still do it,” she said breezily. She stared into his eyes, unlike some fans who couldn’t even look at him. “I’m a cultural attaché. That’s what I’m doing in Italy.”

Huh. Sara had said that the gossip in town was that Hazel and her mother had just arrived in Italy from the states. He glanced toward the stairs, eager to get back to Hazel and help her with the mopping, but he wanted to be polite. “And what does an attaché do exactly? I mean I’ve heard of the job, but what type of duties do you have?”

Indigo flapped her hand, dismissing the question. “Oh, you know, attaché stuff, cutting ribbons and, you know, attachéing. But you don’t want to hear about me. I just wanted you to know you and Hazel were kindred spirits. There are very few of those in the world, you know.”

“Huh,” he said, aloud this time. Did this woman have all her faculties?

“Well, you know, I thought since you’d had this big falling out with your girlfriend and you are so traumatized that you can’t even finish the film, so that now they are looking for a replacement, you'd be cheered by the existence of a kindred spirit.”

“Whoa, Whoa.” What was she talking about? “What? I haven’t fallen out with my girlfriend and they aren’t looking for a replacement. Who told you this?”

He remembered his conversation with Sara. She'd seen a photo of Adam and Christopher Brooks in the paper, right? Why hadn’t he paid more attention to that?

“In the papers,” she said. “Don’t you read them?”

Indigo was clearly ‘in the know’. Dean hadn’t picked up a tabloid paper in Italy. It made him anxious just thinking about what he might read about himself.  So the papers claimed that he and Isabella were fighting; well, that didn’t surprise him. It was becoming clearer to him that his relationship with Isabella might be a superficial Hollywood sham. Anxiety punched him in the gut when he considered which of his other Hollywood relationships might be a superficial sham; namely, his and Adam’s. What was Adam doing with Christopher Brooks?

He couldn’t think about that right now. And he wouldn’t betray Adam by doubting him. Adam had been the pillar he had leaned on throughout his entire career. To find out that the pillar might be cracked made the entire world feel a little wobbly under his feet.

“No, I don’t read them,” he said to Indigo and tried to smile. “Well, I’m going to go upstairs to help the non-damsel who is not in distress. It was great to meet you. You know, you'd get along with my friend Stella who owns the house where I'm staying. You should stop by and visit sometime.”

All of his earlier light-heartedness had faded. He’d been looking forward to the job ahead of him because he’d been looking forward to spending time with Hazel. But kindred spirits or not, this wasn’t the right time to be flirting with another woman. He had way too much on his plate. He’d be worrying about this conversation all night now. Plus, there was the camera looming in the dark closet. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel its presence, especially at 4:00 am when he was awake and thinking.

He headed for the stairs, distracted.

“I’d watch my tongue if I were you!” Indigo called out after him.