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The guy—I’m guessing he’s Blake’s brother, based on the resemblance—stops and stares. “What?”
“A photographer followed me—I don’t want to be seen here.”
The brother jerks out of his trance and points to the front of the chapel. “Get behind the altar.”
“Thanks.” I hurry past the two men and slink behind the fabric-draped table. I consider ducking under, but the back side is only covered halfway down. If Boitano gets this far, he’ll see me. Easier to maintain my dignity if I can just stand up instead of crawling out from underneath.
“You.” It’s Boitano’s voice. Although he’s a photographer, not a journalist, I’ve heard it too many times to mistake the faint Brooklyn accent. “Why are you everywhere I go?”
“Maybe because you’re in my hometown?” Blake says. “Why are you here? And how’d you get through the front gate?”
Good questions, Blake! I’d like to hear the answers, too.
“I have my ways.” There’s unmistakable glee in the smarmy little man’s voice. “Have you seen Nica Holmes?”
“She was amazing in Valentine Dreams.” The brother’s voice is similar to Blake’s but a little lighter. He must be one of my few male fans. My most well-known roles have been in made-for-TV romances, which means most of my followers are women. I hope this doesn’t turn out to be a problem. I don’t need a clingy admirer right now.
“You watch that crap?” Boitano asks.
“It’s not crap!”
“Chill.” Blake’s velvet drawl lowers the tension. “Are you saying Nica Holmes is here? Doesn’t she live in SoCal?”
“I’m going to call the Ranch police,” the brother says. “This guy is trespassing.”
Way to go, brother!
“She’s here for her father’s wedding.” Boitano throws this out as if it’s common knowledge. Who could have leaked it? My money is on the bride—she seems like the type. “His sixth wedding, I believe. I’ll find her.”
“You aren’t welcome here. This chapel is reserved for me right now, and I don’t want you here. Go away.” Stein’s voice is cut off by the whomp of the chapel door closing.
“He’s gone.” The brother hurries up the aisle as I peek around the altar. “I’ll help you get away.”
I beam my “you’ve saved the day” smile at him and take his hand when he reaches out to help me up. “How can I thank you?”
His blue eyes light up. Faint lines crinkle at the corners when he smiles. His warm hand squeezes mine, then releases. “Would an autograph be too much to ask? I’m a big fan.”
I let my smile widen and slide a business card–sized photo from my obnoxiously bright fanny pack. I’d never wear one like this in LA, but I thought it might provide some camouflage here. Typical tourist gear. And I have to admit it’s super convenient. I pull out a gel pen. “Who shall I make it out to?”
“Matt. I’m Matt Hertzsprung, Blake’s brother. He changed his last name.”
“Nice to meet you, Matt.” Hoping it’s not considered sacrilege, I set the card on the altar and write out the inscription. “Listen, just between you and me, no one’s supposed to know I’m here. Can you not mention you saw me?” I pull my sunglasses down to peer over the top, giving him a puppy-dog look. “It would mean a lot to me.”
“That’s why I didn’t ask for a selfie.” He takes the card with a sad smile.
I glance at the front door, still firmly shut, then look back at Matt. He seems like a nice guy, but I’ve been fooled before. “If it were just me, I’d take a chance. But my dad is really trying to keep this wedding private.”
“I won’t tell anyone.” He puts a hand over his heart. “That guy has been hounding Blake for months.”
I bite my lip. I hate to disappoint a fan. And this guy has seen the crazy life secondhand. With a mental shrug, I take a step closer. “If you promise not to share it until next week, we can do a selfie.”
A smile like the sun coming out hits me. “Really? You’ll trust me?” He pulls out his phone.
“Blake seems to, so I will too.” I slide an arm around him and lean in close for the picture. “Thanks for watching my movies.”
“Thanks for making them.” As he puts his phone in his pocket, a faint siren grows louder. “There’s the police. You want to talk to them?”
I back toward the side door. “I’d rather just disappear. The more people who see me, the more likely word is to get out. Thanks for your help, Matt Hertzsprung.”
