The Crush List

Chapter Three – California Gold

Emery pressed her forehead to the car window as the wrought iron gates slowly opened, revealing a home that belonged on a movie set—not in real life.

White stone shimmered in the soft glow of evening, modern glass panels reflecting the California sunset. Palm trees lined the drive like something out of a dream. And nestled on the cliff above the ocean, Cal’s house looked like it had been dropped there by the gods.

“Holy crap,” she whispered.

Cal gave a casual shrug from the driver’s seat. “It’s just a house.”

“That’s not just a house. That’s architectural porn.”

He laughed, low and amused. “Wait until you see the inside.”

When they pulled into the garage, Emery stepped out and was immediately hit with the scent of the ocean mixed with something citrusy and clean. Everything here was bigger, brighter, unreal.

Cal led her through a sleek hallway into the main living space. Floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the open-concept layout in golden light. Modern art hung on the walls, and soft music played somewhere from hidden speakers.

“This is home base,” he said, tossing his keys in a bowl by the door. “You’ve got full run of the place. Explore, unpack—well, pretend you’ve unpacked—and make yourself at home. I need to take a few calls, but I won’t be long.”

She nodded, overwhelmed in the best kind of way.

“Oh,” he added, already halfway down a hallway, “I’ve got a stylist coming by tomorrow to take your measurements. Hope that’s okay.”

“What?”

He grinned over his shoulder. “If you’re going to chase this list, you’re going to need a wardrobe that fits the woman you’re becoming.”

She blinked.

And before she could protest, he added, “I’m also calling my agent to see what events are coming up. We’ll get you out there. You’ll meet people. That’s part of it, right?”

It was too much. Too fast.

And yet… she didn’t want to say no.

So instead, Emery stood in the middle of a California dream and whispered to herself, “Okay. Let’s do this.”

Emery wandered barefoot through Cal’s mansion, the cool marble floors beneath her feet anchoring her as she moved from one room to the next. Every hallway felt like its own quiet world—rich wood finishes, soft lighting, abstract paintings that probably cost more than her entire college tuition.

But it was the room at the end of the hall that pulled her in.

The door was slightly ajar, like it was waiting for her.

She stepped inside.

It was a museum of him.

Framed posters lined the walls—some she recognized instantly. The movie that made him a household name. The gritty war film that earned him a nomination. The indie drama where he'd played a broken man with too much heart. A low cabinet displayed awards and plaques, golden statuettes and polished crystal, all engraved with his name.

And in the far corner, under soft lighting, stood a leather chair with a script resting on the arm.

She walked up to it and gently ran her fingers over the cover. It was worn, with notes scribbled along the margins. A working script.

Real.

It hit her then—he was real. He wasn’t just the man from her favorite magazine covers, or the face behind a character she’d crushed on through a movie screen. He was flesh and blood and talent and charm. And somehow, he was letting her into this world.

She sat down carefully on a bench beneath a photo of Cal receiving an award. Her reflection in the glass looked… small. Out of place.

“What am I doing here?” she whispered to herself.

And yet, even as doubt curled in her stomach, she couldn’t ignore the warmth that had bloomed in her chest when Cal said he believed in her. That he wanted her to live.

She was in his house. In his life. And maybe—just maybe—that meant she wasn’t as small as she thought she was.

“You always did sneak off when things got too quiet,” Cal said gently from the doorway.

Emery jumped slightly, turning to find him leaning against the doorframe. His tie was gone, sleeves rolled up, that usual easy smile playing at the corners of his mouth—but his eyes were soft. Watching her.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” she said quickly, rising to her feet. “I just… the door was open and—this room is incredible.”

He stepped in, letting the door close behind him. “It’s not off limits. It’s just old chapters of my life. Most people walk past it. You're the first to sit with it.”

She looked back at the framed posters and shining awards. “It’s overwhelming. You’ve done so much. Seen so much. And here I am—twenty-two, no job, no plan, fresh off a breakup and crashing at your house like a lost puppy.”

