Page 6 of The Lion in the Library

“Hollywood is wrong,” I said firmly.

She laughed, the sound warming me from the inside. “I wish my agent could hear you say that.”

Remembering the toy, I reached into my pocket. “Your daughter left this the other day,” I said, holding out the lion.

“Ay, Luz’s favorite toy. She has been crying for it. Thank you.” She took it, her fingers brushing mine, sending a jolt of electricity up my arm.

“Would you...” I began, then faltered, suddenly nervous. “Would you like to get coffee? There’s a café just down the street that stays open late.”

She hesitated, and I immediately backtracked. “Or another time, perhaps. You probably need to get back to your children.”

“The crafts program is over in another ten minutes.” Her smile was lighting up every part of my heart. “Perhaps you could walk us home?”

“I’d love that. Should we get an ice cream for the kids along the way?”

She nodded and the way my heart pounded in my chest, you’d think I’d just scored a game-winning goal.

After the kids got out of their workshop, and Luz had an extremely excited reunion with her lion, we strolled through the cool evening air, and I had to clench my fists at my side not to take a hold of her hand like we’d been a couple for years. I could already imagine that with her, but I always was a jump in with both feet kind of guy. Which scared too many women away. I was determined not to screw this up.

The ice cream shop was quiet, with just a few patrons scattered among the tables.

I got everyone a cone and the four of us slowly wandered back, the city lights glimmering like stars. “Tell me about these telenovelas you were in.”

Her eyes lit up, and she launched into stories of dramatic storylines, passionate scenes, and behind-the-scenes drama and antics. She captivated me, not just by the tales themselves but by the way she told them, full of life and humor and self-awareness.

“And now you’re here,” I said when she paused for breath. “Starting over.”

Her expression sobered. “Yes. It was... impulsive. After my second husband and I divorced, I needed a change. When my agent mentioned this small role in an American film, I jumped at it. Perhaps too quickly.”

“Do you regret it?”

She considered the question, taking a few slow licks of her ice cream. I ran through every sports statistic known to man in my head to keep my libido at bay. She was so fucking sensual without any effort at all.

“No,” she said finally. “It’s hard, yes. My English is not perfect, the role is small, the money is...” she made a dismissive gesture, “not what I am used to. But my children are happy here. They are away from the gossip, the tabloids. In Mexico, everyone knew about their mother’s failed marriages, their father’s infidelities. Here, they can just be children.”

I nodded, understanding all too well the price of public scrutiny. “And what about you? Are you happy here?”

She met my gaze, her dark eyes thoughtful. “I am... getting there. I miss my family, my friends. I miss being recognized on the street,” she added with a self-deprecating laugh. “But there is something freeing about starting fresh. About being just Stella, not ‘Estrella Flores, the star of Pasión y Venganza or Corazón de Ceniza.’”

I felt a twinge of guilt at my continued omission. “I understand that feeling.”

Her head tilted, curiosity in her eyes. “Your interesting fact... you said you play football. Do you play professionally?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

She studied me, a slight frown creasing her brow. “Why do I feel like I should know this? Are you famous, Leo Ramirez? I have to admit, I don’t follow sports very much.”

I sighed, pushing my glasses up my nose. “Maybe a little, yes.” That was a huge exaggeration. But we weren’t in Mexico, or Spain, and so far, Los Angeles couldn’t give a shit who I was. “More so in Spain and Europe than here.”

“Ah,” she said, understanding dawning. “That’s why you understand about public personas.”

“Yes. It’s... challenging, sometimes, to separate the person from the player.”

“And which are you now?” she asked, her question piercing straight to the heart of my struggles. “The person or the player?”

I recognized that challenge for what it was. Of course, a beautiful woman like Estrella had likely dealt with her fair share of players.

“I’m trying to be just the person,” I said honestly. “That’s partly why I’m writing this book. To figure out who Leo Ramirez is when he’s not on the field.”