Cameron's kiss silenced every word Landon tried to say.
Only when both of them were breathless did she draw back a little, still on tiptoe, forehead pressed to forehead, catching her breath.
Morning light slipped through the treetops and danced across her gold-tipped lashes.
Landon stared into the blue eyes inches away, his reflection sharp inside them.
He opened his mouth to speak.
But Cameron's slender forefinger touched his lips, cool and soft.
"Shh." She shook her head, voice almost a whisper yet oddly soothing. "Don't say anything right now." Her gaze pinned him. "Give me two days to handle a few things. When I'm done… I'll come find you."
She didn't wait for an answer, didn't give Landon time to react.
Withdrawing her hand, she flashed him a smile, turned briskly, and jogged toward the two bodyguards waiting in the distance.
Moments later she vanished round a bend in the community road, heading straight back to her villa.
Landon stood alone on the deserted track, the morning breeze cool against lips she'd just kissed, unable to blow away the turmoil inside him.
Clearly, Cameron still retained a sliver of the rationality that belonged to a superstar.
Official statements, press releases, fielding media questions, possible asset divisions—all of it required time and a professional team.
Her stepping away now wasn't retreat; it was clearing obstacles for the next decisive move.
Landon had meant to confess, to tell her his life already held someone—someones—important.
Twice now, kisses and a fingertip had stopped him.
Did she not want to hear? Or had she guessed and chosen not to face it yet?
Watching the direction she'd disappeared, Landon felt a tangle of emotions: bewilderment at feelings stronger than expected, a premonition of approaching trouble, and a flutter of vanity he didn't care to examine—being pursued by such dazzling light.
But mostly, a ball-aching helplessness—how had it reached the very situation he'd tried hardest to avoid?
The first time he'd spotted Cameron Diaz on her morning run, instinct had told him to keep his distance.
Hollywood entanglements, especially with A-list celebrities, meant spotlights and uncontrollable whirlpools.
He only wanted a steady path, with Tracy's steady reason and Rachel's innocent dependence—enough.
So why had it still come to this?
Because he hadn't walked away when she "sprained" her ankle?
Because her unhidden warmth and witty chatter each dawn were impossible to refuse?
Or because yesterday, after witnessing his skills, the pure admiration in her eyes and the bold kiss that followed had stirred a man's hidden pride?
Landon shook the pointless questions away.
More urgent problems loomed: Cameron lived in the same gated community.
A chance meeting on the run could be coincidence, but frequent contact—something deeper—how could he keep it from Tracy and Rachel under the same roof?
Rachel's instincts were already suspicious; Tracy's perception was sharper. Paper can't wrap fire.
With that lingering melancholy and a budding headache, Landon jogged back to his villa.
Inside was quiet.
He pushed open the bedroom door; morning light striped the hardwood through the curtain gap.
Tracy lay on her side, chestnut hair fanning across the pillow, one arm outside the quilt.
Rachel slept on her back, breathing softly, lashes casting faint shadows.
Landon stood watching the picture-perfect sleep—their exhaustion so complete they hadn't noticed the quilt slip.
Clearly last night's madness had drained every ounce of energy.
He stepped forward to pull the cover over them, catching Rachel's sleepy mumble.
Landon tiptoed out and closed the door.
Then he walked into another bedroom's bathroom.
Peeling off his sweat-damp T-shirt, he turned on the shower; warm water cascaded over his head and down taut muscle.
Eyes closed, he let the water wash his body and tried to rinse away the confusion.
But water can rinse sweat, not knots in the heart.
Claiming he didn't care about Cameron at all would be self-deception.
Apart from her superstar aura and stunning looks, her vitality, occasional childishness, and unfiltered passion were magnetic.
Besides, she was currently one of North America's hottest actresses.
Landon knew that with the release of Charlie's Angels, Cameron's fame and market value would hit a staggering peak.
Intersecting with such a woman carried an ineffable allure—lust, and an instinctive pull toward the center of fame.
More practically, their status and finances were worlds apart.
Cameron no longer needed to struggle for paychecks.
Back in 1996, she'd taken a low upfront fee plus back-end points for Jerry Maguire; the box-office bonus alone had brought her over thirty million dollars.
For Charlie's Angels, her fixed salary was already twelve million.
By contrast, Landon had only just leveraged a risky back-end deal to land the male lead in the fast and the furious, his base pay a mere million, total income dependent on box-office performance.
The gap wasn't just numbers; it meant power, resources, an inherent imbalance in whatever relationship might form.
And the core conflict—Landon wasn't single, not even by half.
How could he explain to Cameron, who'd just broken off decisively and seemed full of expectation, that he already had two intimate partners?
Telling her outright might mean hurt, rage, unpredictable fallout.
Concealment or vagueness was walking a cliff edge, ready to crash and wound everyone—including his fledgling career.
Amid the hiss of water, Landon scrubbed his face hard.
Steam fogged the mirror and blurred the path ahead.
Cameron's "Give me two days" was a stone dropped in his heart; ripples were spreading, and he still had no answer.