Sam.

~~~

Molly and Mason had arrived in Vancouver a few days ago, and we caught up over video chat one morning while she was in the middle of unpacking. Molly was practically glowing with excitement as she panned the camera around their new place. "It's so much better than I expected!" she said, setting down a box labeled "kitchen."

She explained that Mason had only sent her a few photos during his house-hunting trip, so she'd gone in with a vague idea of what to expect. "But the reality? Way better," she added with a laugh, giving the camera a quick tour. The house was bright and airy, with large windows that framed a view of the mountains.

Even their dog, Spot, seemed thrilled with the new setup. Molly had sent me a video of him earlier, sprinting around their small backyard, ears flopping wildly as his tongue hung out. The yard was charming, with a few decorative trees scattered around like little guardians of their slice of paradise.

Meanwhile, I'd been flying solo for the past few days. Ray had been stuck in the studio with Purple Rain, finishing up their third album. We talked on the phone whenever we could, but I still missed him. At least tonight, I'd finally get to see him again.

But tonight wasn't just about us—it was a family dinner. I'd be meeting his mom, Nora, and his younger brother Logan, who also happened to be the band's drummer. After dinner, Nora would drive us all to the airport for our flight to Paris. I was a bundle of nerves and excitement, alternating between obsessing over what to wear and worrying if Nora would like me.

To keep myself occupied yesterday, I decided to bake. My grandma Rose had passed down her recipe for Napoleon cake, a classic from her Russian roots, and I figured it would be the perfect dessert to bring to dinner. Raymond had mentioned his mom had a serious sweet tooth, and showing up with a homemade cake might score me some points.

Before I could focus entirely on the dinner, I had some business to wrap up. My grandfather's publicist, Marcy, had been persistent about a few things related to his upcoming book. We'd been having regular video calls since she was based in New York, and today was no exception.

"Hello? Samantha? Can you see me?" Marcy's voice crackled through my laptop, her cleavage dominating the screen.

I suppressed a laugh. "Yeah, Marcy. But maybe sit back? All I can see right now are your boobs."

"Oh, right," she said, adjusting her position. Finally, her face came into view. "So, I don't have much time. Did you do what I suggested?"

"And that would be?" I asked, stretching out the words.

"Instagram, honey," she said with a dramatic sigh.

I shook my head. "Not yet, sorry."

"All you have to do is make it public," she said, exasperated. "That's how it works these days, Samantha."

I rolled my eyes. "I should've mentioned this earlier—I'm dealing with some privacy issues. Making my Instagram public isn't exactly the best idea right now."

"What kind of issues?" she asked, leaning closer to the camera as if that would help her see my soul.

I hesitated, then sighed. "I have a stalker."

Marcy's eyes widened, and her voice shot up an octave. "Since when?"

"I found out recently," I replied, keeping my tone as even as possible.

"Do you need my help?" she asked, suddenly looking concerned.

"No, it's handled. I hired a detective," I explained.

"Is he good?"

"He came highly recommended."

"Do you know who the stalker is?"

I nodded, the weight of the truth settling on my chest. "Yeah, unfortunately. He's someone I thought was a friend."

Marcy adjusted her glasses, her expression shifting back to business as usual. "Is he following you on Instagram now?"

"Yes," I admitted, swallowing the lump in my throat.

"Then we don't have an issue," she declared, waving a hand dismissively. "Make it public and start promoting the book next week. I'll email you the details."

I blinked at her. "You realize that's pointless, right? I have fifty followers, and they already know about the book."

Marcy didn't miss a beat. "I have a plan for that. When do you leave?"

"Tonight," I said, trying not to sound too defeated.

"Perfect!" she clapped her hands like a giddy child. "You'll start posting tomorrow."

"Wait, you said next week," I said, narrowing my eyes.

Marcy smirked. "Plans change, Samantha." I groaned inwardly. This was going to be a long day. "Next week, start posting about the book. Pictures from all the countries you visit. Make it good. Research shows people love following travel pages," Marcy explained, leaning closer to the camera as if to emphasize her point.

"Photos of what?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Everything. Tie it into books, too—post two or three times a day. Trust me, followers will flock to your account," she said, her tone firm.

I sighed, slouching back in my chair. "I guess I can try. But no promises."

My Instagram account was a relic from four years ago, something Molly and I had created together when the app was just starting to blow up. Molly had once dreamed of becoming an influencer—a pipe dream I might have encouraged by joking about her natural talent for fashion and beauty.

As for me, I'd made my profile to support her. It had always been private, with my followers consisting of family and friends. Over four years, I'd managed to post all of ten photos, the last one over a year ago. Mostly, I used the app for funny cat and dog videos or to follow my favorite bands.

Marcy pushed on, undeterred. "Now, onto the next agenda item. Did you start the new book?"

