Leah
This feels like a trap.
That’s Leah’s first thought as the car crawls up the winding drive. Sunlight cuts through the windshield as the iron gate groans open. She drives through, eyeing the estate as it rises from the hillside.
Everything feels curated: sculpted cacti spaced with militant symmetry, glass walls reflecting empty sky, and near the entrance, a sculpture, charcoal-black and jagged, looming over the xeriscaped wildflower lawn.
She kills the engine.
This better not be another disappearing act. Because she’s been chasing this meeting for weeks—one reschedule after another, every message filtered through Darin’s so-called “executive support leader,” Tamra. If that’s even her real name.
The front door opens before she can knock. The woman standing there looks like she wandered out of a glam reboot of Little House on the Prairie—barefoot, full makeup, waist-length hair, draped in a frilly maxi dress. She says nothing. Just watches. And for a moment, Leah feels like merchandise being appraised.
“Leah Cross,” she says, straightening with a lift of her chin. “NDA. I’m here to see Darin.”
A nod. The woman steps aside.
Inside, the air smells faintly herbal. They walk down a corridor lined with intentionally vague art, then step through a pair of French doors onto a sunlit patio overlooking the vast, manicured property.
Darin lounges shirtless in a low-slung chair, his body golden and sculpted, dressed only in linen pants. One arm draped over the backrest, head tilted in lazy welcome.
Beside him sits another woman Leah recognizes instantly from that party in the hills. Honey-champagne hair, dewy skin, glossed lips, the same rose-gold uniform.
“Leah,” Darin says, rising. “We’re so grateful you made time to visit our inner sanctum.” He gestures to the woman. “This is Tamra.”
Of course she is.
“We’re so blessed to have you today,” Tamra says, already reaching for a pitcher of something green. She pours, slides the glass toward Leah as they sit.
“There’s a real story here, Darin,” Leah begins, straight to business. “Have you thought about what you’d want to say with a book? If the platform were yours?”
“The platform is his,” Tamra cuts in, her tone clipped, like she’s said this too many times to people who still don’t get it. “Are you suggesting you have a better one? What’s even the point of a book? Darin already speaks to millions. His message is everywhere. Do people even read anymore?”
Leah nods, her voice calm but anchored with conviction, like she’s done this a hundred times. “NDA exists to amplify impact. A book doesn’t compete with the message. It deepens it. It keeps you at the center of the cultural conversation.”
“But Darin’s already in that conversation.” Tamra’s gaze cuts sideways, assessing. “Maybe you’re not. Is that what this is about?”
“This is about being an advocate. Selling your belief system to a broader audience.”
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“Tell me something, Leah,” Darin says smoothly, his smile all surface, polished and a touch too rehearsed. “Did you ever have that friend growing up?”
Leah’s brow lifts, cool but wary, already sensing a trap. “What do you mean?”
“That person you tried so hard to be close to—until you realized the friendship would be more real if you just stepped back and let them come to you.”
“Now that you mention it—”
“That’s how I feel about a book, Leah. If it were meant to happen, I wouldn’t have to chase it. It would find me first.”
“I understand,” she says, carefully smoothing the edge in her voice. “But let’s be clear. This is about expanding your brand. And with your platform?” She flashes a practiced, persuasive smile. “We’re talking a seven-figure deal. Off a ten-page proposal.”
Darin says nothing. But Leah catches it—the flick of his eyes toward Tamra. So she looks at Tamra, too. Measured. Calm. Waiting.
“Thanks, Leah.” Tamra flashes a tight, performative smile, not quite enough to hide the insincerity. “We’ll meditate on it, for sure.”
What a bunch of bullshit, she thinks as she drives down the hill. But fine. She can play too.
She grabs her phone, texting while she drives: U around? Would love 2 catch up.
Ten minutes later, just as she turns off the 101, Shane’s reply lights up: Sure. Bring wine. :)
So she does. Buys a bottle of Kistler Chardonnay she can’t afford, pops home, and jumps in the shower. A spritz of Lost Cherry. A fresh coat of gloss and mascara. She slips out just in time to avoid Tina, then hurries across the courtyard.
He’s happy to see me, she thinks when Shane answers the door, smiling that same effortless smile. In the kitchen, she pours generously into two glasses, pretending she hasn’t been replaying how much she needed this, just one night with Shane. One night of feeling like herself again.
“Roommate life is… not what I pictured,” she says, finally breaking the quiet.
Shane swirls his glass, eyeing her sidelong. “Yeah, gotta be honest, I didn’t exactly peg you as the shared-space type.”
“Well, turns out I’m not.” Leah lets out a dry breath. “Tina’s sweet. But she’s always… there. Like, always. She says she does voiceover work, but I’ve never actually seen her doing anything. Her hours are weird. And now that I think about it, I’ve never heard her use a ‘voiceover’ voice. Wouldn’t you show it off?”
“You should ask her to do the Geico Gecko. If she can’t, case closed.”
Leah rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Very helpful, thank you.”
“So what’s this really about? You needing a roommate?”
“Life comes at you fast,” she says, her smile faltering before she catches herself.
“C’mon, Leah. What’s going on?”
“Wouldn’t you rather stick to the surface?”
“I’m not interested in staying surface. Not with you.”
She sips, pauses, then swallows like the wine tastes worse than it should. “Why does it even matter?”
“Because I care. About you.”
“It’s just a rough patch. My parents are struggling. They can’t support me like they used to.”
“But that’s okay, right? With everything you’ve accomplished? You can support yourself.”
“You don’t understand, Shane.” She meets his eyes, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve never had to do this before.”
He studies her for a moment, a faint smile surfacing. “What, growing up? Happens to all of us, kid.”
“I’ll be fine,” she says, eager to move on. “The good news is that I finally had my follow-up with Darin Rossellini.”
“You sure that’s good news?” Shane lifts a brow, incredulous. “You know how I feel about that guy. He gives serious… cult leader.”
“Wrong. He just gives cult leader vibes. There’s a difference.”
“Be careful, Leah. At least do your research.”
“Right, Dad. Because I’m new at this?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You implied I’m in over my head.”
Shane gives her a look, almost teasing. “You can admit it, you know. Doesn’t make you weak.”
“Yeah, wrong answer,” Leah scowls, setting her glass down. She grabs her tote. “I should go.”
“Leah, come on. Don’t be so—”
“So what? Sensitive?”
“I was gonna say defensive.”
She spins on her heel. “Wrong answer again,” she snaps, already moving for the exit. “Goodnight, Shane.”
“You’re really leaving?”
She swings the door open, then stops. “Thanks for listening, at least.” Then she shuts it—harder than she means to.
She exhales. Looks up at the moon. This wasn’t her plan for tonight. She thought maybe this would be it, the night she finally stayed over. But of course, Shane had to get in his own way. In both of their ways.
Her phone buzzes. He’s already texted: Please come back.
Despite herself, she smiles. Glances back over her shoulder. She could go back. Apologize. Meet his eyes. Kiss him like she means it. But not tonight. Let him wait, she reminds herself. It’ll be worth it.