Page 7 of The Lion in the Library

She nodded, a slow smile spreading across her face. “Well, Leo Ramirez who is not on the field, I think I like him.”

The warmth that spread through me was better than any rush from playing ball. “And I think I like Stella who is not on the telenovela.”

Our eyes met, and something unspoken passed between us, a recognition, perhaps, of kindred spirits navigating the complicated waters of reinvention. But there was something so much more.

I wanted badly to lean down and kiss her, taste those ripe cherry lips, and feel those soft curves of her hips beneath my hands. I’d never had to wait or even woo a woman. Not since I kicked my first goal when I was six years old and Isabella López kissed me on the cheek.

But for sweet Stella, I would wait, I would woo, and I would... better not think much farther than that, because the next step was falling in love, and that was crazy talk.

We walked to the building where she and the children lived and I took her hand, lifting it to my mouth, kissing it like one of the heroes in her telenovelas. Her hand lingering in mine a moment longer than necessary, I dared to hope that this was just the beginning of our story.

I felt a sense of possibility that had been absent from my life for too long. In Estrella, I had found someone who was also seeking to redefine herself beyond the roles that had defined her.

UNEXPECTED VISITOR

ESTRELLA

Icouldn’t stop thinking about him.

Which was ridiculous. I was Estrella Flores, not some lovesick teenager. I had been married twice, had two children, had performed passionate love scenes with Mexico’s most desirable men. I did not get butterflies in my stomach over coffee with a footballer.

Even if he did have the most beautiful eyes I had ever seen.

“Señora Flores, you’re not focusing,” chided Mrs. Feldman, my dialect coach, as we sat in my small living room the following afternoon. The children were at a neighbor’s, giving us space to work on my troublesome accent.

“Lo siento... I mean, I’m sorry,” I corrected myself, earning an approving nod.

“Let’s try the passage again. Remember, the ‘th’ sound should be between your teeth, not behind them.”

I sighed and began reading from the script she had provided, focusing on the precise placement of my tongue, the careful shaping of my lips. It was exhausting, this constant self-monitoring. In Mexico, my voice had been my instrument, part of my charm. Here, it was a liability to be corrected.

After an hour of tongue twisters and repetitive phrases, Mrs. Feldman packed up her materials. “You’re making progress,” she said, her tone encouraging. “But it will take time. Keep practicing.”

As I showed her out, I noticed a sleek black car parked across the street, its driver leaning against the hood, seemingly absorbed in a book. It took me a moment to recognize Leo without his glasses, dressed in athletic wear that emphasized his fit physique.

“Do you know him?” Mrs. Feldman asked, following my gaze.

“Yes,” I said, trying to sound casual. “He’s a... friend.”

She raised an eyebrow but said nothing more, simply waving goodbye as she headed to her own car.

I hesitated in the doorway, suddenly conscious of my appearance. I had dressed comfortably for my coaching session—loose pants, a simple blouse, my hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. Not exactly the glamorous image I had cultivated in Mexico.

But before I could retreat inside to change, Leo looked up, saw me, and waved, his smile visible even from across the street. I waved back, my heart performing an unexpected somersault in my chest.

He crossed the street, tucking his book into a backpack. “I hope I’m not intruding,” he said as he reached me. “I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by.”

“And how did you know which neighborhood was mine?” I crossed my arms. It should have bothered me, this unexpected appearance at my home. With my history of overeager fans and persistent photographers, I had become cautious about my privacy. But something about Leo’s earnest expression disarmed me.

The most adorable swash of pink topped his cheeks and he looked down at his shoes. “I, uh, maybe asked my agent to find out who your agent is and when your agent found out who I was, he gladly told me where you live.”

“I need a new agent.”

His eyes snapped up to mine, and he saw my grin. He was fun to tease. “I’d feel pretty awful if I got the guy fired. But I may have also warned him not to give your address to any other men. Ever.”

“I’ll keep him on then, just for you,” I assured him. “Would you like to come in? It’s not much,” I added with a self-conscious gesture at the modest apartment behind me.

“I’d love to,” he said, following me inside.