She nodded. “And now that work no longer does the trick, you’ve come back here.” Anger simmered within.
How could she possibly trust him when he was so desperate to write the perfect screenplay? His work would always come first.
“I won’t go back on our agreement for you to stay, but I also won’t let you use me as part of your research.”
“You’re more than that. Every day I spend here, every moment I get to hear your voice or study your face, I’m reminded that you were the only woman I’ve ever wanted.” His gaze caught hers. “I’m reminded of how you were the only woman I’ve ever loved.”
She ignored his stirring words and put her plate on the table, desperate to change the subject. Hearing about his screenplay made a whole bunch of messy emotions roil up inside of her.
“We need to focus. I’ll get the paperwork.”
His hand shot out and clasped around her arm. The shocking warmth of his skin sent heat rippling down her spine. “Why haven’t you remarried or settled into a relationship with a man who can give you everything I couldn’t?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters to me.”
She gritted her teeth and tried to pretend his touch wasn’t burning into her flesh, her heart, her soul. “Work replaced you, too,” she said.
“So you haven’t dated anyone since returning home?” he asked, his voice insistent.
“My affairs have been short, sweet, and with a timed ending. But that had nothing to do with you.”
He leaned in. Moss-green eyes seethed with intensity. “Bullshit. You can’t get over me just like I can’t get over you. We’re still married. We’re together in the place we first fell in love. What are you fighting so hard to protect? Why can’t you take a chance with me when you have nothing to lose?”
If she moved one more inch, his lips would be on hers.
If she moved one more inch, he’d kiss her and touch her and drag her into bed, where they could both finally forget.
If she moved one more inch, she’d get a second chance.
Trembling, she managed to pull back and stand up.
“I have everything to lose,” she said simply. “I’ll get the papers.”
“The first one.”
She paused. “What?”
Masculine frustration pumped around his figure, then he let out a breath like a sigh from the soul. “The first lawyer. Collins. We can use him.”
“Fine. I’ll give him a call and let you know.”
“I’ll clean up.”
Ophelia nodded and walked back inside. But for the rest of the day, his words echoed in her head with haunting insistence.
He was such an ass.
Kyle sat in the chair and stared at the fire. His plan had been so fucking simple. After the intensity of last night, he figured he’d back off a bit and keep things light. Chat her up. Flirt. Make her laugh. Remind her of how good they were together, whether it was in the kitchen or just hanging on the porch talking. By the time they were done, she would’ve forgotten about the stupid lawyer and felt a bit safer in his company. He’d meant to play the charmer, soften her up, and make his move in the next few days, when it was harder for her to remember what she was fighting him for.
Yeah, goodbye to that big plan.
First he’d told her about the damn story line. Then he’d gotten broody about the past and spooked her all over again.
No wonder she freaked out.
He had to back off no matter how hard it was.
The work was bringing up emotions he hadn’t counted on.
How could he have forgotten the easy way they’d been together—both mind and body?
Nearly a decade of chasing the ghost of what Ophelia had made him feel had eventually turned him numb. Finally, he was waking up. His muse, his heart, his hunger for something more than he’d settled for after she’d left him.
His thoughts crashed together in a tsunami, giving him a slight headache. Go slow, his inner voice warned again. Let her catch up.
He needed to show her it wasn’t too late. The longer he stayed here, the more he realized their story wasn’t finished. And at the end of his three months, he had no intention of leaving her behind.
Not this time.
The buzz of his phone interrupted his thoughts. He glanced down and swiped the screen. “Robbie. Good to hear from you.”
“Been waiting for you to check in. You’ve gone dark on me, man. We’ve got some stuff to discuss.”
He settled back in the chair. “Can’t do much until I’m done with this script. Told you that before I left.”
His agent snorted. “Yeah, yeah. The secret project you’re all pumped about. That’s great, but I need you to fly back this weekend. Something big is going down, and you need to be here.”
He frowned. “What is it?”
