Harlow

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“Miss Grace, over here!”

“Miss Grace! How do you feel about being called America’s new sex symbol?”

“Have you ever thought about baring it all for the camera, Miss Grace?”

“There are rumors you go topless in your new movie—can you confirm this, Miss Grace?”

“What do your parents think about your status as a sex symbol, Miss Grace?”

“What was it like filming with Dawson Kellor, Miss Grace?”

I ducked my head, as if the barrage of questions was a physical assault, and that’s sure how it felt. I ignored the questions and pushed through the jostling crowd, shutters clicking and flashes blazing. My bodyguards held me between their bodies, their thick arms barring anyone from getting too close, but even the imposing statures of Trace and Van couldn’t block out the questions. I was less than twenty feet from the door of the hotel to my limo, but it felt like a mile. You’d think that by the hundredth time you’d gone through this you’d get used to it, but you don’t.

I talked to Dawson about it on set once. Having been famous for a lot longer than me, he had some wisdom on the topic.

“You don’t ever get used to it,” he said, his deep voice conveying his own distaste for it. “And if you do, it’s time to quit Hollywood.”

Dawson’s wife, Grey, had smiled at me. “Harlow, honey, you’ll be fine. The paparazzi is part of the job, that’s all. He hates it, I hate it, and I don’t think I’ve ever met another actor who didn’t hate it. But if you love the work, you just…deal with it.”

Dawson’s loving smile as he gazed at his gorgeous wife had melted my heart. “Yeah, well, you’re more pragmatic than I am, honey. That shit makes me cranky.”

She’d just giggled. “Good thing I know how to cheer you up, huh?”

How could they still be so sweet, so in love? They were Hollywood’s darling couple, Dawson and Gray Kellor. They had three kids together, and were clearly just as in love as the day they met.

But their advice had been good—the paparazzi were part of the job, one we all had to deal with.

As good as the advice had been, it didn’t make it any easier to deal with having invasive questions shouted in my face, having cameras snapping at me from every angle. And then would come the flood of wildly speculative articles in all the gossip rags and rumor blogs—

Which Hollywood hunk had I hooked up with? Had Dawson and I carried out a torrid affair during the filming of December’s Last Light? Did Grey know? Was he leaving Grey for me? Were the nude photos leaked onto 4Chan really of me? Had I leaked them, or had I been hacked?

It was all bullshit, of course. Dawson was so in love with Grey it was stupid. Our kiss scene had been carefully choreographed, and Dawson had insisted on one take only, with Grey watching—and as soon as the take was done, he’d bolted away from me and gone to her. The sex scenes had been faked using body doubles and CGI—a topic Dawson had been vocal about during the press tour. And yes, there had been a body double for me, too. No, the photos on 4Chan weren’t of me. After all the leaked photo scandals of recent years, there was no way in hell I’d ever take a nude selfie, even if I did have a boyfriend—which I didn’t.

But still, the rumor mills loved to create drama.

And the rumor mills loved me, more than anyone else right now. There were so many rumors circulating about me it was impossible to keep them all straight, and it could be a full-time job keeping on top of them all. My publicity team killed the nasty ones, and the blatant lies right away. I categorically denied the rumors about Dawson and me in a series of carefully scripted interviews. The nude photos were obviously not of me, so those I ignored.

But no matter how much damage control I did, the press seemed determined to turn me into some sort of…well…sex symbol. Regardless of the fact that I’d never appeared topless in a movie, or shown any more skin than what you’d see in a bikini. I’d never done a full-on sex scene myself; I used body doubles exclusively …yet I was a sex symbol. There were posters of me, memes of me, photoshopped nudes…someone had even used an open-source CGI face-replacement software to put my head on a porn star’s body, and had then uploaded the video to all the most popular sites. It had gone viral within days, despite my team getting it taken down as quickly as possible—the internet is forever, and now that stupid “deep fake” video crops up every few months on a different site, under a different name, from a different source, but it’s always my face on that woman’s body, doing things I’d never done, or ever would do, and would certainly never do on film.

I wanted to be an actress, not a sex symbol. I was careful about the roles I took—I was careful to take roles that were serious, and that would further my career. I had no interest in being tits-and-ass fodder for a boobs and guns and explosions flick. I had an education in film from NYU, had earned my chops on stages and sets from the time I was sixteen years old. I’d acted on Broadway with some of the biggest names in theater, and had filmed my silver screen debut with Steven Soderbergh, to rave reviews. My second film had been my big mistake. The director had insisted on a bikini shot—me on the beach, nothing revealing or sexual. The scene had fit in with the rest of the plot, so I’d done it happily enough—because shit, what was the point of paying nutritionists and trainers to keep me looking this good if I never showed it off?

The roles I was offered after that had all been about the T-and-A.

I’d turned them all down, and instructed my agent to stop sending me anything that wasn’t a serious role. Eventually, I’d gotten a decent script, a drama in which I played the love interest and foil to Dawson’s character. It was serious, a heavy, intense role, and early buzz was that it was an Oscar contender. I’d gone all in for the role, and had, I felt, turned in my best performance to date.

