“Hi,” I start. “I’m here for the interview.”

“You’re Parker?” the bodyguard asks. His voice is as gruff as his stubble-covered face.

“Haley Parker,” I say and show him my ID. He raises an eyebrow, looks me over, and steps aside. Aiden puts his book on the table and looks up at me.

Something flutters through me as our eyes meet again. My throat goes dry and I don’t know what to say. Turning and running seems like a good idea right now. My nerves aren’t coming from meeting my celebrity crush. They’re coming from the way Aiden is looking at me. It’s like he’s seeing me—the real me—and I’m naked in front of the crowd. His eyebrows push together, and for a brief second I see the same look in his chocolate eyes.

“Hi,” I finally croak out. He waves his hand at the seat in front of him. “I’m Haley Parker from the Yellowstone River Times.”

“Hi, Haley Parker from the Yellowstone River Times,” he says back with a slight smile. Holy crap, that British accent. I set my purse on the chair next to me, and my sweater slips off my shoulder, exposing the burn scars. I panic, yanking it back up so fast my hand slips off and my knuckles whack the edge of the table. Pain sears through my fingers, and embarrassment burns on my face. “Suddenly get a chill?” he asks.

“Something like that,” I mumble, wishing I could shrivel up and crawl out of here.

He leans forward, head tipped to the side. “You’ve got something,” he starts and reaches out. His fingers brush my hair, running through the length. “Right here.” He pulls a piece of hay loose and holds it out.

“Oh.” I snatch it from him. Seriously? Oh my God, no. I shove the hay into my purse. “Sorry.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You don’t have to be sorry, but now I’m curious. Why do you have straw in your hair?”

“It’s hay,” I automatically correct. “And I fed my horses right before I came here. I won’t lie; my boss set this up super last minute. I didn’t know about it until like two hours ago.” Why were the words spilling from my mouth so easily?

“You have horses?” he asks, seeming interested.

“I do. Four right now.”

“Right now?”

I smile, my racing heart settling back into my chest. “I, uh, rescue and retrain horses.” Or I did. Mom did.

“You don’t sound too sure about that,” he laughs.

I flick my eyes down. You will not cry, you will not cry. “It’s been a weird couple of months,” I offer as an explanation. “But yes, I do rescue horses. I have two permanent residents at my barn and two that will eventually get new homes. I hope, at least.”

“Interesting. How do you rescue horses? Are there that many that need saving?”

“More than you’d think.”

“So do people drop them off like an animal shelter?”

I shake my head. “We—I—usually go get them and bring them home. Reports come in about abused or neglected horses. I like taking in the worst cases, the ones others gave up on.”

“Why would you do that?”

I fold my hands in my lap. “I think every life is worth saving. It’s easy to give up when no one is fighting for you. When you have no one, when nobody cares about you or loves you, why keep going? That’s what I give these horses. Hope, someone who knows they are worth it. I give them a second chance.”

He looks at me, and I see sadness in his eyes, like my words are hitting him too close to home. “Doesn’t that get depressing?”

“Yes,” I say honestly. “And not everyone makes it. But I give them a chance, and everyone deserves a chance.”

“You speak of them like people,” he says softly. We’re still looking at each other, his dark eyes locked with mine.

“Sometimes I think they are better than people.”

He leans toward me. “You’re probably right.”

“I am.”

He slides his hand forward on the table, still looking into my eyes. A few seconds pass and we stay just like that. He pulls his hand back and smiles. “So you’re a pretty good rider then, right?”

“I’d say so. I’ve been riding since I was two.”

“Damn. That’s impressive.”

I shrug. “I guess. It’s just been my life. Yours is acting, mine is horses.”

“Horses, but you’re a journalist.”

His words are like a sucker punch to the gut. I tip my head down, breaking eye contact. “Yeah. Things didn’t quite work out like I thought.”

“That tends to happen,” he said quietly. I flick my eyes up. What does he know about things not working out? He is one of the hottest actors in Hollywood right now, is filming an adaptation of a book that spent weeks on the New York Times Bestsellers list, and makes more from one episode of Shadowland than I will in ten years. And he’s only twenty-four. “So, what’s the worst you’ve seen? Who was your most hopeless horse?”

The worst? The worst I’ve seen was Phoenix, her mane ablaze as she was led out of the burning barn by my mother. My scars tingle and I can smell the smoke, feel the fire melting my flesh off my body. Tears fill my eyes, and I don’t know what to do. My hand goes to the patch of scar tissue on my shoulder. “It’s hard to pick one,” I finally say as I blink back the tears. I grind my teeth and let out a breath before putting on a fake smile and looking at him again. “I’m supposed to be interviewing you, and here you are, asking me questions.”

“Right, sorry. You’re interesting, Haley Parker.” He laughs, and oh my God, he looks adorable when he does. He pushes his hair back, revealing a crooked scar that runs from behind his left eye all the way to his scalp, disappearing into his hair. I thought that was added for characterization in Shadowland. It is real?

“Right.” He leans back and stretches his arms. I can’t help but steal a glance at his muscles before I get out my digital voice recorder. I flick it on and set it on the table. Then things turn professional. “I’m sure you’ve heard all about the movie I’m working on.”

“The Last Ride,” I say without missing a beat. Thank you, Lori. “It’s the first movie you’ve done outside your normal genre. Are you enjoying it?”

“It’s been a great experience,” he says with no hesitation. “I’m lucky to have the chance to expand my acting.”

We go through ten minutes of standard questions. His answers are practiced to the point of being fake. I try to stick to the list Weebly sent me, but my mind keeps drifting and my eyes wander over him, wondering what other scars from the show were actually real. He’s confident in his acting skills and comes off as cocky in his interview. It won’t be hard to alter this just a bit to make him look good. Lucky for him, I’m a fan.

“What happened?” he asks suddenly, interrupting me. His eyes leave my face and land on my shoulder. I turn the recorder off and stare at him incredulously. “You touched your arm when I asked about the worst case.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I mumble, my voice hollow. Just who does he think he is? You don’t ask questions like that, famous or not. He thinks he’s entitled to anything he wants, even when it’s the truth from a stranger.

He tips his head. “It looked painful.”

I just shake my head, feeling tears well up in my eyes. He had seen the ugly, nasty scars. “It was,” I whisper. I gather my things. “Thank you for your time, Aiden. I should go,” I say with a tight voice.

“Hey,” he says and reaches out, his fingers landing on top of my hand. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” And there he is, back to a normal human being. “Can I buy you a drink to make up for it?”

I nod, knowing if I open my mouth I might cry. He gets up without asking me what I want and goes to the counter. There’s a line three-people deep; he sidesteps and goes to the front. Really?

I tip my head up to blink away the tears. Mom, you’d be laughing if I could tell you how awkward this was. And you’d probably slip in a lecture on me not having any expectations from an actor. I smile at the memory of Mom’s laughter, of the way she threw her head back and embraced her loud, crazy laugh.