“Cal Jenkins wants to talk to you about writing the screenplay for his next movie. We have a small window of opportunity this upcoming weekend to schmooze him. So get your ass on a plane, and let’s lock this fucker up.”
Kyle closed his eyes. Dammit.
Jenkins was one of the most successful directors of action films. His work was brilliant, sharp, and full of violence. The idea of cementing a relationship with Jenkins would put him at the top of the Hollywood food chain.
“You’re kidding me. He actually asked to speak to me about it?”
“Just got off the phone with his agent. The party is at his mansion, but it’s a small crowd, so we can talk work. When can you get here?”
His thoughts whirled. His immediate reaction was to tell his agent Hell yes! and book the next flight out. But as he thought about the bigger picture, he realized he couldn’t leave. Not now.
He’d reached a turning point in his book—and with Ophelia. After telling her he’d changed, how could he casually fly off and interrupt their time together? Also, as brilliant as Jenkins was, his movies were not Kyle’s preferred genre. He needed to move away from being typecast, and the story he was writing was his opportunity.
He couldn’t fuck this up.
“I’m sorry, Robbie, but I’m gonna have to pass.”
A shocked silence buzzed over the line. His agent’s voice came out squeaky. “Tell me I didn’t hear that correctly. Tell me I need some goddamn hearing aids, Kimpton. Tell me!”
He gritted his teeth and hung on to his resolution. “I can’t walk away from this project right now, and I have stuff going on here. Plus, Jenkins isn’t my goal. I’ve told you that before.”
“You can get to your goal after you accept your Academy Award next year!” Robbie yelled. “Get your ass on a plane, man. Please. I’m begging you.”
“Sorry, I can’t. Give him my apologies and make sure he knows I’m grateful he thought of me. Do your job. I gotta go. I’ll check in with you later.”
He clicked off before his agent had a meltdown, then buried his face in his hands.
Who would’ve thought he’d be turning down a Willy Wonka golden ticket? A few years ago, he would’ve sold his soul for such an opportunity. But now, everything seemed . . . different. Chasing after directors and new ways to achieve fame didn’t seem as important any longer.
He had to keep his gaze on the prize. The real prize.
Ophelia.
The book.
His future.
Ophelia stared at the second cooling pecan pie and wondered if she was losing her mind. She’d been so upset after the whole encounter with Kyle, she’d retreated to her safe place.
The kitchen.
Wrapped in the warm glow of flour, sugar, and chocolate, she’d pounded out her frustration on the dough and wielded her mixer like a weapon. By the time the two pies slid out of the oven, she’d felt as if she’d completed a workout at the gym.
She let them cool on the counter. It was always a good idea to have some desserts in the freezer for emergencies, especially for impromptu celebrations or sick calls.
Her mind flashed to Patrick and how h
e’d looked arguing with the EMTs. She’d tried to call him yesterday, but there’d been no answer. The man’s image had been haunting her lately, and though she wanted to tell Kyle about his dad’s health scare, she knew it wouldn’t matter. An apology and time still couldn’t take away the memories of the anguish he’d wreaked on his only son.
Still, as much as she was on Kyle’s side, she was worried about Patrick. For her own peace, she decided to check on him and make sure he was okay.
She packed up the pie before she could change her mind and drove out to his house. She pulled up behind his battered Subaru, grabbed the pie box, and knocked on his door.
It was a while before he answered. His green eyes widened in surprise when he saw her, and he immediately succumbed to a wicked series of coughs.
She frowned and stepped into the hallway, taking in the thick sweatshirt, jeans, and fleece robe wrapped around him. “Are you sick?” she asked.
“Just a cold. What are you doing here?”
She put the pie on the table and studied his face. Definitely gaunt, with red-rimmed eyes and a swollen nose. “I brought you a pecan pie, fresh from the oven.”
He squinted in suspicion. “Why?”
She laughed and took off her coat. “I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I have no idea why I’m here.”
