She bit her lip and tried not to be amused. “Fine. Let’s head to the kitchen.”
She marched through the casual dining room, where she cooked for her family, and into the sunny yellow kitchen, hoping she didn’t wobble. The place was outfitted with professional-grade appliances so she could bake and cook for a large crew, and she’d installed large granite countertops, but the cheerful daffodil curtains, oak flooring, and endless knickknacks lining the counters and the top of the stained-pine cabinets gave off a cozy air.
Immediately, she noticed a full pot of fresh coffee, a clean counter, and no dishes lying in the sink. Her heart gave a twerk, but she refused to let it go full Miley Cyrus. She told herself it wasn’t a big deal that he’d cleaned the entire kitchen.
She went to the pine wall hatch, unlocked it, and took out a brass key ring. “I’ll give you the Windsor Room since it has a large desk and work area. There’s a refrigerator and mini microwave for your convenience. Fran’s new Market is great for fresh food, and there’s always pizza or Mexican delivery if you want to eat here.”
“Yeah, I stopped by the Market and talked to Fran. She wanted to come check on you, but I told her to give you some time to get back on your feet. She’s sending over a tray of lasagna tomorrow in case you’re not able to cook. Also said she’d be happy to send me dinner any night if I’m on deadline.”
“Oh. Great.” She tried not to dwell on the way he’d gotten himself situated in town so quickly. “Aubrey regularly comes on Mondays. You’re welcome to use the washer and dryer in the basement any other day.”
“Oh, Aubrey said she’d do my stuff on Mondays.”
Ophelia blinked. “What?”
“Yeah, she was really sweet when we spoke on the phone. She said it wasn’t a problem to do my laundry with the regular stuff. Did you know her mother is a huge fan of my movies?”
She gritted her teeth and hung on to her patience. Another woman he was able to charm immediately—and this one did laundry. “How fortunate for you.”
“Isn’t it?”
He had no idea she was being sarcastic. By this point, she was losing her edge. She handed him the key and crossed her arms in front of her chest. “Here are the rules. Number one: You’re out on April first. That’s when my spring season begins, and I’ll need every spare room.”
“Fine.”
“Number two: You get breakfast every morning, but you’re on your own the rest of the day. Don’t come sniffing around expecting me to cook dinner or cater to you on the days I have off. I also don’t want you wandering around at all hours making yourself at home in my kitchen and private rooms. That means no midnight snacks. You stay in your room, in the public dining room, or on the porch.”
“Of course. Would you let me take you out to dinner now and then?”
“No. I also don’t want you mixing socially with any of my guests.”
He cocked his head to study her. “Why? I’ve already met and taken care of a bunch.”
Because she needed to keep her distance, and any contact with her guests might make them seem like a couple. Because deep inside, she still craved him.
But she couldn’t admit to her weakness for him, so she kept her answer short. “’Cause I said so.”
His lips twitched. “Got it. Anything else?”
“Yes.” She regarded him intently. “Rule number three: I need you to keep away from me. No touching. No flirting. No trying to seduce me.”
His eyes flared with heat. The energy in the room tightened. An excruciating awareness pulsed between them. “What if you’d like it?” he asked softly.
“I won’t.”
His voice dropped to a sexy growl. “That was a challenge if I ever heard one. You always liked when I touched you. In fact, you craved it. Used to purr like a kitten when I’d stroke your hair or your back. Remember?”
Yes.
She remembered every detail. The way his hot, rough palm would slide over her skin to trace her freckles, his tongue following in a sexy game of connect the dots. The way he’d push her hair back to bare her nape, sink his teeth into the vulnerable curve where her neck met shoulder, and hold her when she shivered uncontrollably.
Oh, she already knew she’d like it. Would like everything he wanted to do to her. But her goal was simple: get through the next three months unscathed.
That would mean no anything.
“That was a long time ago,” she said stiffly. “There have been others in between to take your place . . . and the memories.”