Yet all the talk in the press was all about me in the sex scene—which, again, I hadn’t actually filmed. The rumors were that it really was me, that I was playing coy, or something.

So here I was, leaving a hotel after an exhausting six-hour press junket, being assaulted by the paparazzi, bombarded with the same stupid mindless questions. Denying that I was sex symbol just made it worse, it seemed. How did that make me feel? I wanted to be an actress. I wanted to be taken seriously, and I had no interest in being perceived as a sex symbol.

I wanted to be seen for more than my body.

Yet that’s all they saw.

Harlow Grace: five-nine, 32DD, 26-inch waist, and 35-inch hip line. Strawberry blonde hair that grew in perfect, natural spirals. Flawless skin and eyes so blue people often assume I wear contacts. Abs you could wash clothes on, an ass you could bounce a quarter off of, and legs a mile long.

To most people, that’s me—a bunch of statistics…a sexy body.

Not the fact that I graduated high school at sixteen, made my professional stage debut at eighteen, received a degree in Fine Arts from NYU at nineteen, made my film debut at twenty, and had three major Hollywood acting credits to my name by twenty-one. No mention of my MENSA IQ, perfect SAT and ACT scores, or the fact that I was valedictorian in high school and at NYU.

Trace and Van pushed through the crowd of paparazzi to the limo and Van opened the door for me while Trace blocked anyone from reaching for me while I climbed in; I was wearing a short skirt, which made climbing in and out of a limo without letting the paps get an up-skirt photo difficult, something else Trace’s broad physique was useful for.

Once I was in the limo and the door was closed, Trace rounded to climb in on the other side while Van took the front passenger seat next to Enrique, my driver. The interior of the limo was as I liked it—sixty-eight degrees, with a chilled Perrier on hand. Emily, my assistant, was already seated across from me, iPad out, stylus flying.

She launched into her spiel the moment I sat down. “All right, Low—you have a sixty-minute hot stone massage back at the hotel in thirty minutes. You’ll have a little over an hour to take a shower and get dressed before the glam squad arrives to prep you for your Vanity Fair interview. Then dinner with Martin—I think he has a few new scripts to discuss with you. After dinner, you’re scheduled to make an appearance at a party downtown, hosted by…Damon and Yolanda, I think it is—yes. You’ve already RSVP’d so you really should show up for at least a few minutes, especially since it’s going to be attended by quite a few important producers.”

I sighed, twisting off the top of my Perrier. “At what point do I get to stop and take a breath, Em?”

Emily blinked at me, trying to formulate a response. “Well…now that the press tour is over with, we might be able to schedule you a few days vacation time, but remember you’ve already agreed to guest star in those episodes of Westworld next week. Ummm…” She consulted her iPad, where she kept my master schedule. “You have the Dior perfume commercial after that, followed immediately by a Vogue shoot in Prague, and you’re hosting SNL after that. If you don’t take any new scripts, I can get you two weeks off in…August.”

I stared at her. “Two weeks…in August? It’s April, Em.”

She shrugged one thin shoulder, her neat blonde bob swinging as she tilted her head in an attempt at sympathy. “We really need to ride the wave of publicity this film is generating, Low. We talked about this, and you agreed. I have Prada in talks with Martin for a whole series of shoots—they want you to be their spokeswoman. If the Dior commercial goes over well, they want you for some fashion shoots. There’s a team at Netflix developing a period drama mini-series set during the French Revolution, and Martin is hearing talk of you as the star—no script offers yet, but it’s still early.”

I groaned, head thumping back against the leather headrest. “I’m tired, Em. I’m just…tired.”

“It’s another fifteen minutes with good traffic back to the hotel, and you have that massage. You’ll be relaxed and refreshed in no time.” She tried a bright but fake smile of encouragement.

Emily was a fantastic assistant—she was hard-charging, whip-smart, efficient, organized, had a sixth sense for what I needed and when I would need it…but she was cold as ice and brittle as porcelain, and absolutely terrible at anything like sympathy or empathy.

I took another sip of Perrier, wishing it were something stronger. “I don’t mean I’m sleepy, or under the weather, I mean I’m fucking tired. Like, bone-tired. I haven’t slowed down or taken a single day off since…ever! It’s been nonstop, every day, all day for years, and I’m just tired.”

Emily stared at me, her mouth working. “I…um. I can see if Dior is willing to reschedule—if they can, I could get you a week.”

I shook my head. “I need more than a week or two, Em. I need a real break.”

She flipped the stylus around her index finger repeatedly; it was a nervous tic that showed up when I messed with her carefully choreographed scheduling of my time. “I’m…I don’t know what to say, honestly, Low. If we canceled everything, you could take the summer off, but your visibility and relevance would suffer immensely.”

