Stuck With Mr A-Lister

Chapter 7

Sienna’s POV

The moment I stepped into the estate, I knew this was going to be a nightmare.

I had barely set my suitcase down when I saw him—Leo, leaning against the kitchen counter like he owned the place.

Because of course, he’d be here first.

"You’re early," I muttered, dragging my suitcase inside.

He smirked. "And you’re late."

I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to stay calm. "We need to set some ground rules."

He raised an eyebrow. "Ground rules? What is this, kindergarten?"

I ignored him, setting my hands on my hips. "We are here for one year, Leo. I don’t want to see your Hollywood entourage showing up at random hours, throwing parties, or—"

"Who said anything about parties?" He folded his arms, his expression amused. "I was actually going to say the same thing about your kitchen experiments. I don’t want to wake up to the smell of burnt truffle oil or whatever the hell you put in your food."

I narrowed my eyes. "First of all, I don’t burn anything. Second of all, this is a vineyard estate. Cooking is inevitable."

"Yeah, well, so is me existing." He gave a lazy shrug. "I’m not going to tiptoe around just because you have some personal vendetta against me."

I clenched my jaw. "I don’t have a vendetta against you."

He gave me a look. "Please. You look at me like I personally set fire to your favorite cookbook."

I rolled my eyes, crossing my arms. "I just don’t want to step on each other’s toes. This place is big enough. We can avoid unnecessary contact."

Leo scoffed. "Sure. You take the west wing, I take the east. We’ll communicate through messengers like it’s the Middle Ages."

I ignored the sarcasm. "That actually sounds great."

He let out a laugh, shaking his head. "You’re serious?"

"As a heart attack."

He let the silence stretch between us, studying me with that unreadable gaze of his. I hated when he did that—like he could see through me, past every carefully built wall.

"Fine," he said finally. "I won’t bother you if you don’t bother me."

"Great."

"Perfect."

I turned on my heel, heading toward the stairs, when I heard him mutter—

"Whatever you say, sweethe—"

He stopped himself.

I froze.

For a moment, the air felt charged, like we had both stepped onto a landmine.

He cleared his throat, forcing a casual tone. "Clarke."

I slowly turned. "What?"

He lifted a shoulder. "You like that better? Or should I go with Serena?"

I glared at him. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, you still tolerate me," he said, throwing my own words from years ago right back at me.

I clenched my fists. This man.

This was exactly why we couldn’t be in the same space.

I spun back around and marched up the stairs, ignoring the warmth creeping up my neck.

If he thought this was going to be easy, he was dead wrong

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