The Golden Globes buzz was heating up, and Los Angeles was electric with anticipation. Newsstands were stacked with entertainment magazines, and TV screens were filled with chatter about potential nominees and hot films. Against this backdrop, Scarlett Johansson finally returned to L.A. after a whirlwind of European film festivals with Sofia Coppola.
With their rising fame, picking her up openly at the airport's arrivals hall was out of the question—paparazzi and nosy media would pounce. Instead, Leon arranged a car to meet her at the private pickup exit, waiting quietly inside.
The car door flew open, and a figure—exhausted from travel but buzzing with excitement—slipped in, bringing with her a familiar waft of perfume and the cool outside air. Scarlett didn't even wait to settle before throwing herself into Leon's arms like a homing bird.
He could feel the softness of her body, a slight tremble, and her unfiltered enthusiasm. "Hey… hey… welcome back, my little firecracker," Leon managed, catching his breath after an almost suffocating kiss. He chuckled, gently patting her back.
In the dim car light, Scarlett's eyes sparkled with raw affection. "I missed you, Leon. Every single day," she said, her voice husky with a playful pout. Her fingers traced his face lovingly, her gaze roaming as if making sure he was real. "No city feels right without you. They're all just… empty."
She leaned in again, and Leon sucked in a breath, sensing that if this kept up, things might get a little too steamy for the backseat. He knew how impulsive Scarlett could be when she was in the mood.
"Okay, okay, let's get home first, alright?" he said, catching her wandering hands, his voice tinged with restrained huskiness and a real worry about hidden telephoto lenses. "At home… you can do whatever you want."
Scarlett looked up, a sly, triumphant glint in her eyes. "You said it, Mr. Donaldson. Don't beg for mercy later."
Leon gave her a helpless, fond smile and started the car. On the drive, Scarlett barely let go of his hand, either clinging to it or leaning toward him, her eyes locked on him as she excitedly recounted her European adventures. "Leon, you wouldn't believe how perfect Venice was—the canals, the festival vibe!" she gushed. "And Paris! Sofia and I found this tiny café in an alley…"
She chattered like a happy bird, and Leon listened with a smile, tossing in questions here and there. He could tell the trip, though grueling, had broadened her horizons and deepened her love for artistic filmmaking. But beneath her excitement, he picked up on a subtle thread of anxiety, a flicker of uncertainty about her future. Indie films often won praise but not box office gold, and Scarlett craved validation and a bigger stage. The Golden Globes season was her shot to break into Hollywood's mainstream spotlight.
The car pulled into the quiet driveway of their Beverly Hills villa. The moment it stopped, Scarlett's eagerness took over, her boldness and urgency pulling them into a tangled, stumbling rush through the front door.
Their longing and pent-up desire were like dry autumn leaves in a wildfire—one spark, and it all went up in flames.
Later, Scarlett rested her cheek against Leon's slightly damp chest, listening to his steadying heartbeat, a soft smile playing on her lips like moonlight on clouds—lazy and warm. The earlier frenzy had melted into deep calm.
"Feeling settled now?" Leon teased, his fingers lazily twirling her damp, reddish-blonde hair.
"Mmm…" Scarlett mumbled, nuzzling closer to find a comfier spot. "Nothing beats being in your arms, Leon. A million times better than any fancy hotel bed."
They lay there, savoring the quiet intimacy. "Talk to me," Scarlett said, looking up with bright eyes. "What've you been up to while I was gone? Did Final Destination freak everyone out? I heard the box office was insane."
Leon grinned, diving into the chaos and success of Final Destination's release—the rave reviews, the audience reactions, the jaw-dropping ticket sales. Scarlett listened, rapt, gasping and exclaiming at all the right moments.
"And what about The Princess Diaries?" she pressed. "You said you hit some snags. How'd it turn out?"
Leon recounted the rocky road—how Fox Searchlight turned him down, followed by rejections from the other major studios, and how things finally turned around when Disney's Michael Eisner greenlit the project. He mentioned working with Garry Marshall, casting Anne Hathaway, and the bustling set where the Kingdom of Genovia was coming to life. He kept it brief, focusing on the project's progress.
But when he casually mentioned, "Anne Hathaway's been working hard with her etiquette and dialogue coaches—she's picking it up fast, really talented," he felt Scarlett tense slightly in his arms. The warm, cozy vibe cooled just a fraction.
"Anne Hathaway…" Scarlett repeated, her tone deceptively casual, but Leon knew her too well. He caught the faint tightness in her voice, the barely-there edge. "Oh, the Final Destination girl, now your 'real princess,' right?"
She tried to sound playful, teasing, but a hint of jealousy and a touch of sarcasm slipped through. She propped herself up, fiddling with her hair, her eyes no longer meeting his with the same unguarded warmth.
Leon's heart sank a bit. He knew Scarlett's insecurities, especially around other young actresses who fit the "classic good girl" mold and had big opportunities. Anne Hathaway's poised beauty and "princess" role had clearly hit a nerve.
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