Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86515 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“Oh, it’s delicious,” she says. “But I’m watching my figure, so obviously I can’t eat the whole thing.” She pushes the plate toward me. “Would you like the rest?”
I have had The Blue Line’s croissants and I personally know they have a pastry chef on staff. They are indeed delicious. “Thanks,” I say, pulling the plate the rest of the way.
“I love this place,” Cherry says, gesturing around us. “It feels so electric being right here in the middle of it all. I love being so immersed within the team.”
Nothing surprising in that statement.
“So… why don’t you tell me a little bit more of the… what did you call it… the Wildfire Family Collective?”
She nods enthusiastically while I chew on the croissant. “It’s such a cute name, right? Yes, because we’re a family, and well… Collective sounds so professional. It will translate well into social media. I’ve already set up an Instagram page, and next up is TikTok.”
I swallow hard and regret not bringing my water bottle with me. “I was intrigued by the things you said you’d do, especially the crowdsourcing. Tell me more about that?”
Cherry waves an impatient hand. “Yes, yes… that will be one of the things we do, like helping some of the moms with babysitting, but I think the more important issues are shedding light on the behind-the-scenes sort of look. The fans will love seeing how the wives support their men, and that’s really what inspired the social club.”
“And the parents and siblings, too?” I ask.
“I mean… yes, if they want to join. But really… it’s the wives who do everything.”
“But a lot of the guys aren’t married,” I point out.
“Yes, and we’ll take care of them all,” she coos.
Internally, I don’t buy her altruistic promises for a second. I’ve watched women like Cherry my entire career. They don’t build community to share power—they build it to centralize attention.
“I think it’s smart,” I say neutrally. “You’re creating a support service.”
Her smile widens. “Exactly. And structure. People respond to structure.”
I nibble on the croissant and Cherry launches into the details without prompting. Care packages. Themed events. Holiday gatherings. “I’ve got a wonderful Halloween party already in the mix, complete with a photographer.”
“Sounds nice,” I say.
“We’re the power behind the men,” she says with a giggle, like she’s shared a profound statement.
I tilt my head. “That’s an interesting way to frame it.”
She beams, taking it as agreement. “Right?”
I let a beat pass. Not documentarian silence—womanly curiosity silence.
“So,” I say lightly, “how did you end up spearheading this?”
She laughs. “Oh, I’ve always been like this. A connector. A leader.” Then, as if remembering why she’s here, “I suppose being married to Miller helps. People are drawn to fame, and doors open to fame.”
There it is. The core personality of this woman.
A thought strikes me, and I know by my next question, I’m going down a rabbit hole that won’t benefit my film at all. It will only satisfy my curiosity. “And before that?” I ask.
Her expression flickers briefly. “Before?”
“Before Miller,” I clarify.
She exhales a small, amused breath. “Ah. Yes. You’re talking about Crosby. Well, that was… different.”
I watch her carefully now. This most definitely isn’t about the film but my personal nosiness about this woman and what does she have that Crosby could have wanted.
She twirls her straw. “Crosby was very intense,” she says with a fond smile. “Wonderful in his way, sexy as hell in bed.”
I internally wince because I know that to be true, and I hate that she shares such knowledge with me.
“But,” she continues, “he’s not exactly built for partnership.”
I tilt my head because that does not track. “That’s not how I’d describe him,” I find myself saying, then instantly regret it.
I shouldn’t know that information, but Cherry doesn’t seem to notice.
“He struggled with attention,” she continues in a dramatic tone. “Publicity. Expectations. I’m very comfortable in that space and he’s not.”
I smile faintly. “Yes. You seem to be.”
She laughs again, pleased. “It caused friction. He preferred everything secretive. Which is fine—but eventually you realize love shouldn’t feel like hiding.”
There it is. The revisionist history.
I think of Crosby’s voice. Calm and thoughtful, like the way he listens. The way he chooses words.
“He values discretion,” I say evenly. “That’s not the same thing as secrecy.”
She pauses, then nods like I’ve flattered her. “Exactly! That’s what I used to tell him. He couldn’t get past it.”
I shake my head, a little dizzy from her whipping back and forth in her description of Crosby, none of it accurate in my opinion.
She recovers smoothly. “Of course, we’re both happier now. Everything worked out exactly as it should.”
I don’t contradict her and realize I’ve had enough of Cherry. I ignore the last of the croissant, sliding out of the booth. “I really hate to cut this short, but I forgot I’ve got a meeting with Evan. We can continue this some other time.”