His smile faded, replaced by something heavier—something sincere. He walked over to her and gently took her wrist, grounding her.

“Don’t do that. Don’t compare timelines,” he said. “Everyone starts somewhere. And for what it’s worth, I was a mess at twenty-two. You’re already ahead of where I was.”

She scoffed, looking down at their hands. “You’re just saying that.”

“I’m not.” His thumb brushed her wrist lightly—just once. “You're smart. Curious. Brave enough to admit you’re scared and still show up. Most people don’t have the guts to look life in the face when it doesn’t go to plan.”

Her heart thudded. She wasn’t sure if it was from the words or the way he was looking at her—like she mattered. Like she wasn’t just some college grad with a broken heart, but someone he saw.

“I don’t feel brave,” she whispered.

“Sometimes we don’t,” he replied. “But we do the brave thing anyway.”

The silence stretched between them, comfortable and crackling. He was close now. Not quite touching—but close enough that she could smell his cologne, feel the heat of him. She couldn’t look away. And neither could he.

For one dizzy moment, she thought he might kiss her.

But instead, he let go of her wrist slowly and stepped back.

“You hungry?” he asked, voice low.

She nodded, breath catching. “Starving.”

“Good. I make a killer omelet when I’m trying to impress someone. I promise I will make you one soon. Tonight my amazing chef whipped up an amazing dinner.”

She laughed, tension breaking. And as they walked back down the hallway side by side, her pulse still dancing, she knew something had shifted.

She wasn’t just in his life now.

She was starting to belong in it.

The smell hit her first—garlic, rosemary, something buttery and rich. Emery followed the scent down the long hallway to the kitchen and nearly stopped breathing when she saw the setup.

The dining table, set beneath warm lights, gleamed with silver cutlery and crystal glasses. A bottle of sparkling water was already opened, slices of lemon floating inside like lazy boats. The private chef—who introduced herself as Marisol with a warm smile—was plating seared scallops and roasted vegetables with the precision of an artist.

Cal, of course, looked completely at ease. He’d changed into a soft navy sweater and dark jeans. Simple, comfortable, still ridiculously attractive.

“You weren’t joking about dinner,” Emery said as she sat across from him.

He lifted a brow. “When do I ever joke about food?”

Marisol brought out the last dish—a roasted chicken glazed with something sweet and herby—and disappeared into the back, giving them space.

For a moment, they just ate. Everything tasted unreal. Emery barely spoke, too focused on the way each bite seemed to melt on her tongue. Cal noticed.

“Good?” he asked, a smile in his voice.

She gave him a wide-eyed nod. “This is the best thing I’ve eaten in… possibly my entire life.”

“Marisol has that effect on people.” He leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink. “I thought you could use something comforting before we dive into the rest.”

She set down her fork slowly. “The rest?”

Cal reached for a sleek tablet on the table beside him and tapped a few things open. “I talked to my stylist—well, your stylist now. He’ll be here the day after tomorrow. Think of it as a reset. A refresh.”

Her brows lifted. “A makeover?”

“A confidence boost,” he corrected smoothly. “Not that you need one—but new city, new energy. You’ll feel it.”

She tried not to fidget, but her knee bounced beneath the table. “And after that?”

He slid the tablet toward her. The screen was filled with calendar blocks, names of restaurants, galleries, even a few film after-parties. Events. People.

“Starting next week, you’re going out,” he said. “Networking, exploring, being seen. I picked low-pressure things—no red carpets, no headlines. Just places where you’ll meet people doing exciting things. Artists. Musicians. Maybe a few flings,” he teased.

She rolled her eyes, but her heart skipped anyway.

“This is really happening,” she said softly.

Cal gave her a look she’d come to recognize: steady, confident, a little amused. “It is. I’m not throwing you in the deep end without a life raft. You’ve got a few days to settle in, get your bearings. Then we go full speed ahead.”

She nodded, a swirl of nerves and excitement taking root in her chest.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s do it.”