“My visibility? Let’s worry about my sanity!” I resisted the urge to scream at her for not understanding my stress level. “Between the latest round of rumors about Dawson and me, and the fake nude scandal, and the million, billion questions about whether or not I’m topless in this movie, I’m just done with everything, Em. I can’t handle any more bullshit right now. Okay? I just can’t. I’m at the point where yeah, I’m about to cancel everything and just vanish.”

“You—you can’t cancel Westworld, Harlow,” Emily stammered. “You’ve signed the contract. You’ve gotten half the money. You have to do Westworld, at the very least.”

God, I knew Emily was panicking if she called by my full first name—she only ever called me by my nickname, Low.

I groaned. “Fine! Okay. I’ll do the stupid show.”

“You love that show, Low.”

I threw the Perrier bottle cap at her. “I KNOW I love that show, goddammit! But I don’t want to do it!”

Emily was silent, toying with the cap that had beaned her in the Botoxed forehead. “I’m sorry, Low. I’m just trying to—”

I cut in over her. “No, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. You’re just doing your job, and you’re amazing at it.” I smiled at her. “Let’s get through today, and we’ll figure the rest out tomorrow, okay? What do I have tomorrow?”

Back on more familiar ground, Emily perked back up. “Tomorrow is light. Brunch with the publicity team, a blowout and manicure, that tour at the children’s hospital…and that’s it.” She shrugged. “Oh, and you have a training session with Marcus at six.”

“In the morning?”

“Um, yes? It’s your first session with him, and he’s the personal trainer everyone is talking about. You wanted to make a good impression on him, remember?”

I groaned again. “Next time I have a genius idea like that, smack me.”

“Um, yes ma’am.”

I laughed. “Don’t actually smack me, though. You’re a twig, I’d break you in half.”

Emily smirked at me. “I have a brown belt in Aikido, actually.”

My eyebrows shot up. “You do?”

She nodded. “My brother is an instructor at a dojo in San Bernardino. I take lessons once a week.”

“Wow. I had no idea.”

Even during the massage, I couldn’t quite relax. I was too stressed, my mind flitting from one thing to another like a manic housefly. Interviews, photo shoots, commercials, hosting SNL, guest starring in Westworld—it was all evidence that I’d made it. I was an A-list celebrity, almost a household name, and the press tour for December’s Last Light was pushing me into a whole new stratosphere. I was certain my agent, Martin, would be giddy with excitement at dinner, and would bombard me with his ideas as to which scripts I should look at.

I loved the work. I honestly did. Being on set, creating characters, working with my idols…it was a dream come true, it’s what I’d been fantasizing about since the first time Dad took me to a movie theater. I’d watched Julia Roberts on the huge movie theater screen, and I’d just known that would be me someday…and my first role had been in a film with Julia, which had been surreal. Everything was golden.

So why was I so…

Unhappy?

It wasn’t unhappiness, though. It was something else.

Loneliness?

I was surrounded by people: Emily, Trace—who was sitting beside me in the limo, burly arms crossed—Martin, Lindsey my publicist, the glam squad that went pretty much everywhere with me.

But they weren’t friends.

I’d had plenty of offers for dates, of course, and from some pretty eye-wateringly famous and gorgeous men. But I was too busy, and I didn’t trust anyone. Especially not anyone in the industry—I’d watched too many costars go through breakup after breakup, and I’d only been in the Hollywood a few years. You just never knew if the notion of a celebrity hunk wanting to date me was genuine, or if it was a publicity move. No thanks.

So yeah, I was lonely.

I was up the next morning by five and at the gym by six, and Marco ran me through a grueling, brutal workout. Back to the hotel to clean up, carefully coordinate my outfit, get made up by the team, brunch with Lindsey and her crew, during which she ran a million different ideas past me for how to leverage various pieces of press and which to squash and which to ignore.

The brunch was winding down, but I could tell Lindsey had something else on her mind. On the far side of forty and looking barely twenty-five, Lindsey was the type to talk a mile a minute and say whatever was on her mind, so for her to shift and squirm in her chair, glancing uncomfortably at me…

Whatever she was sitting on wasn’t good.

Picking at the last of my salmon Caesar, I fixed her with a hard stare. “Out with it, Linz.”

Brushing a lock of artfully dyed black hair away with a long, French-manicured fingernail, she smiled at me and sighed. “You can tell, huh?”

“You don’t wear bad news well, babe,” I said. “Just hit me with it.”

“Remember that girl’s night you had with Grey and Jen last month?” she asked.

I eyed her warily. “Yes?”

“There are…pictures.”

I chewed on my lip, trying to remember. “Pictures of what? We had dinner, drank some wine, and sat in private booth in a nightclub.”

“You also danced.”

I sighed. “Yeah, well, it was a nightclub. And it was dark, and I danced with Grey.”