He snorted, but a tiny smile quirked his lip. The expression was a duplicate of his son’s. “Good. I’d rather you be honest.” He gave another series of coughs and grabbed a tissue. “Nice to know if I croak someone will find my body before next Christmas.”
“Don’t say stuff like that. What have you eaten today?”
“A Hot Pocket.”
She winced. “That won’t help. Do you have any chicken broth? Soup?”
He waved a hand in the air. “Nah, I don’t shop much. I’ll be fine, especially with a fresh-baked pie.”
She tapped her foot, half-torn about whether she should just let him be. The pie was enough of a gesture. She’d hated this man as much as Kyle, yet she couldn’t leave him like this. Not if he was sick and had no one to help.
Lord knows he would never go to the hospital or call 911 again after the ambulance debacle. Aw, hell.
“No pie,” she announced, scooping up the box and walking back into the kitchen. “Not until you have something healthy.”
“Hey, you’re the one who brought the pie! Now I can’t have it?”
“Not yet. God, this kitchen is a mess. How do you even find anything in here?”
He followed her in, his slippers slapping against the wood floor. “Don’t need to find much but the toaster oven and microwave. I do the dishes every couple of days.”
She noted the half-full sink, the crumbs littering the counters, and the long row of empty coffee mugs. It took her only a few minutes to pull open his cabinets and refrigerator and find absolutely nothing that would help his cold. “You live like a twenty-something bachelor,” she scolded. “You’re only going to get worse if you don’t do anything to help your body.”
“I gave up alcohol. I stopped smoking. I got nothing left to give up, and I’m too damn tired to learn how to cook and have healthy habits at age seventy-one.” He blew his nose and glared. “If you came to give lectures, leave the pie and go. I’m fine.”
“Don’t be grouchy, or I’ll take my pie with me, Patrick.”
He grunted.
It took her a minute to make the decision. Rifling through her purse, she grabbed a scrap piece of paper, a pen, and scribbled down a list of items. “What are you taking for the cold?” she asked.
“Nothing.” His voice came out a bit rebellious. “I can’t. Alcohol is in most cough medicines.”
She nodded. “I’ll be sure to read the ingredients. I’ll be back in an hour. Don’t touch the pie.”
“Where are you going?”
“Grocery shopping.”
“But—”
“I have no time for chatting. I’ll be back. Go to bed and drink water. You need to flush out the germs.”
He glowered. “You’re pushy, girl.”
“And you’re wasting my valuable time.”
Ophelia didn’t wait to see if he’d obey her orders. She grabbed her purse and her list and headed into town.
It only took her forty minutes to get everything she needed. She let herself back in, and heard snoring from the back room. Using her time wisely while he slept, she unpacked the groceries, donned rubber gloves, and got to work.
Singing softly, she attacked the dishes, sprayed the counters with bleach, then got a broth heated up on the stove. She kept it simple, adding only celery, carrots, spices, and chicken, then let it cook. The cabinets were stuffed with expired boxes that quickly went into the garbage, replaced by new. She sliced up peasant bread and put together a half-ass garlic loaf, sticking that in the oven. She was just finishing up when she heard him shuffle into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
She raked her gaze over him. “You look a little better. Sit. I have some soup and bread.”
He opened his mouth, and she prepped herself for some nastiness. She’d already expected it and made peace with her intentions to help him anyway. It was more for her at this point than for him. Ophelia just couldn’t leave him alone and sick with nothing in the house to eat or drink.
But instead of speaking, his eyes filled with a mix of emotions. He seemed to have trouble swallowing. He nodded and sat down.
She served him a bowl of hot soup and a plate of bread slathered in garlic butter and parmesan. She squeezed lemon slices into a large glass of water, and had already prepared a pot of tea with honey and lemon.
He ate in silence, the hand holding the spoon shaking slightly. She wondered about his sobriety and how he managed, especially alone. But right now didn’t feel like a good time for questions. Even with the bad memories, she was glad she could help him.