Temper ignited his face, and a raw possessiveness flamed from him. “Are you seeing someone right now?” he asked, his features tight.
Oh, how she wanted to lie—but she never could.
“Not right now,” she said. “Still, my rules are nonnegotiable. I’m not looking to ignite something that’s better left alone. You may not believe it, but I happen to love the way my life is right now. I have no intention of changing anything.”
He regarded her with intensity. He’d always had a unique ability to dive deep inside a person and linger. Maybe it was the creative soul within, but he used to enjoy getting to know a person beneath the surface, to learn their quirks and tendencies, their dreams and fears. He’d always been a better listener than talker. It had been another thing the show business industry had managed to change in him. Every time she’d desperately begged him to listen, he’d talk over her, tell her how great everything was, leave her with a kiss on the forehead and alone in a room with an aching emptiness. He’d learned how to skate on the surface and pretend things would be okay, just like Hollywood taught him.
But right now, the old Kyle was back. He seemed to be content to study her body language and linger before speaking. “You don’t miss singing?” he asked.
“Not like you think. And I do sing.”
“When you’re alone. With no one around. I asked Ethan about it, you know.”
“Asked him what?”
“If you performed locally anywhere or had created a demo. Hell, nowadays you could post something on YouTube, and it may go viral. You have a gift. But Ethan said he hasn’t heard you sing since he’s been back.”
“I don’t need to make money from my gift like you do.”
Slowly, he nodded, but she sensed it was already too late. He’d looked deep enough to spot the shred of regret that still lingered.
“Fair enough. I’ll agree to your rules. I won’t touch or seduce you—unwillingly.”
She glared at that clever twist of words but took it. She’d never ask for anything from him anyway. “Then I guess you’ve scored yourself a room of one’s own. Here’s hoping we won’t see much of each other—unwillingly. It’s the last door on the right.”
His grin was totally masculine and devastatingly handsome. “Yeah, you’re definitely feeling better. I always enjoyed your sarcasm—it’s a lost art form.”
He sauntered out of the kitchen like he’d won the round and he was just allowing her to believe she was in control.
Damn him.
Ophelia leaned against the wall and tried to catch her breath. Her illness had made her vulnerable, allowed him to touch her and take care of her, but it wouldn’t happen again.
She had to make sure she was focused. Cool. Calm. Distant. She’d put up a wall of ice so thick and so deep, not even a Game of Thrones dragon could destroy it.
No problem.
Chapter Seven
Kyle stared at the blank page before him on his screen.
His notes surrounded him in a state of organized chaos. He had his favorite Mets baseball hat on backward, and his crappy sweats that were too soft and comfortable to ever be thrown out. His thermos was filled with piping-hot coffee. The wind whistled through the thick panes of glass in an attempt to batter its way in, and outside, a covering of pure white glistened, untouched and unspoiled, over the earth.
The room Ophelia had set him up in was perfect. The décor was a little less feminine than some of the other rooms, wi
th rich golds and navy accents. The writing desk had plenty of room for his laptop and papers and was set against the window so he had a nice view. The mahogany bed was massive, and the attached bath was modern and pleasing in clean white and blue. A small brick fireplace set the mood, paired with a chaise lounge in deep velvet. It was everything he’d hoped his home for the next three months could be.
Dragging in a breath, he refocused his attention on his script. After days of building character backgrounds, playing with plot, and writing a few scenes, he’d taken a look and realized it sucked.
All of it. Well, most of it.
He’d been forced to save everything in a new folder called “Crappy Deleted Stuff” and start all over.
He took a sip of coffee and regarded the page.
Why was writing still so fucking hard?
He’d been a word scribbler since the moment he discovered books, and he’d known early on he was meant to be a storyteller. He’d read voraciously, but there was something about movies that always got to him. When he figured out there was a job called a screenwriter, and that those people actually created the stories on the big screen, his gut had stirred with purpose. That was going to be him.