Lindsey brought out her iPad, and flipped it around to show me the photo. It was of me, wearing a little silver dress, hair in my face and sticking to my forehead. I looked drunk—because I had been. Grey was behind me but her head was turned so it wasn’t immediately obvious it was her. In front of me was a guy—big, thick arms and a five o’clock shadow, a bit of a belly, too much product in his hair. The photo made it look like we were dancing together. In reality, he’d been dancing with his boyfriend, and hadn’t even looked at me, but the angle, and the fact that I looked visibly intoxicated…

“Several blogs have it.”

“It’s just a stupid photo. I don’t know him, I wasn’t dancing with him, and he’s fucking gay! I watched him make out with his boyfriend on the dance floor! Did they get shots of that?”

“No, and it wouldn’t be any better if they had. The articles are all saying you and Grey had a threesome with him. You and this guy and Grey were also photographed getting on an elevator together.”

I groaned. “Coincidence, Linz. Jesus.”

“I know. It’s just one more stupid story.” She fixed a concerned look on her face, but I knew this was the kind of thing she lived for. “But combined with the fake nudes and the rumors about Dawson that won’t go away, your image is taking a hit.”

I groaned out a sigh. “Linz—I really don’t care. I just don’t. Let them think I had a threesome. Grey and I know the truth, and so does Dawson—he picked us up from the club himself that night. I’m just past caring.”

“You want the serious roles? You want to be taken seriously as an actress? You have to manage this stuff. You have to care.”

“Yeah, well…I don’t.”

Lindsey sighed, tapping a nail on the counter. “You should do that charity gala next week. I’m sure Emily could fit it in while you do Westworld. They have plates available still, and it would be a great photo op.”

Emily, beside me, was already working. “Yeah, absolutely. They have you shooting all day Monday and Tuesday and then on Thursday, and the gala is on Wednesday. It would totally work.”

I sank low in my chair, biting hard on my lip. “No, no, no.” I sat back up, hands flat on the tabletop. “Em, I told you yesterday I wanted to cut back commitments, not add to them!”

“But your image, Low,” Lindsey said. “Managing your image has been a priority since day one.”

“There’s one day between tapings,” Emily said. “We can get you a private flight from the Utah shooting location back to LA for the gala, keep the jet on standby, and fly back that night.”

I shook my head. “Fine. Whatever. But nothing else.”

It was the last day of filming. I was sweaty, exhausted, and ready to go home. Makeup dabbed the sweat off my forehead, cheeks, and upper lip, touched up my makeup while a stylist fixed my hair and tugged the bodice of my western-era gown—complete with hoops—back into place.

The director called for places, and I took my mark. On the snap of the clapperboard and the call of “action,” I started my walk down the boardwalk, across the dusty street, and to the opposite boardwalk. I was supposed to flaunt the walk, twirling a parasol, making the hoops of my skirt jostle and bounce. Don’t cover up my cleavage with my arms, keep my chin up—glance provocatively at the other guest star…move my eyes away just so. My fingers had to be in just the right positions on the handle of the parasol. Don’t trip as I stepped down from the boardwalk. Ignore the dust crunching in my molars and coating the inside my nostrils. Ignore the droplet of sweat trickling down my spine. Ignore the fact that I’ve done this walk eighteen times already, and it’s never quite right—my hands aren’t right; my arm covers my décolletage, ruining the allure of the shot; my hair gets blown out of place by an errant gust of wind; I turn my ankle when my heel catches on a stone the crew missed when they raked the street. It’s always something.

This is meant to be my introduction, this scene, even though it’s the last one I’m filming. Finally, after the twentieth take, I got the walk across the street perfect, and the director called cut, and a wrap for the day. Once I was out of costume and makeup, I sat for a moment in my trailer, just breathing. I had a car waiting to take me to the airfield where the private jet would take me back to LA. A masseuse was waiting at home, along with a bottle of cabernet.

None of it sounded appealing.

I’d done the gala yesterday, but it had been a disaster. My date—a former costar—got drunk, embarrassing me and himself, and there’d been pictures of us. Of me, awkwardly trying to help him stay on his feet as he fell into the limo. Of me, a forced smile in place as he leaned against me during a photo op. He’d whispered filthy insinuations the whole time, lewd suggestions of what he’d like to do to me if I went back to his hotel with him…

Lindsey had apologized for my date’s behavior at the gala, but the damage had been done. What had been intended to massage my image had only done worse damage, adding fuel to the roaring inferno that was the Hollywood gossip machine—Harlow Grace enabling former costar’s downward spiral; Harlow checks Tom into rehab; Exclusive photos: Harlow and Tom’s drug and alcohol-fueled sexcapades revealed!

And then I’d twisted my ankle on the sixteenth take of that stupid walk—I’d said it was fine and had acted as if it didn’t hurt, when in reality it was throbbing like a bitch, and I wanted to cry.

I reached down, massaging the ankle, wincing and whimpering as the touch sent jolts of pain through me.

And, at that moment, my phone rang. I answered it on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

I should have checked the ID—the last person I wanted to talk to right then was Lindsey. “Low, thank god you answered.”

