Beneath the bright blue, newly bought University of Kansas hat, my blond wig itched my scalp like I’d been infested with lice. If I didn’t trust Max so damn much to not only purchase the ridiculous disguise—which worked surprisingly well based on the bland stare from my Uber driver—I would have told him to go to hell when he more than gently suggested I spend the summer in Kansas.

I was going to be living in the middle of nowhere, helping his niece on her family’s ranch.

Me. Cooper Hawke. Three-time Emmy Award Winner for Best Leading Male in a Drama was going to spend the next three months shoveling horse shit.

It’d be hilarious if it wasn’t such a perfect metaphor for what my life had become in the last six weeks since Camilla found a new way to get under my skin in a way she wasn’t before.

I fell in love with Camilla at a casting party for a movie I made five years ago. I should have known then, considering she was attending the party with some B-List washed-up actor, she was preparing to dig her claws into a moneymaker. Spend enough time in Los Angeles, around people only wanting one thing—to know what you could do for them—and you learned to read the signs pretty quick.

Unfortunately, I was so instantly lost in Camilla’s honey-colored eyes and her flexibility in bed—both in her body and positions she was willing to try whenever I suggested something—she flew straight to my dick, bypassing my gold-digger radar. I had no idea she’d not only had multiple affairs, which wouldn’t be such a surprise in the Hollywood industry but that she truly didn’t love me.

At least that’s what she said when I came home and caught her bent over our kitchen counter taking it doggy style, from ironically, a dog walker back in January.

We didn’t even own a dog.

He’d stumbled over his haphazardly shoved down jeans and scurried out of our house before I could slam my fist in his face.

She had tucked her ample breasts back into her bra and smoothed down her dress while ignoring her white lace panties still tangled around one ankle. Then she’d crossed her arms over her chest.

I’d stood there, completely speechless. I loved her. I loved her from the moment I saw her, and I thought, knew, we’d be the Hollywood Couple that would stand the test of time. We’d be together forever, have children together, fill a home with a family and pets and laughter and love.

My suburban upbringing had rendered me completely naive to the fact that this woman, this woman who I loved with my entire soul and my entire being, could look at me so callously and say, “It was never about love, love. It’s always been about the next big thing, moving up, getting ahead. I only apologize I stayed with you long enough for you to believe all of this was real.”

I groaned and scrubbed a hand down my face. I couldn’t scrub the memory out of my mind regardless of how many hours I tried. But just thinking of those words sent a vicious punch flying to my chest.

Shit had just started calming down when six weeks ago, Camilla started making a new play—one to get me back. Since then, I’d been hounded day and night, not only by her but the paparazzo. I could hardly take a shit in my own home without seeing a photographer creeping along the fenced edge of my property.

When Max approached me, practically demanding I get the hell out of town for a while, I didn’t exactly jump at the opportunity, but did I consider it?

Obviously, since I was currently being driven down a two-lane road with nothing but fences and green grass as far as the eye could see along with the sprinkling of cows and horses roaming within their large fenced in acreages.

But still? A freaking farm?

Half of my brain must have imploded the day I caught Camilla. How else could I explain this? I might have grown up in a mid-size town outside Buffalo, but nothing in either my life or my acting career prepared me for what I was about to face.

I was about as handy with a hammer and saw as I would be building the next rocket to space.

A flash of panic hit me, my chest ignited, and heat spread. My hands grew clammy and I shoved one against my sternum to quell the rising pressure in my heart. I couldn’t stand the flash of panic.

I rolled down the window in order to catch some fresh air.

“You okay, sir?” the Uber driver asked.

“Yeah.” I inhaled deeply, catching only the whiff of farm and manure and whatever else clung to the air here and quickly rolled the window back up. “Just a bit of motion sickness is all,” I said when he peered at me through the rearview mirror.

He nodded, but his eyes were doubtful.

I wasn’t going to throw up. That’s not what happened when I thought of Camilla and a panic attack followed. They built slow, slow enough I thought I could beat them, until the weight of a dozen elephants slammed onto my chest, suffocating me, turning my world black and causing me to break out in a cold sweat.

It was debilitating, and all I really wanted was a bottle of Jack and a two-liter bottle of Coke so I could drown my sorrows and anger at my wife—ex-wife—and pass out until the feeling passed.

“No worries,” the man said. “We’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Thanks.”

Less than five minutes later, we pulled off the two-lane road and onto a gravel drive. Metal gates were opened, barely allowing enough room for the car to pass through. Our tires rumbled as we drove over thick, metal lines the same level as the ground. A curved sign hung over the narrow drive and gleamed brightly as if recently polished.

