by Irene Hannon
His cue to leave.
“It’s all yours. In case you’re wondering, very few residents trek down here—especially during working hours.”
“Except today.”
She meant him.
“My hours are different from most people’s. I’m at the shop from six to two. The rest of the day is my own. That’s why I’m down here at”—he twisted his wrist—“four.”
“I’ll remember that.” Keeping as much distance as possible between them, she skirted around him and struck off toward the other end of the beach.
It didn’t take a genius to read between the lines of her last comment.
In the future, she’d visit the beach while he was at the shop—eliminating the possibility of any more meetings.
Shoving his hands into his pockets, he watched her recede.
Give it up, Garrett. She wants nothing to do with you. Write her off.
Sensible advice supported by a preponderance of evidence—including her continued reticence. In general, two people exchanged information during initial meetings. In their case, while he’d given her a bit of personal background, she’d offered zilch.
Instead of wasting his time and energy on his reclusive neighbor, he ought to go home and bake a blackberry cobbler.
Also sensible advice.
He slogged through the shifting sand that led to the back of the beach and began his ascent up the winding path.
At the first bend, he glanced back.
Kat was still walking away from him, two seagulls circling above her. As if they were trying to keep the woman who seemed so alone company.
At that fanciful thought, he blew out a breath.
More likely they were hoping for a handout.
Whatever had prompted their interest, however, they continued to stick close. And she didn’t try to shoo them away, as she had him.
Lucky birds.
Zach resumed his trek up the bluff, losing sight of both Kat and the gulls.
Yet she remained front and center in his mind.
Meaning he wasn’t going to be able to dismiss her as easily as he’d like.
So, smart or not, he might have to make one last attempt to break through her wall.
Since he wasn’t likely to run into her again on the beach, and she hadn’t returned to The Perfect Blend, those locations weren’t options for a future rendezvous.
However . . . now that he knew she was living in close proximity—and they shared an affinity for blackberries—a gift of homemade cobbler would give him an excuse to orchestrate one more encounter.
If that didn’t work?
He’d fold his tent—and accept that the mystery woman would forever remain a mystery.
4
CALL ME!!!!! BIG NEWS!!!!!
Grimacing at the third text message that had pinged her phone in the past half hour, Katherine plunked the cell on the granite island in the kitchen of her rental house.
Typical Simon. Everything with him was urgent. High drama. Life and death.
But very little was life and death in Tinseltown—least of all the type of stuff that sent her agent into a tizzy.
She slammed her arms across her chest and glared at the phone. Simon was the last person she wanted to talk to—but ignoring his messages was useless. He’d keep sending them, with increasing frequency, until he wore her down and she responded to shut him up.
He knew her well.
Too well.
And he’d become an expert at pushing all the buttons that would maneuver her into making decisions he assured her were in her best interest.
Not to mention his.
Another incentive for her to take a break from a life that was spiraling out of control.
Her control, anyway.
Heaving a sigh, she gritted her teeth and picked up the cell again. She wasn’t anywhere near ready to leave Hope Harbor. So no matter how hard he tried to convince her to come back, she’d have to stand firm.
She jabbed at his number and girded for a fight.
“Finally!” Simon didn’t attempt to hide his exasperation.
“Hello to you too.”
“Sorry, but you’re talking to a frantic man. Blame my lack of manners on stress.”
“You’re always stressed.” She rotated her head, trying to relieve the kink in her neck. “I got your message. What news couldn’t wait until I initiated a call?”
“Are you sitting down?”
She rolled her eyes. “Please. Cut the theatrics.”
“You should sit.”
“Simon.”
“Fine, fine.” Apparently her don’t-mess-with-me inflection had sunk in. “There should be a drumroll here, and a bottle of champagne cooling—but we’ll celebrate when you come back. Guess who wants you to star in his next picture?”
Her breath hitched.
Star?
Star?
As in playing the lead role, rather than her usual supporting parts?
That was news.
Unless he was exaggerating—a very real possibility. Hyperbole was Simon’s middle name.
Plus, despite his continued expressions of confidence that she could jump from TV to the big screen, up to this point all he’d been able to land her were secondary roles in low-budget cable flicks.
“What kind of picture—and who’s the director?”
“Hold on to your hat, baby.”
At his pithy, two-sentence answer, she groped for the edge of a stool and sank onto the seat.
Major director.
Major picture.
Major leap in her career.
This was the break she’d dreamed of her whole life. While her gig on a popular TV series over the past four years had allowed her to build a hefty nest egg, a major film with an award-winning director could catapult her into the stratosphere on both a professional and financial level.
If that’s what she still wanted.
The very question that had prompted her to flee LA for Hope Harbor.
“Did you faint?” Simon sounded amused.
“No. I’m . . . digesting the news.”
“You should be jumping up and down with joy, like I am.”
Yes, she should.
So why wasn’t she?