“I picked you up a holistic cough syrup, lozenges, and Tylenol. There’s enough soup in this batch to last a few more days, and the tea I made can also be reheated. There’s sliced turkey in the fridge, and I got a ton of fruit—make sure you have an orange for vitamin C. You can’t get the same nutrients from juice, but there’s a bottle in there to supplement. I bought paper plates, cups, and utensils so you don’t have to worry about dishes. I already took out the garbage. The pie is in the fridge for your dessert. Drink tons of water. And next time, please answer the phone if I call, or you’ll be opening the door to the ambulance crew again. I gotta go.”
She shrugged on her coat, her mind already clicking madly through her to-do list and how she’d make up the time in her busy schedule once she got back to the inn. She was halfway to the door when she heard her name called.
“Yes?”
Patrick’s gruff voice broke. “Thank you.”
She didn’t answer. Didn’t want to, still torn by what Kyle would think of her helping out his father. Instead, she left and pushed the whole encounter to the back of her mind.
Chapter Fourteen
“Are you dressed slutty?” Mia demanded over the phone. “’Cause I’ll make you change if you’re not in a skirt.”
Ophelia sighed. “Yes. I may even get arrested on prostitution charges. How does that sound?”
Mia squealed with glee. “Perfect! Pick you up in five. I have the whole night planned.”
The click in her ear sealed her fate. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been out to hang with some female friends, and excitement flickered in her gut. For a few hours, she wasn’t going to worry about anything but having fun.
She swiveled one last time in the mirror to check her outfit.
Yeah. She looked hot.
She’d gone with a classic black mini, but this skirt had choppy cuts slashed at the hem to give off a serious peek of bare leg. Her boots were leather, over the knee, high-heeled, and badass. The red-and-black polka dot tank was flowy and paired with a tight black jacket. She’d used beach wave spray on her hair, so
it was a bit wild with a natural curl. Her makeup was light except for her bright-red lipstick and heavy mascara. She looked like a woman ready for some serious fun and drinking.
Exactly what she wanted from tonight.
Grabbing her clutch bag, she did one last check of the inn to make sure her guests had everything they needed for the evening. Hot cocoa was out with a full-fixings bar. The fire crackled merrily. Already she caught gales of laughter as a group watched one of the new DVDs she’d purchased.
The steady clack of the keyboard drifted faintly in the air. Seemed like Kyle was also set for the night.
Disappointment flared that he hadn’t emerged to catch a glimpse of her very sexy outfit, but she smothered it quickly, annoyed she even cared about making an impression.
A beep sounded outside.
She grabbed her coat and skipped out to Mia’s car, where blessed heat blasted from the vents.
“You look amazing,” Mia announced, her gaze critically taking in her outfit. “Holy God, woman, you are a sexpot.”
“Thank you!” Ophelia laughed. Mia was also dressed in black—her signature color. She wore a sleek pencil skirt and peekaboo lace camisole that hugged her sleek figure, along with some platform shoes with gold-block heels that looked like Stuart Weitzman. “You look absolutely gorg.”
“Thanks.” Mia pulled out of the lot. “I barely got past Ethan without him ravishing me. I had to promise him stuff later.”
“TMI.”
“Sorry.”
Ophelia grinned and relaxed as they drove to pick up Harper. “So where are we going?”
“I have everything planned out perfectly. We’re going to grab something to eat at Lemongrass first, then we’re hitting the Gardiner Liquid Mercantile, then Joe’s, and finally the Depot.”
Ophelia stared at her in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? We can’t hit four places. We won’t get home until two a.m.”
Mia grinned proudly. “Exactly. No turning into a pumpkin at midnight, girlfriend. We’re doing this right.”
“But Joe’s is a college bar. We’re too old to go there.”
“We need some college fun around us. When was the last time you went out?”
A Brand New Ending (Stay Book 2) Page 14