I held back a sigh of irritation. “What’s going on, Linz?”

“How’d filming go?”

“I twisted my ankle and had to do the same dumbass scene twenty times before it was good enough. I’m tired, my ankle hurts, and I’m cranky. What do you want?”

Lindsey sighed. “You’re going to hate me.”

“Fucking what, Lindsey? Just say it!”

“A video surfaced.”

I groaned. “A video of what? If it’s another fake porn, just pay whatever you have to and make it go away.”

“No, this one…is definitely you.”

“There aren’t any videos of me.”

Lindsey’s pause was revealing. “It’s a cell phone video of you from a few years ago. From your NYU graduation party.”

I sat up, my blood running cold. “That was a private party. I knew literally everyone there.”

“Someone took a video of you wearing nothing but a mini skirt and a bra…um…doing a keg stand, and then doing a lewd dance with a young gentleman.”

I let out a string of curses. “He was my boyfriend. Everyone else was gone. It was just my roommate, Carla, my boyfriend, Harrison, our best friends Frida and Rain, and me.”

“Well, someone took a video and sold it.”

“Who?”

Another heavy pause. “Carla.”

“Can we bury it?”

“No. It’s viral already. It’s a pretty high-quality video, and the dance you do at the end is…well…”

“It was a lap dance for my fucking boyfriend.”

“Low, I know. Okay? I know. I’m doing what I can to suppress it, but—”

“It’s already viral.” I swallowed tears. “I can’t believe Carla would do that. We were roommates for three years.”

“Some people will do just about anything for a payout.”

“If she’d asked me for money, I would have given it to her.”

Lindsey sighed. “I’m sorry. I really am. I thought you should know.”

“Thanks.”

I hung up and sent Emily a text asking her to have the car ready. I put on a ball cap, donned my biggest pair of sunglasses, gathered my bags, and exited the trailer. Van and Trace were outside my trailer, waiting, and they took my bags from me. They were impassive as they escorted me away from the set and to my car. Emily was in the back seat of the SUV when I got in, and she handed me a Perrier as soon as I was buckled in.

“Did Lindsey get hold of you?” Emily asked.

“Yeah.”

“My contacts at the airport are saying the paparazzi are already waiting.”

Panic shot through me. “I can’t—” I swallowed hard; Carla’s betrayal was weighing heavily on me, sitting in my gut like acid. “I can’t handle that right now.”

“What do you want to do?” For once, Emily seemed to realize I was in no shape to be argued with.

“Reroute.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere!” I shouted. “I don’t care. Anywhere. Not LA, and not New York.”

Emily hurried forward to confer with the pilots, and was back within minutes. “Seattle?”

I nodded. “That’s fine. Get me a hotel under a fake name, and get me in without being seen. Delivery door, cargo elevator, the works.” I fixed her with my do not fuck with me glare. “Not one picture, not one question. I am on a hair trigger right now, Em. I will have a fucking meltdown.”

A few hours later, I was in a hotel room in Seattle under the name Sandy Olsen. Emily answered the door when room service brought me dinner and a bottle of cab, and poured us both a glass.

“So.” Emily took a sip, glancing me over the rim of her glass. “Now what do you want to do?”

I’d been thinking about that question all the way here, and I’d arrived at the answer. “No one is going to like my answer to that. Just fair warning.”

Emily set her wine down and picked at the cheeseboard. “Seeing as you’re supposed to be heading to Paris for the Dior commercial in two days and we haven’t packed you yet, I’m guessing we won’t.”

“Get Martin and Lindsey on the phone,” I told her. “I’m not going to repeat myself when I say this.”

When the conference call was going, I took the phone from Emily and paced with it. “Martin, Linz, you’re not going to like this, but after Carla selling that video of me, I’m just done.”

“Done how, babe?” Martin asked.

“We can spin this,” Lindsey said. “You were young, it was a private party, he was your boyfriend at the time. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

“I’ve seen the video,” I said. “It is a big deal. I’m all but topless in it. That bra—I still have it. It’s basically sheer. I wore it for Harry—” I paused, anger and disappointment and sickness billowing through me. “Anyway. It’s fuel for the whole sex symbol thing. Everyone is going to think I put it out there myself. It’s already everywhere, and it’s only going to get worse.”

Lindsey sighed. “You’re right there, unfortunately. The buzz is…not good. I mean, you’re trending all over Twitter, but you’re spot-on in terms of the speculation.”

“We’ve already gotten at least fifty offers for you to do what amounts to soft-core porn,” Martin added. “Hustler, Playboy, and Maxim all want exclusives. More serious offers all include significant sex scenes.”

“See?” I suppressed a sob. “I’m not that actress. I’ll quit before I do any of that.”

“So what do you want to do?” Lindsey asked.

“I’m taking a break,” I said. “Indefinitely. Once the hype dies down, we can see about some serious scripts, but for now, I’m out.”