Another question to wrestle with later.
She popped one of the blackberries she’d picked on today’s foray to the beach into her mouth. “What did you tell them?”
“What do you think I told them?” A touch of irritation sharpened his words.
“Simon—I’m not committing until I see the script.”
Silence.
She waited him out. She would not let him intimidate her—or push her to move too fast.
“It’s on my desk.”
“It needs to be on mine.”
“Your desk is in LA—where you should be.”
The lingering hint of sun-kissed sweetness on her tongue evaporated.
“I had to get away. You know that. Especially after everything that happened.”
“I get that, babe. Everyone does. But how long is this break going to last?”
“I don’t know.” She stood, paced over to the two-story wall of glass in the living room that offered a panoramic view of the deep blue sea—and summoned up her courage. “All I know is that I’m nowhere near ready to come back . . . or if I ever will be.”
There.
The truth she’d been dancing around and had never voiced was out.
Silence greeted her announcement.
Wrapping her free arm tight around her midsection, she swallowed as she waited for Simon’s explosion.
But he surprised her.
“That isn’t what I expected to hear.” For a man given to histrionics, his calmness was almost more unsettling than his usual frenzy.
“I know. It’s not what I expected either.” Not after all the years she’d invested in her career, building the foundation block by block, role by role, with copious amounts of blood, sweat, and tears.
“Okay. Let’s take a step back.” He exhaled. “I can see now that the incident with Jason had a much bigger impact than I realized. So take more time. Don’t make any rash decisions. I can send the script there for you to read, and I’ll talk to the director. Explain the situation. Buy you a bit of breathing space. Would that help?”
Pressure built behind her eyes, and the scene in front of her blurred.
A pox on Simon for throwing her a curveball with his sudden empathy. Why wasn’t he ranting and raving at her for not jumping on this opportunity? What was with his sympathetic, understanding act?
Act.
As the left side of her brain kicked in, her vision cleared.
Yeah, that fit.
Simon knew how to read people, and he was a master at manipulation. It was difficult to distinguish his rare sincere moments from his usual performance mode.
He was the one who should be on the silver screen.
“Katherine?”
At his prompt, she snagged a tissue from the half-empty box on a side table and swiped at her nose. “Breathing space would be appreciated.”
“Anything else?”
Peace. Rest. Direction. Guidance. Genuine caring.
Simon, however, wasn’t wired to provide any of those.
The guy from the coffee shop, on the other hand? Zach Garrett? He seemed capable of offering a friend true kindness and consideration, no strings attached. The sort of person who possessed a deep wellspring of compassion.
But what did she know? Her instincts about people had tanked in recent months. And judging a man’s character after two meetings was foolish—as was letting thoughts of him creep into her consciousness.
She sniffed and dabbed the tissue at her damp lashes.
Besides, he was history. After rebuffing his overtures of friendship twice, it was doubtful he’d seek her out again. Why would he set himself up for a third rejection? Unless he had an ironclad ego, he’d keep his distance in the future.
And that was fine by her. She couldn’t handle any more complications.
Yet if that was true, why did the possibility that she’d never see him again add another dark layer to the shroud of dejection cloaking her life?
“Katherine?”
At Simon’s prod, she refocused on his question. “No. I don’t need anything else. Just send the script and buy me as much time as you can.”
“I’ll take care of both today. Have you been following the rags?”
Her stomach tightened. “No.”
“They’re on your side.”
Like that mattered, when someone was dead.
“I don’t really care.”
“You will down the road.”
Only if she went back to her old life.
But what other life did she have? If she didn’t go back, what would she do?
Another question that continued to torment her.
“Anything else?” She wadded up the tissue.
“No—but stay in touch.”
“I’ll call or text if I have anything to say.”
A tapping noise came over the line.
He was drumming his pen on his desk, a definite sign he was miffed.
“You know, Katherine”—a chill wafted across the miles—“we’ve come a long way together. There are responsibilities on both sides.”
Classic Simon. The one who knew how to play guilt to his advantage. Who never failed to remind her she owed him.
But that debt had been paid long ago.
“I realize that. I also realize you’ve profited significantly from our partnership.”
“As have you—thanks to my negotiating skills.”
No acknowledgment that her acting ability had also contributed to their success.
She let the omission pass.
“We both have much to be grateful for.”
“Agreed—and together, we can take your success to a new level. Add millions of admirers to your fan base.”
“And millions of dollars to our bank accounts.”
“That isn’t a sin.” The tempo of the tapping quickened.
“It also shouldn’t be the main goal in life.”
“That’s not how you felt five years ago when you signed with me.”
“People learn. Grow. Change. And money wasn’t my only motive for wanting to succeed.”
After a moment, the drumming ceased. “Why don’t we table this discussion for today? You’ve earned a vacation. Walk on the beach. Eat fattening food. Take scenic drives. Sleep late. In between all that, read the script.” His chair squeaked, as if he’d leaned forward. “I’ve got another call coming in. I’ll text you after I talk to the studio.”
