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I can tell he’s waiting for me to recognize him, giving me a beat to say, Holy crap, Shane Hott!
After he got on Bridge and turned into a household name, Anthony used to do the same thing.
Seeing echoes of Anthony in this guy makes me even less inclined to give him what he wants. Another Hollywood fuckboy hopped up on fan worship. It’s the last thing my life needs.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Ivy Scofield,” I say, cool and low key, like I’m introducing myself to the manager at the bank.
Surprise flickers behind his eyes, but he hides it, extending his hand. I take it. It’s big, warm, and dry and, unfortunately for my equilibrium, attached to a toned, muscular forearm below a rolled shirt sleeve. The shirt itself is a soft-looking blue gray that clings in all the right places to his movie star–worthy shoulders, pecs, and abs. He has long-lashed dark brown eyes paired with a blade of a nose, square jaw, and lush mouth. Against my will, I admit that he’s gorgeous.
I thought I had permanently rid myself of men who were too good looking to be believed, but apparently not.
“I think we can help each other out,” he says. Actually, he whispers it. “You, um, mind walking with me?” He gestures toward the exit.
“Should I be worried that you’re a serial killer?”
The corner of his mouth turns up. “I’m not a serial killer. I’m an actor.”
“Even worse.”
He laughs, which is terrible because it makes him even better looking, all eye crinkles and white teeth and genuine amusement. Then he stops—because I wasn’t joking and he seems to intuit that.
“Even so,” he says, more seriously. “Please. Just…let me walk you out and tell you what I’m thinking.”
I give him a shrug-nod, and we walk out of Hott Springs together to the parking lot. Now I know who owns the Aston Martin Vanquish I parked next to. I know nothing about cars…but Anthony coveted that car: fast, expensive, and—his words—a dream to drive.
As we draw even with his car, Shane says, “I know you need our barn.”
I flick him a quick, confused glance as hope buys real estate in my chest. It sounds like he’s implying that it still might be possible. I will do anything to save our theater—not just for me, but for the kids. I know Nia feels the same way.
“I can get the barn for you.”
“Hanna said?—”
“Hanna wasn’t looking at the whole picture,” he tells me. “I am.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“You need the barn, and I need you to marry me.”
His too-pretty-for-real-life face is deadly serious now. My mouth falls open.
What. The. Fuck.
So many marriage proposals, so little time.
“Did you just say…?”
“Yes. I need you to marry me. In a month. On June third, to be exact.”
I rearrange my face to be less holy shit and say, “That’s—oddly specific.” I feel like someone pulled the rug—no, actually, the whole floor—out from under me.
He nods. “There’s a lot of wedding preparation already in place for that day. It just needs a bride and a groom. A celebrity bride and groom.”
“Is this about how you need some buzz? You need a better platform? You want producers to see how much value you’ll have for their next project?”
Something like amusement crosses his face. “Uh, no?”
“Then—what?”