Martin groaned. “I can get you serious scripts, Low. You vanish now? You’ll have to take bit parts again just to build your credibility back up. Demand is high for you, right now. And I know you hate the nature of the attention, but it’s adding zeros to what you can ask for in a contract. I know you don’t want to hear this, but if you did one scene, not even frontal, just a butt shot or something with a strategically placed towel—Jesus, Low, I could put you in the top tier of earners within months.”

“Fuck you for even suggesting it, Marty. I said no the first, second, fiftieth, and hundredth time you suggested that and I’m saying it again now. I’m not doing it. I won’t.” My sigh was shaky. “I didn’t even want to do the bikini scene.”

“I’m just saying,” Marty simpered. “It’s my job to get you work, and to get you the most amount of money for that work. I’m just informing you what I could do for you, under the right circumstances.”

“Enough,” I snapped. “I’m leaving Hollywood for a while. The city, and the industry. End of story.”

“How long?” they both asked in unison.

“I don’t know. Until I can handle the idea of going back.”

“Where will you go?” Emily asked. “Finding privacy is going to be tough, especially now.”

I collapsed backward onto the bed, sighing. “That’s the part I don’t know.”

There was a silence, then.

Marty was the one to break it. “I, um, have a suggestion.”

“If it involves me doing a nude scene, you’re fired,” I said.

“No, I meant about where you could go.” I heard him tapping on a keyboard. “My second wife and I took a cruise for our third anniversary. One of those Alaskan cruises, you know? It was great. Beautiful scenery all around you, day hikes and things like that, whale watching, kayaking.”

I snorted. “I’m not doing a fucking cruise, Martin.”

“Well, not on a public cruise line, no.”

I sat up, starting to understand what he was saying. “Go on.”

“My buddy is a yacht salesman. I just sent him an email, should hear back by tomorrow. We get you a boat, and I don’t mean, like, a little harbor jumper, I mean the real deal. Oceangoing, you can live on it indefinitely, that kind of thing. You head up the coast and get lost in all those little passages and inlets. It’s deserted up there, Low, and I mean it’s remote. But there are lots of little towns and fishing villages and stuff. Life is different up there, I’m telling you. Even if someone did recognize you—which they may not, way up there—they’ll leave you alone. Maybe take a selfie to show their grandkids, but you don’t have to even leave the boat if you don’t want to.”

“So I live on a boat?” I asked, not sure how I felt about that prospect.

“One of the stops on the cruise was a place called Ketchikan. Cute, quaint, remote—and accessible by boat or air only, and you have to take a ferry to the airport.” I heard the glug of booze pouring into a glass, and he took a sip. “There’s always yachts at the dock and cruise ships and stuff, since it’s got deep water and it’s on the main part of the Inside Passage, so one more boat shouldn’t attract too much attention. If you keep your head down, literally, you should be able to hang out up there for a while and catch your breath.”

I thought about it, and the more I thought, the more I liked it. “Martin, you just earned your commission, my friend.”

“That one’s on the house, baby. I’ll email Emily some yacht options when Nicky gets back to me with some ideas.”

“Thanks, Martin.”

I heard him take a drink. “Low, baby, you’re golden, okay? You get yourself some R-and-R, and when you come back, I’ll get you a script you’ll fall in love with, okay? That’s a Martin Fitzpatrick promise.”

“Sounds good. Bye, Martin.” I heard him disconnect. “Linz?” I prompted.

“We’ll ignore the video, and Emily can cancel all your slots—it’ll hurt you, but we’ll make it work, if you’re absolutely sure you need this.”

“Linz, Carla selling the video put me over the edge. The straw that broke the camel’s back. I need a break. Okay?”

“Okay, honey. I hear you loud and clear. Consider it handled.”

“Thanks.”

I ended the call, and lay on the bed, trying to imagine several months alone on a boat, sailing along the Alaskan coast—no Wi-Fi, no blowouts, no manicures…but no paparazzi, no interviews, no rumors, no six in the morning personal trainer appointments, or nutritionists telling me to cut back on the carbs and eat more fucking celery. Just me, and the ocean, and whatever the hell I wanted to do.

And just like that, I could almost breathe again.

A few minutes later, Emily interrupted my daydreaming. “Okay, I have emails out to everyone, canceling all appearances, shoots, and interviews indefinitely.”

“Have all my phone calls ping over to you,” I told her. “If it’s someone I really want to talk to, you can have me call them back. I’m going off the grid, Em.”

“Can I come with you?” she asked. “It sounds nice, honestly.”

I laughed. “Hell no. The point of a vacation is to not need an assistant. Duh.” I smiled at her. “But don’t get too excited. I’ll still need you when I come back.”

She let out a breath, and, for the first time since I’d hired her, closed her iPad and put it aside. “What will I do in the meantime?”

I shrugged. “I’ll pay you for the rest of the year in advance, plus a little bonus for putting up with me.” I waved a hand. “Go lay on a beach and drink rum and flirt with the pretty cabana boys.”

