The answer is waiting inside my cabin, probably curled up with one of my books, making herself at home in my space like she belongs there.
But there's something about Nova that defies my usual need for emotional distance. Something genuine beneath the celebrity veneer that calls to something equally genuine in me.
It's a complication I didn't anticipate and don't want. Complications get people killed in my line of work. Emotional attachments cloud judgment, slow reaction times, create vulnerabilities that can be exploited.
I reach the eastern edge of the property, looking out over the valley below as the last light fades from the sky. Stars are beginning to appear, brilliant and clear in the mountain air, far from city lights.
This view always centers me. Reminds me of my place in the world. Small but significant. Part of something larger than myself.
I take a deep breath, letting the cool air fill my lungs, clearing my head.
Professional distance. I need to maintain professional distance.Nova is a client, a responsibility, nothing more. The fact that she's beautiful, perceptive, and surprisingly genuine doesn't change that.
The fact that something in me recognizes something in her doesn't change that.
When I returnto the cabin, I find Nova curled on the couch with one of my first edition Hemingways open in her lap. She's changed into lounge pants and a soft sweater that looks worn and comfortable, nothing like the designer clothes I expected.
Her hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail, her face scrubbed clean of makeup. She looks younger this way. More vulnerable. More real.
"Everything secure?" she asks, looking up from her book.
"Always is." I hang my jacket by the door. "Finding everything you need?"
"Yes, thank you." She holds up the book. "Hope you don't mind. I saw your collection and couldn't resist. First edition?"
"Yes. I have a thing for Hemingway."
"Men with guns and complicated feelings about women?" Her smile is teasing. "I never would have guessed."
Despite myself, the corner of my mouth twitch upward. "There's more to Hemingway than that."
"I know. I’m just teasing. There’s also the pursuit of what's true. The rejection of anything false or sentimental." She closes the book, running her fingers over the cover. "The ideal of living authentically even when it hurts."
Her understanding of Hemingway surprises me. Most people focus on the machismo, the bullfighting and warfare. They miss the deeper themes of authenticity and truth that drew me to his work.
"You've read him," I say.
She nods. "I was an English Lit major before the music took over. I've read everything." She sets the book aside. "Though I have to admit, I prefer Fitzgerald. Something about beautiful, doomed people and impossible dreams speaks to me."
"Fitting."
She tilts her head, studying me. "Was that a compliment or an insult, Mr. McKenna?"
"Neither. Just an observation."
"Well, observe away. It's nice to be seen as something other than a voice and a body for a change."
There's no self-pity in her tone, just a matter-of-fact acknowledgment of her reality. It makes me want to know more about what her life is actually like, beyond the glossy magazine covers and carefully curated social media.
"Must be strange," I say, taking a seat in the chair across from her. "Having everyone think they know you when they don't know you at all."
"Says the man who lives alone on a mountain to avoid people knowing him."
"Touché."
She smiles, tucking her feet under her. "We're not so different, you and I. Both hiding from the world in our own ways."
"The difference is no one's hunting you through the pages of People magazine."
