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Will had been floundering when he arrived in town, at the end of his tether, not that anyone would know it. It wasn’t that he was ungrateful with life, it was just that for the last year or so he had struggled to control the feeling that had crawled into his skin and settled in his veins.
The urge toescape.
He didn’t know where to, or for how long, and he didn’t know why. But he fought to keep it in check, choking it down, pretending everything was fine. Then he’d come to Citrus Pines. To this picturesque safe haven where, away from the Hollywood toxicity, sanity prevailed and he put his foot down, taking a break for the first time in nearly two decades.
Fuck the filming schedule.
Fuck the crew.
Fuck his fellow castmates.
Fuck the show. The showhe’dbuilt from the ground up and now everyone else was reaping the rewards. He hadearnedthe right to take a break.
When his manager had freaked out, worrying about who would pay everyone’s lost wages, Will had instantly wired the money to write the checks. Hell, he could afford it, he was a billionaire.
“It’s my show dammit, I’ll decide if I want a break,” he had growled at his manager, every inch the bad guy the show portrayed him to be. Will was the Mr. Nasty all reality shows needed for entertainment value. He looked the part: tall, built, tattooed head to toe, with a hard stare emanating from his one blue eye and one green eye, as icy as the press reported his heart to be.
When he’d graduated with his MBA, he had barely closed his first business deal when the opportunity for the show camealong.The Viper Pit, the reality show predatingShark Tank, where young entrepreneurs pitched to the four business owners for investment in their start-ups.
Very quickly it was decided what role Will would play. The rude, cruel, aggressive viper. He would intimidate, attack and lash out on camera. Fight with his fellow colleagues, heavily criticize the contestants who were just starting out and trying to make something of themselves, like Will once had been.
When he was approached, he’d been young and naïve and just desperate to make money and get his mom out of the trailer, so he had agreed to play the part and the audience ate it up. People loved it. Women were drawn to him, wanting him to treat them the same way; controlling, aggressive, demanding satisfaction but never giving it.
But his reality-show persona couldn’t be further from the real Will Crawford and as time passed, the constant façade wore him down. He would forever be grateful for what the show had given him. So damn grateful to be out of that trailer park and to never again feel the painful ache of true hunger, or be left with another stranger while his mom did what she had to with random men to get money for food. Will had to be grateful and pay his dues, the success of the show depended on his character, so he had to ride it out. Too many people were counting on him.
So, he did it. He gave the producers what they wanted. He gave the fans what they wanted, and he gave women what they wanted. Was sexually dominating, aggressive, and brutal sometimes. And now, he was exhausted. Burnt out. The anxiety of having so much responsibility, so many decisions to make and so many people banking on him had left him completely wrapped up in pleasing everyone. He’d needed a break, a distraction, and someone to take all that responsibility off his shoulders, someone to take control for him. But now his breakwas over and the idea of returning to the big city left him nauseous.
His phone rang again, distracting him. He glanced down and saw it was the same caller, hisMomager. The first thing he had done when he made some money was to get his mom out of that trailer and employ her as his manager. Diane Crawford had found her true calling. He taught her everything he knew about business, and she was ruthless in negotiations, completely focused and dedicated to her job. She was a whirlwind; the ultimate female boss and he was so damn proud of what she’d made of herself.
Except sometimes he wished she was the young twenty-year-old, sitting on that dirty trailer floor with him, watching cartoons and eating their daily meal of SpaghettiOs. She was carefree, covered in tomato juice, her red hair wild, chipped nails all different colors from where she’d experimented with her polish, her skin glowing and make-up free.
Nowadays, she looked too put together. Her skin was too tight from her experimentations with Botox. Not a hair out of place and she never missed her bi-weekly manicure at Hollywood’s top salon. She always wore immaculate clothing that he hardly dared to touch in case he creased it.
He let the call ring out and the screen darkened. He grabbed his bags, tension tightening his shoulders as he said goodbye to his room, his salvation.
He closed the cabin door and headed down off the porch into the bright sunshine. He closed his eyes, absorbing all the warmth from the sunlight and endorphins flooded him, bringing back his positivity.You can do this; you can do anything.
He smiled, face tilted up, letting the rays lovingly caress his fair skin. He could practically feel new freckles sprouting. He got his fair complexion and strawberry blond hair from his mom, although now her hair was showing strands of silver since shehad entered her late fifties, her only signs of aging since her dermatologist had erased all the wrinkles and laughter lines that Will missed so much.
He now had his own silver hair showing at his temples. The crinkles at the corner of his eyes had deepened and he could no longer ignore the bags that had taken up residence under his eyes. He was scarily close to his fortieth birthday, and he’d never been more exhausted.
He passed the row of cabins and crossed the porch of The Rusty Bucket Inn. When he opened the door, the scent of stale alcohol hit him, but it wasn’t unpleasant, it was comforting. As it was so early, there were only one or two of the old regulars propping up the oak bar.
“The big dog is in the house!” A deep voice boomed, and he looked up to see his best friend, Beau Thompson, behind the bar with his arms wrapped around his stunning red-headed girlfriend, Taylor, the owner of the bar. The sharp ache in Will’s chest evaporated and a smile split his face.
Taylor glared at him. “Are you sure your dad isn’t Dennis Quaid? Or Heath Ledger? You’ve got that damn Cheshire cat, panty-dropping grin and I hate it!”
Beau frowned at her. “Hey!”
“I can’t help it, sweetheart. I’m only human and he’s got those Hollywood good looks that women are helpless to resist,” Taylor replied defensively.
“Nearly all women,” Will scoffed, looking around the empty bar for the woman with soft doe eyes that were seared into his soul, and who continued to act like he didn’t exist.
Rebelle.
He’d seen her a couple of times, a woman so petite he could pick her up with one hand. With wispy dark hair that framed her angular face and gumdrop eyes the color of his favorite whiskey. And don’t even get him started on the cute button nose and pinkrosebud mouth with the sharp Cupid’s bow that visited him in his dreams.
He had seen her a grand total of three times. He’d tried to speak to her each of those three times. He’d been ignored, you guessed it, three times. Her dark eyes always stared straight through him, like he wasn’t even there.