“Now you’re talking.” She waggled her eyebrows. “There’s a bartender in this little dive bar I know in the Turks and Caicos, and…oohhh honey. He…is…fine.”

I laughed. “Go get ’em, tiger.” I frowned. “After you work out the yacht and the crew and stocking it and getting me clothes and all that.”

Emily blew a raspberry. “That’s already half done. I have a caterer ready to stock the boat, a hiring agency vetting potential staff—you’ll need a chef and a butler, at least, along with the boat crew—and, oh what else? Oh yes, I have Iris gathering your wardrobe and shipping it to us.”

I lay back on the bed with another laugh. “And that’s why you’re getting a bonus, Em.”

Two weeks later, I was the owner of the newly rechristened Lola—a reference to my nickname, and my favorite childhood dog, a yellow lab named Lolly. The Lola was a thirty-meter cruising yacht with two full cabins and four smaller ones. It wasn’t the newest, or the fastest, or the most expensive, but it had seemed the homiest and most comfortable, to me. Unassuming but lovely from the outside, the interior had recently been totally refitted in a sleek, comfortable, airy modern look, with every amenity you could imagine.

It came with an experienced captain and crew, each of who had been thoroughly vetted and had signed ironclad, draconian NDAs. I paid cash for it—my financial gurus had balked, but I’d told them in no uncertain terms that I’d earned the money and would use it as I saw fit; sell the New York condo, if they wanted extra moveable cash. Five million dollars later, she was mine, rechristened, fully stocked with months’ worth of food—healthy food as well as comfort food, thank you very much—and a large selection from my wardrobe. My phone was off, my email and calls rerouted to Emily, who could contact the captain if I was truly needed—e.g., a medical emergency with my parents, for example—and we were motoring up the coast. I was sitting on the deck, reading a book, and drinking a glass of wine at…well, before noon, possibly. I wasn’t sure of the time, and I didn’t care.

We would reach Ketchikan in another few days, the captain had informed me. We could hold there, or keep going up the coast if I wanted, and circle back. Or go wherever. Now that I owned the Lola, I could go literally anywhere.

I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of this before.

Ketchikan was not what I expected. At once cute and charming and rustic, it was larger than I expected. I decided to put in for awhile, give the crew some time off and just be totally alone on the boat. After all, the chef had prepared several weeks’ worth of meals, so all I had to do was heat them up.

Thus, I found myself on the Lola, tied up to a slip at the end of a long series of docks. There were several other ships near mine, smaller sailboats, a few larger fishing vessels, a couple pleasure crafts, and another cruising yacht like mine—my Lola didn’t stand out at all, which was exactly how I liked it. I could sit on the deck, sip coffee in the mornings, watch the locals and tourists come and go, and enjoy the peace and quiet.

I’d been in Ketchikan about a week when trouble finally caught up to me.

I was on the front deck, nearest the shore and the docks, doing yoga. I had some nice peaceful piano music going, and I was halfway through the first series of poses when I heard footsteps on the docks. Running feet, a quick, light, powerful tread. My slip was on the very end, so the only place to go was to turn back around, which made me wonder why anyone would jog this way—there were plenty of other, more scenic places for a morning jog than the far end of the Ketchikan docks.

I shifted poses, which allowed me to get a look at the runner.

Name a Hollywood hunk, and I’ve met him. Nice guys, most of them. All gorgeous, obviously. Rich. Suave. Cultured.

None of them did a damn thing for me.

This guy? Heart palpitations.

I don’t know why, either. It was just…something about him. I mean, duh, he was damned beautiful—over six feet tall, lean and shredded, with perfect abs and nice arms. Tattoos on his forearms, and dark, almost black hair held out of his eyes by a running headband, earbuds hanging from his ears. Sweat all over his body, pouring off his face, running in rivulets down his chest. Even from twenty feet away, I could see his eyes were a shocking, intense shade of green… and they were locked on me.

Did he recognize me? I wasn’t sure yet. I wasn’t going to give myself away by bolting inside, but nerves hammered through me. The last thing I wanted was for my nice peaceful morning yoga session to be interrupted by an awkward, sweaty fan thinking he had a shot with me.

Keep running, I chanted to myself, continuing to the next pose. Just keep running.

But holy hot damn, the boy was beautiful. How old was he? A little younger than me, maybe? Twenty? And so pretty. I mean…I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel butterflies in my stomach—and lower—when he ran closer to my boat. God, those abs. That chest? Those arms. Ugh. Distracting, is what he was.

I started a complicated variation of the Warrior Three sequence as he approached—a bit of a show-off, but hey, he was looking, so why not be at least a little impressive, even if I didn’t want him to know who I was, or stop to talk? Looking was free, right? And if he didn’t take a picture or bother me, what was the harm?

Only, I was distracted by him.

My foot slipped on the mat, and then my ankle rolled out from underneath me mid transition, and…

I fell.

