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I shut my eyes and just... try to process what the hell just happened between Victor and little old me.
Standing there at the coffee shop window, I simply felt compelled to rescue the actor from the mob like a good samaritan, and then he was here. In this crappy alleyway.
And then he was gone.
He was everything you could imagine a man like him would be – all charm offensive and dashing good looks and just all-around handsomeness.
And he asked for my number. Mine. Yeah, that kind of stuff rarely happens to a barista, and certainly not for a barista like me. I am just a normal girl in a normal small town - nothing special or tinsel town about me in the slightest. I feel like I’m repeating myself here, but it really is crazy what I just experienced.
“Holy crap, was that him?”
That voice is unmistakable. Amanda has joined me in this crappy alleyway. I open my eyes to look at my manager. She is staring at me, expectant. Her freckles stand out in the daylight.
“Yep. That was Victor Penmayne.”
“And was he really here?” my manager directs at me with growing excitement. “Out the back?”
“Yep,” I reply. “He was out here. He’s gone now. You’ve just missed him.”
Amanda lets out a grunt of exasperation and throws her hands up in the air.
“I didn’t even get to meet him properly,” she exclaims. “We should’ve got a picture with him... at least one with the business sign in the background or something. That photo would’ve been simply perfect to put on social media. Josie, you should’ve told me he was here. I was busy dealing with all the crowds out the front, but I would’ve rather been meeting Victor Penmayne.”
I smile to myself as my boss grows ever more ecstatic over her lost opportunity.
I met him.
Yeah...
I think Victor was very much right when he said I’ll never believe that encounter.
7
VICTOR
Jesus Christ. I can’t believe that barista rejected me. I asked for her number and she actually freaking refused.
Wow.
I have to say that I am totally taken aback by her actions – well, her inaction. It is crazy a girl would even do that. It’s been a hell of a long time since something like that has happened to me.
“Get me the fuck away from this place,” I tell the driver as I slide into the seat in the back of the limo. I moved fast through the coffee shop as I made my escape, avoiding customers who stopped and stared in surprise at my face. I moved fast enough to not get anyone rushing up to me and mobbing me like before. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice, that’s for damn sure.
With my barking command, my driver obediently puts a foot on it and pretty soon we are thankfully out of the main town of Crystal River and heading up the winding roads that lead away from the built-up area, surrounded by dense forests on either side of the speeding vehicle.
And then we reach the front gates of the Penmayne mansion on the outskirts of the small town. This, here, is my childhood home – the highly secure compound where I grew up and where I always feel a pang of nostalgia when I do dare visit. I barely ever come back here, much to the chagrin of my mother. This time I’m merely staying here for a few days to see my parents before I fly off to start a new film in Europe. I figured I might as well play the part of a dutiful son for a day or two.
The gates into the mansion complex are imposing, and deliberately so. This is my parents’ favorite home out of all the many properties they own around the world. This is where my family has come from – in a generational sense. This is where our memories have been forged. We pass through the secure gates and into the main compound itself. Well-paid guards with loaded rifles patrol these grounds. There is a simplicity to the design here – the main building has been built in a Colonial Revival style. Dark red brick. White columns. It’s... classy. Just like Mother and Father.
We are not new wealth. We are not flashy wealth. We Penmaynes have the wealth that is managed through generations as a responsibility to pass on.
We do not show off.
Well, I like to. Back in LA. But that’s with my own money.
As we drive up to the front doors of the main building, I notice Mother is standing there on the steps ready to greet me – posing in her immaculate style. Security would’ve known I was coming from over a mile away, giving her plenty of warning to make a grand entrance.
Alda Penmayne is every inch a stern, commanding matriarch, and she looks it even as a figure far away. She’s statuesque, elegant, and distinguished. She holds herself with the grace of someone who knows they’re worth the GDP of a small nation. Her dark brown hair is elegantly coiffed in a sophisticated manner. Her hands are held by her side in a royal fashion. On her and Father rests the reputation and power of the Penmayne family, and don’t they know it.