The line went dead, and Katherine set the phone on the side table. Wandered out to the deck and dropped onto a chaise lounge, letting the sun’s warming rays percolate through her pores.
So many questions—so few answers.
Too bad she didn’t have someone to talk to about her predicament. Someone like Charley, who’d once listened to her dreams of fame and riches over tacos on a bench by the wharf.
All at once, a bit of wisdom he’d offered that day surfaced from the recesses of her mind.
“I expect most dreams are reachable, if a person’s willing to pay the price. The question is whether the goal is worth the cost—and whether the return on investment is positive or negative.”
In those days, she’d assumed he’d meant price in terms of hard work and sacrifices—and that had been a no-brainer. You didn’t get anywhere in any field without those.
Yet only now was she beginning to understand the return on investment part of his comment.
Because the negatives were starting to outweigh the positives.
But after all the sweat and sacrifice she’d put into achieving her dream, how could she walk away—even if parts of it had become a nightmare?
Was his neighbor asleep?
A generous dish of blackberry cobbler in one hand and a pint of French vanilla ice cream in the other, Zach halted a few yards from the deck of the Clark cottage and assessed Kat, who was stretched out on a chaise lounge.
Eyes closed. Respiration steady. Posture limp.
No question about it. She was sound asleep.
Bummer.
He was going to have to work on his timing if he ever wanted to connect with her again.
Consigning today’s attempt to the bust category, he swung around and set off for home.
And then the heavens smiled on him.
A drop of water plopped against his cheek, released by the dark gray clouds that had scuttled over the sun in the past ten minutes, blotting out much of the blue sky. It didn’t appear they were in for more than a brief burst of rain—but it ought to be sufficient to rouse his neighbor.
Or give him an excuse to interrupt her slumber and save her from an unscheduled shower.
As he pivoted back, she sat up and swung her legs to the deck.
The instant she spotted him, she jumped to her feet and edged toward the sliding door.
No smile.
No hello.
No encouragement to linger.
Not the warmest welcome he’d ever received.
Nevertheless, he hiked up the corners of his mouth, strolled closer, and lifted his offerings. “I come bearing gifts. Fresh blackberry cobbler and ice cream. I thought you might enjoy sampling my culinary efforts.”
She stopped at the door. Caught her lower lip between her teeth.
While he waited for her verdict, he tried not to stare at the vivid blue eyes on full display today. Fringed by lush lashes shades lighter than her dark hair, they were a striking sapphire hue. And the addition of model-like high cheekbones vaulted her into the classic-beauty category.
Why did she hide such a stunning face behind dark shades?
“I don’t often indulge in desserts, but I appreciate the offer.”
She was turning him down . . . yet behind her refusal, was there a hint of y
earning? As if she was tempted to accept but wasn’t certain she should?
Could he exploit that ambiguity?
“Not even on a special occasion?”
Her brow puckered. “What’s the occasion?”
“When’s the last time you had blackberry cobbler filled with fresh Oregon berries and made by a suave, sophisticated—dare I add decent-looking—guy?” Perhaps humor was the key to knocking a few chinks in her armor. Nothing else was working.
The subtle twitch of her mouth suggested his tactic had been spot-on.
“I can’t say I’ve ever had that pleasure.”
“Voilà—special occasion.”
Her lips bloomed into a full-fledged smile.
Whoa.
She was gorgeous with a poker face, but that smile transformed her into a breath-stealing stunner.
He reined in the sudden surge in his pulse and ignored the jolt of testosterone that rocketed through him.
“I suppose I could make an exception for such a unique opportunity. And I have to admit I’ve had a yen for blackberry cobbler for the past two days, ever since you mentioned it at the beach.”
He took that as an invitation to join her on the deck.
As the rain picked up, he erased the space between them in a few long strides. “I could dish this up if you want to sample it now.”
She examined the generous portion. “You’re tempting me.”
That went both ways—except he didn’t have cobbler on his mind.
“Is that a yes?”
“I . . . I guess so. You brought a lot.”
“Enough for two servings. You can save half for later . . . or we could both forget about calories and divvy this up inside before the skies open and it becomes blackberry soup.”
A gust of wind whipped past, and she tucked her hair behind her ear. Fumbled for the sliding door behind her. “Let’s share it.”
Yes!
He followed her into the soaring, glass-walled great room and gave a soft whistle. “Nice digs. This place lives up to its reputation.”
“The location is what sold me.” She continued toward the kitchen at the other end of the open floor plan, motioning toward an island with stools. “Make yourself comfortable.”
“Won’t be hard to do in a place like this.” He set the ice cream and cobbler on the granite surface but remained standing. “How can I help?”
“I’ll dish up the cobbler. Would you like coffee?”