Fast forward almost fifteen years later, and he was terrified his career was over—especially after this last year, when all the good words seemed to have dried up.
He should have this shit down by now. Be able to whip up a story—taking all the magic and perfection from the thoughts in his head and get them on the page.
Instead, it felt like it was his first script every time he sat his ass down in the chair.
It was a stupid career. He’d counsel people to stay far away. It made you into a muttering maniac, messed with your sleep, forced you to binge on junk food and caffeine, and drove you stark raving mad. His only purpose was to create imaginary people with the goal of manipulating moviegoers into believing they were real.
God, who was he kidding? He fucking loved his job.
He pecked out the first line of the script.
It was a dark and stormy night . . .
Good ol’ Snoopy.
He rubbed his head and tried to get in the zone. The beginning was always the hardest for him. And sometimes that damn saggy middle. But once he got 80 percent in, writing was a piece of cake.
The cursor remained still in a quiet taunt.
Fuck you.
The hook was everything. It needed to enrapture a producer and audience. Set up an interesting premise. But did he begin at the beginning, or the end? Sometimes a tease was better—a bit of a spoiler. Sometimes it was better to hammer the audience over the head right away.
He deleted the first line, then tapped his fingers against the desk. After penning endless action movies filled with spectacular car crashes and bromances that rivaled some classics, he’d finally made a name for himself. Critics liked his sharp dialogue and banter, and he’d forged solid connections with a bunch of high-powered executives, producers, and directors in Hollywood.
But his muse was done with the blockbuster action adventures. Had been done for a while now, he’d just been fighting the inevitable. There was another story that needed to be told by his muse: a story with an ending he craved to find out for himself. But he hadn’t been brave—or stupid—enough to take the leap.
A love story. One based on childhood friendship and first love. A story that spanned the distance between a small upstate farm and the glitzy land of dreams in Hollywood. It would bring the audience on a journey of hopeful promises, blinding fame, broken hearts, and aching loss.
He just didn’t know how it ended. Yet.
An image of Ophelia drifted before him.
Why had taking care of her last weekend felt so right? How had the years and space between them drifted away to nothing, leaving him with an aching heart and sense of loss?
He’d watched over her as she slept, tormented by the past and what he’d left behind.
He knew the connection between them still burned. She’d definitely reacted when he mentioned their past physical intimacy. But it had been that vulnerable flash in her baby blues that convinced him she still had feelings for him, deeper than the physical. He wanted to remind her of how good they’d been together. Every day, he would have a chance to stir up a memory. Every day, he’d be able to learn all the ways she’d changed.
He’d fight to get her back.
Except, the past few days, she’d stuck to her word and barely acknowledged his presence. If they passed each other on the way in or out, she nodded and kept walking. He’d tried several times to talk to her, but her gaze inspected him as if he was a bug under a microscope instead of the man who used to make her shatter and scream. Then she’d coldly dismiss him. He heard her consistently clattering around downstairs, always involved in some type of project. Every time he begged her to give him a few minutes to discuss something important, she shut him down, saying she was busy.
It was humiliating.
And he still hadn’t told her the truth.
Guilt stirred. Somehow, he had to force her to listen. Maybe everything would change once he revealed his discovery. To him, the whole thing was a sign that they had a shot at a second chance.
But first, he needed to concentrate on the mess in front of him.
The blank page.
Kyle shifted in the chair, closed his eyes, and sought his muse. He’d learned through years of hard work the temptress sometimes decided not to show. When that happened, he would write anyway, vomiting garbage on the page until something worth saving appeared. Usually, she got annoyed that he was doing it alone and nosily inserted herself into the process to help him come up with something decent. Eventually, something good. And finally, something great.
The fucked-up, glamorous life of a writer.
After waiting the proper amount of time and realizing she was taking a winter nap, he opened his eyes and let his instincts take over.
