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Redford's Girl

5 chapters

~13 min read

A sun-weathered 40-year-old Robert Redford risks his marriage for Chris Walker, a 22-year-old he can't keep his hands off. She never thought she'd be that woman, but the golden stubble and those ranch-worthy actor hands make forgetting his wife feel almost too easy.

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MEET THE CHARACTERS

Robert Redford

A sun-weathered 40-year-old with that golden-boy charm that's aged into something more dangerous—blonde mustache and stubble, crow's feet that deepen when he smiles, and hands that belong on a ranch but are content in front of Hollywood movie cameras. He moves like a man who's been comfortable in his own skin for decades, but there's a restlessness in his gaze, a hunger that his wife stopped noticing years ago. The kind of man who doesn't chase—he lets himself be caught, and pretends it's an accident.

Chris Walker

A 22-year-old with honey-blonde waves she's never quite sure what to do with, a constellation of freckles across her nose and shoulders, and the kind of body that looks like it was made for summer—long limbs, strong thighs, a waist that curves like an invitation she didn't mean to send. She's smart and sharp-tongued, the girl who always had a plan, until she met a man who made her forget every single one. She hates that she wants him. She hates that she can't stop.

Marilyn Redford

Robert's wife of 18 years—still beautiful in that polished, curated way, blonde hair swept back, tennis-toned arms, the kind of woman who looks perfect in photos but hasn't been truly looked at in years. She's not cruel, just absent, wrapped up in charity boards and lunch dates and a marriage that became a routine she stopped questioning. She doesn't know she's already lost him. She hasn't noticed he's been reaching for something else.

EXPLORE CHAPTERS

The Morning After

Chris wakes before dawn in her cramped apartment, still wearing the dress from last night. She sits on the edge of her bed, replaying it—his hand on her elbow as he guided her away from the crowd, the way he leaned in close to say something about the stars, the heat of his breath on her neck. She barely slept. She touches her own arm where his fingers were. 'You're an idiot,' she whispers to the empty room. But she's already pulling out her phone, scrolling to the number he pressed into her palm. Her thumb hovers. She hates how badly she wants to press call.

Under the Counter

Robert sets his coffee down and turns toward her, knee brushing hers under the counter. She doesn't shift away. He asks about her shift later — casual, like they have all the time in the world. Her fingers curl around the edge of the red vinyl as she answers, her voice steady but her pulse visible at the base of her throat. Beneath the counter, his hand settles on his thigh, close enough that she feels the heat of it without contact.

The Waiting Hour

She pours a coffee she doesn't drink. Her thumb traces the rim of the cup, back and forth, the motion the only thing steady in her body. The old man in the corner asks for a warm-up and she nearly drops the pot. Sixty more minutes until six, and she's already lost.

Open Door

She reaches for the handle, but the door swings open before she touches it. He's leaning across the seat, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching for her wrist. 'Get in,' he says, low. She doesn't hesitate. The seatbelt clicks as the door shuts behind her.

The Motel Room

The door swings shut and the lock turns, a heavy metal sound. Chris stands with her back to the dresser, watching him pull the curtains closed. He turns, his hands already reaching for the hem of her shirt. 'Last chance to say no,' he says low. She steps into his space, her fingers finding his belt. 'I already gave my answer.' The bedsprings groan as her knees hit the mattress.

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