Page 57 of Backed By You
Shea’s eyes light up. “I’d love that. Maybe I should visit this small town of yours.”
“You’d hate it,” I tease. “The closest mall is an hour away.”
“I can rough it,” she insists with a smile that suggests otherwise. “For research purposes.”
As the car navigates through LA traffic, Shea updates me on industry gossip and fills Beau in on what to expect over the next few weeks—where to stand, who to watch out for, which reporters to avoid.
“The good news is, most of them will respect the security angle,” she tells him. “They’re used to celebrities bringing personal protection. Just look stern and professional, and they’ll leave you alone.”
“That’s his default setting,” I say, earning a side-eye from Beau.
I watch him take in the unfamiliar landscape of palm trees and sprawling mansions. This is my world, not his, and I’m dying to hear his thoughts.
The car pulls up to the restaurant, a breezy beachside place with white trellises covered in climbing flowers. When we exit the vehicle, Beau scans the surroundings, his gaze tracking the people nearby.
“This place is known for being paparazzi-free. That’s why Shea picked it,” I tell him quietly as a thought comes to me. “Have you had sushi before?”
He looks down at me and smirks. “For you, I’ll try it.”
I bite my lip to keep from smiling too big. His hand settles protectively at the small of my back as we follow the host to our table on the terrace overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
“So,” Shea says as we take our seats, “tell me more about this cabin. What’s your vision for the interior?” She directs this at Beau, and I can tell it’s a deliberate choice to engage with him—and I love her for it.
As Beau begins describing the open-concept living space and stone fireplace he’s planning, I watch Shea’s genuine interest in his answers, the way she asks follow-up questions about materials and light exposure. They continue talking and I feel a strange collision of my worlds—the Hollywood life I’ve been avoiding and the Montana sanctuary I’ve created.
Somehow, watching my best friend and Beau connect over renovation challenges, those worlds don’t seem quite so separate anymore.
For the first time in months, I’m not sure which one feels more like home. Or maybe it isn’t about the place at all…
Because the man beside me somehow bridges both.
Twenty-One.
Beau
AfterthedriverdropsCallie’s friend off at her condo, he takes us to what has to be the fanciest hotel I’ve ever seen. Palm trees line the entire place and a red carpet leads to massive glass doors held open by men in crisp uniforms. Callie doesn’t bat an eye when one takes our luggage and we’re ushered through a grand lobby with marble floors and crystal chandeliers.
“Miss Ryan, welcome back,” the concierge greets as we approach the front desk. “We’ve prepared the Presidential Suite as requested.”
Presidential Suite?How successfulisthis movie?
I shift my weight, my knee beginning to throb after the flight and drive. I’ve been trying not to favor it, but Callie notices. She slips her hand into mine, a gentle squeeze that asks if I’m okay without words. I return the pressure, letting her know I’m fine.
“Your luggage has already been taken up,” the concierge continues, passing Callie a key card. “And the packages from Miss Shea Winton arrived this morning."
“Thank you,” she says with a warm smile—the kind that makes men trip over themselves to help her.
Her porch swing and brand-new stove come to mind.
We’re escorted to a private elevator that whisks us to the top floor. The doors open directly into the suite, and I freeze in the entryway. The place is bigger than two of my larger cabins put together. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcase a panoramic view of Los Angeles, the ocean a distant blue line on the horizon. Everything is white marble, glass, and gold fixtures.
I search for the right word to describe the culture shock and end up with, “Christ.”
Callie laughs, slipping off her shoes. “Welcome to Hollywood. The studio insists on it. Part of the premiere package.”
I follow her through the living room, past a dining area that could seat twelve, and into the master bedroom. A massive bed dominates the space, draped in pristine white linens. Several garment bags hang on a rack by the wall, alongside stacks of boxes with names I vaguely recognize from magazines and commercials.
“Those are for you,” she says, nodding toward three of the garment bags. “And those boxes should have shoes, accessories, all that.”