This story began with a young girl and boy in love.
They were running away from home, toward fame and fortune.
They lay back on the soft carpet of green grass and stared up at the stars. He didn’t care about the occasional crawly bug on his body, or the swarm of gnats above them, or the threat of ticks feasting on his skin. His focus had narrowed to the girl pressed against him. Her red-gold hair spilling over his chest and her fingers entwined with his drove such earthly irritations away. She smelled of lavender and honey, a mixture of the ingredients she mixed for the body cream she sold at the farmers’ market. He wondered if any expensive perfume could make him as crazed, like a horse ready to breed.
How many years had she annoyed the shit out of him? Sure, they were friends, but she was a girl and always busting in on the cool stuff he was doing with her brother, who was his best friend. Everything they did she insisted she could do just as well, until she was more tomboy than girl. By the time he’d reached adolescence, she was just part of the fabric of his life.
Was she sixteen when he finally realized she was beautiful? Her lips always looked like they’d been stung by a bee, and those jeans and T-shirts she wore seemed so much tighter, emphasizing sudden ripe curves that kept seizing his gaze. Suddenly, those fiery blue eyes held a different heat—one he wanted to delve into and explore. Her brother didn’t seem to notice the strange new vibe in the air when they squeezed into the cracked vinyl booth at the diner in town or worked side by side in the barn, sweat sticking to their clothes and the scent of horses, hay, and hormones hanging thickly in the air.
He wondered what she’d taste like. He wondered how smooth her pale skin would be under his hand. He wondered if she thought of him in the same way, or if he was just being a sick, horny bastard—he was like another brother to her.
Shame and fear kept him from doing anything. He’d tried kissing another girl, but her face swarmed his vision. He backed away, because it felt like a betrayal. He’d never tried to kiss someone else again.
When she was sev
enteen, they went for a ride in the field and she challenged him to a race. Hooves thundering, he chased her through the woods, obsessed with the way her long hair caught the wind and the perfect curve of her ass as she rose in the saddle and expertly urged her mare to go faster.
The crash of deer in the woods had startled the horses. He’d reined in his mount at the same time he watched in horror as she tumbled off her seat and lay motionless in the grass.
Choking fear vaulted him to her side in seconds. He ran his trembling hands over her body, checking for breaks, cupping her face and whispering her name like a prayer, over and over, until she opened her eyes.
Their gazes locked. The air warmed, hanging heavy and stagnant. The sun burned. A bird screeched in the trees. The snort of horses’ breath echoed behind them.
“Are you hurt? Baby, please talk to me.”
A small smile rested on her lips. “I’m fine. Just got winded. I still won.”
He cursed and pressed his forehead to hers in sheer relief. “I’m going to kill you. You scared the shit out of me. I told you not to go toward the creek path, but you never listen. Why are you always trying to prove you’re better?”
Her arms lifted, and her fingers rested in his hair. “Don’t be mad,” she whispered. Her bright-blue eyes flared with a mix of raw emotions. Heat. Want. Need. “Maybe I just wanted to get your attention.”
The energy shifted. Suddenly, he realized his hands hadn’t moved and his thumbs were stroking the edges of her mouth, his lips inches from hers. Her sweet breath rushed over him, and suddenly he was hard, aching, and insane to touch her, kiss her . . .
So he did.
It was a kiss that had built for a year in his memory, and maybe more in his dreams. With a breathy sigh, her arms tightened around him, and then she was kissing him back. The pleasure was so intense, the ground shifted beneath him.
They kissed each other in the long grass under the stinging sun for endless, stunning moments. He tasted her with his tongue, stroked her hair, and drank in her scent. He was changed forever because he knew he loved her more than anything, this girl who knew every one of his secrets. There was nothing to hide from her, which made the kiss the purest of all—a kiss of innocence, openness, and giving over everything he was for safekeeping.
A Brand New Ending (Stay Book 2) Page 6