My head cracked against the deck, and I saw stars, dizziness keeping me flat on my back as pain blasted through my skull in waves.

I heard the runner curse, and caught a dizzy image of him making a running leap from dock to deck, a lithe, impressive move, I noticed, even in pain and dizzy.

He knelt beside me, breathing hard. “Are you all right, miss?” There was an odd formality to his manner of speech. “Are you injured?”

I groaned. “My head.”

“Do not move, please.” He tugged a cell phone from the pocket of his running shorts, pressing a button that silenced the tinny music from the earbuds now dangling from his neck, and then turned on the flashlight on his phone. “Look into the light, please, miss. Look to the side…the other direction, now, if you please…”

With just his fingertips, he lifted my head up off the deck, and then probed where I’d hit my head—at his touch, as gentle as it was, I moaned. “You are bleeding, and I believe you have a mild concussion.”

“Are you a doctor?” I asked, my voice tight with pain.

“No. I have received concussions before, however, and I am familiar with their symptoms.” He stood up, flexing his hands into fists and then shaking them out. “Can you stand up on your own?”

I tried, but dizziness washed over me, and I only made it to one knee before I nearly fell over. His hands were strong and warm on my bare arms as he caught me, and then he helped me to my feet, but let go of me immediately, wiping his palms on his shorts. Strange, but okay. Germaphobe, maybe? I’d certainly met plenty of those in LA, but it seemed odd in Alaska, unless he was a tourist.

I wasn’t making sense, even to myself.

I tried to keep on my feet, and even managed a few steps, but a wave of pain washed through me, nearly knocking me to my feet. “Jesus. I hit my head harder than I thought.”

“May I help you inside?” He wrapped an arm around my shoulders, carefully holding me upright.

Which was weird. Anyone else would have used the opportunity to put his arm around my waist, probably as low as possible. I was only wearing a pair of tight capri yoga pants and a sports bra, so there was plenty of skin, yet his arm went to my shoulders, holding me up but taking no liberties at all.

I pointed the way to the saloon—the living room—and he helped me to the couch.

“Thank you. I’ll be fine, now,” I said.

His smile was tight and uncomfortable. “You should ice that bump before the swelling becomes too bad.” He glanced around. “I could get you ice, if you wanted.”

I gestured. “The…god, it hurts… the galley is over there. Through the door.”

I heard him go past, and then heard him rattling around in the kitchen. In a moment, he was back beside me, kneeling on the floor and touching a makeshift ice pack to my head. He smelled good—like sweat, but not body odor. His eyes were truly shocking in their green intensity and, up close, his features were even more beautiful than I’d first thought.

“My name is Xavier Badd,” he said. “I apologize if I distracted you. I did not mean to stare, but you are very beautiful—that is…I mean—” He blinked rapidly. “I should not be so forward.”

God, he was an unusual one, wasn’t he? I didn’t see any sign that he knew who I was—just that I was a beautiful woman, it seemed.

“I’m…” I hesitated. “My name is Low.”

He frowned. “Low? As in, the antonym of high?”

I nodded, and then winced, regretting the movement. “Yeah. Exactly.”

“Low.” He smiled, another of those tight, uncomfortable, practiced smiles. “I am sorry we met under such circumstances.”

I grinned. “Well, I’m not. If I’m going to fall and embarrass myself trying to show off, it may as well be in front of a hot guy, right?” I groaned. “God, I’m still embarrassing myself.”

“Hot guy?” he asked, seeming confused. “Whom?”

I snorted. “Funny. Like a guy as sexy as you doesn’t know what he looks like.”

He blinked at me again. “Oh. You were referring to me?”

He was serious? “Um, yeah. Me, Low. You, hot guy. Xander, you said your name was?”

“Xavier.”

“Xavier, sorry.” I winced again. “I’m usually better with names.”

“Difficulty with short-term memory is a common side effect of a concussion.”

“And you’re not a doctor?” I asked.

He shook his head. “No, I am not a medical professional.”

“So…what do you do, Xavier?” God, I was flirting with him? The concussion must have knocked my better sense out of my head.

He shrugged. “I, um. I build robots and sell them on my website. I also work at a bar I own with my seven brothers.”

“You build robots, work at a bar, and you have seven brothers?” I let my head rest against the back of the couch.

“Yes.”

“And you look like…that?”

He frowned. “I—ah. Well…I do not see the relevance of my appearance to this conversation.” He winced, closing his eyes hard, and then opening them again and fixing them on me. “Sorry. My social skills tend to suffer when I am nervous.”

I smiled up at him as he stood up. “Why are you nervous, Xavier?”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “You make me nervous. Beautiful women make me nervous, and you are…very, very beautiful.”

“Thank you, Xavier.” I patted the couch. “Why don’t you sit down? I’m not sure I should be alone just yet.”

He sat on the edge of the couch. “With a concussion, I believe you are correct in not wishing to be alone just yet.”

He stayed.

And I was intrigued.