I shook my head. "I told you, I'm not writing another one. This book is it."

"Samantha," she said, her voice laced with exasperation. "We've talked about this. Research shows that eighty percent of readers—"

"No, Marcy," I cut her off. "I'm not doing it."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn't argue further. "We'll discuss this when you're back in New York. When is that, anyway?"

"Not sure yet," I replied, glancing away from the screen.

"Fine. Email me before you come back, and do what you promised," she said, her fingers drumming impatiently on her desk. She shifted, signaling that she was ready to wrap up the call.

"Marcy?" My voice softened, almost hesitant.

"Yes?" she replied, peering at me over her glasses.

"Don't tell my parents about the stalker. I'll handle that when I return."

She gave me a knowing look. "You know I don't talk to Richard—he's a dick. And I rarely see Jen, so don't worry."

"Marcy," I warned.

"Okay, okay," she relented, raising her hands. "But you know he's an ass."

"Yes, Marcy, I know," I said, exasperated. "Thank you. See you in three weeks."

"You better," she said, wagging a finger at me. "Oh, and love the hair, by the way. Bye!" With that, she clicked off, her camera going dark before I could respond.

Marcy had been part of our family dynamic for over twenty years, starting as my grandfather Michael's publicist. Their relationship had always been more sibling-like than professional. Over time, she'd become a close friend to everyone in the family—well, everyone except my father. Five years ago, Richard had poached one of Marcy's authors, turning their camaraderie into a fierce rivalry. Ever since, the two couldn't stand each other.

Before leaving for the evening, I repacked my suitcase for the third time, carried it to the entrance, and double-checked the white box containing the Napoleon cake. Detective Murphy had offered to watch my apartment while I was gone, which gave me some peace of mind.

As I stepped outside, Ray was waiting by the building's entrance, leaning casually against the wall. His dark eyes lit up as he spotted me.

"Hey there, stranger," he said with a grin, brushing a hand against my cheek and tugging gently at my hair. "That's different."

"I told you it was," I replied, tilting my head. "Do you like it?"

"I do," he said, leaning in to kiss me. His lips curved into a smile against mine, warm and familiar.

When we pulled apart, he grabbed my suitcase with one hand and intertwined his fingers with mine with the other as we started toward the sidewalk.

I glanced at him curiously. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?" he asked, looking genuinely puzzled.

I stopped walking and turned to face him. "Every time we meet and kiss for the first time, you smile," I stated, folding my arms.

"That can't be true," he replied, furrowing his brow.

"But it is. I noticed a while ago," I said, smiling at him.

Ray grinned. "I don't think it's intentional. I'm just happy you're kissing me back."

"Oh," I replied, laughing softly.

We continued our walk to his car, the late afternoon sun casting a warm glow on the pavement. Ray opened the trunk and placed my suitcase inside with an effortless grace. I carefully set the white cake box and my purse on the back seat.

The drive to West Carson took longer than expected, thanks to an accident clogging the Harbor Freeway. Luckily, we had time to spare before the flight. As always, the car was filled with music—this time, Panic! at the Disco poured from the speakers, Brandon Urie's voice filling the space like an anthem for our drive.

I glanced at Ray as he drove, one hand gripping the wheel, the other holding mine, his thumb absentmindedly brushing my skin. The sunlight caught on his sharp jawline, accentuating the cleft in his chin. Molly's voice echoed in my head from that day on the beach.

She said Ray reminded her of Brendon Urie, though I didn't quite see it. Maybe their lips were similar, but Ray's upper lip was thinner, his jawline more square. He had a ruggedness that was entirely his own, something raw and unpolished that made him undeniably magnetic.

"What?" Ray asked, catching me staring. His eyes flicked toward me briefly before returning to the road.

"Nothing," I replied, shaking my head to clear my thoughts.

He smirked knowingly. "This is where I bought those baked goods," he said, pointing out the window. "That first day I visited."

A few miles later, we pulled into the driveway of his mom's house. The place was modest yet welcoming, with its red roof and fixed white exterior. The garage was attached to the side, silver van was parked in front. The front yard was tidy, lined with neatly trimmed bushes and vibrant flowers blooming under the windows and by the door. The lawn, a solid expanse of green, looked like it had been freshly mowed.

"This is it," Ray said, cutting the engine. His hand lingered on mine, offering reassurance. "Nervous?"

"Yes," I admitted, my voice softer than I intended.

He leaned over and kissed me, his lips warm and comforting. "Don't be. I like you. That's what matters. Remember?"

I nodded, feeling the tightness in my chest loosen just a bit.

We stepped out of the car, and I grabbed my bag and the cake, leaving my suitcase behind for now. Raymond took my hand as we walked up to the door, his grip steady and grounding. I let out a deep sigh, the sound of it louder than I expected.

Ray glanced at me and smiled, then opened the door, motioning for me to step inside.