Marx-Splendid Ranch

From what Max told me, his sister Corinne married Robert Marx, practically a farming legend around these parts. Max’s sister fell in love with Robert when they were freshmen at the University of Kansas, and the rest was history. They died just over two years ago, together while driving down to Oklahoma for a horse show. The deepness of emotion when he shared what happened to his sister, his concern about his niece, his insistence she needed help and I could be that guy for her while getting my head on straight was the final straw in taking my agent’s advice.

But who in the hell was Splendid?

I barely finished the thought before the driver pulled up to a house that made my eyes bug out. Farmhouse.

It was a freaking farmhouse, looking exactly like it hadn’t changed a single inch since the eighteen hundreds. I’d seen photos of homes like this. I’d seen them in magazines and in movies and on sets, and hell, it’s not like I hadn’t driven past farmhouses before in upstate New York, but there was something about this one.

This freaking farmhouse made my blood rush.

It was cinematically perfect in its upkeep from the bright white paint to the red front door and crisp black shutters. The front, wrap-around porch had a gleaming gray stain, and along the railing, as well as at the edges of every single step, were red and black flower pots, blooming with a wide array of flowers in whites and yellows. I couldn’t have imagined a more picture-perfect farmhouse.

“We’re here,” the driver said, when I didn’t climb out of the car.

I was too busy gawking at the house, the porch, the red and white barn to the left, a smaller house to the right, and a handful of other small buildings.

“Got it.” I pulled out a twenty and handed it to him before sliding out of the car. He met me at the trunk, pulling out two of my suitcases while thanking me for the tip. I grabbed two more duffel bags.

I packed as light as I could, but three months was a long time, and who knew what could happen. Plus, I grabbed every personal item I could find, because hell if I was going to give Camilla the belief she had a right to anything of mine anymore.

As he slammed the trunk closed, I shook his hand and wished him well, and when he was back in his car, I spun on my heels, taking in the front porch on the storybook farmhouse.

“Now what in the hell do I do?” I scrubbed my hand down my face again. The wig caught on my ear and I tore it off along with the hat.

I used it for security at the airports and in public, but now there wasn’t a need.

Bending down, I tucked both items into a pocket and as I stood back up, a wooden door slammed closed.

A woman, much younger than I expected for some reason, walked across the front porch and paused at the top of a set of stairs.

Her long dark hair billowed in the wind, blowing around her shoulders, creating her own personal shawl as we stared at each other.

She didn’t look thrilled, but I was Cooper Hawke. I was used to women pretending to be immune to me, Camilla being the perfect case and point.

There was something about this woman’s hesitance to welcome me that made me pause.

“Hello,” I finally said when our silence stretched well past awkward. “I’m Cooper. Are you Miss Marx?”

The name Max gave me of his niece escaped me.

Her body jolted and she stepped forward. “Splendid. Marx was my maiden name.” She walked down the stairs. She moved with the grace of a woman comfortable in her own skin, a trim woman who clearly took care of herself, based on the slender thighs, and the slight curve of hips obvious in her skin-tight jeans that were tucked into worn, tan cowboy boots.

I couldn’t hold back a grin. A storybook cowgirl perfectly fit the home.

And something around me settled. Something released, like the breeze of the Midwest actually had the ability to blow away all my feelings of stress and anger and betrayal.

I shook off the strange sensation. She was married, based on the diamond on her ring finger.

I flipped through my conversations with Max but couldn’t recall him mentioning she was married. But who knows? I’d been so baffled at the idea of coming here I probably missed it.

As she walked closer, it was her eyes that pulled me in. They lacked warmth. There was nothing.

They weren’t cold or angry. The rich, black pools were void of absolutely anything.

Much like my own had appeared to me in my mirror’s reflection since I walked out on Camilla.

“Rebecca Splendid.” She held out her hand as she reached me. “Nice to meet you, Cooper.”

“Thanks for having me.” I extended my hand, surprised by not only her warmth but the firmness in her handshake. It was so unlike all the women I spent time around who daintily held out their slim and faux-tanned fingers, expecting brushes of lips against them or a gentle wiggle. “I appreciate you letting me hide out here.”

“Yes, well…” her eyes drifted off to the left before returning to me. “I’m pleased you can be here.”

She said it sweetly. I didn’t believe her for a second.

I dropped her hand and grabbed two handles of my luggage, my duffel bags already slung over my shoulders. “So, is there somewhere I can put these?”

I moved to head toward the house in front of me, not even thinking before now that for next three months this woman and I were expected to live together, when she stepped in front of me, abruptly blocking my way.

“There’s a guesthouse. It’s out back. I’ve prepared it for you.”

“Oh.” My eyes jumped to the small little home and back to her. “Of course.”

Because she was married. Obviously, I wasn’t going to be living in their home, and while a small burst of disappointment pinged in my chest at the thought of not living in the beautiful home, the guesthouse was a much better idea.

Privacy. It was exactly what I needed and what I hadn’t had in months. “Great. Thank you.”