Chased by Love (Love in Bloom: The Ryders): Trish Ryder

by Melissa Foster

  “No one thinks you’re Lindsay Lohan. That’s ridiculous. I really think you should just pretend as though you don’t hear it and let it blow over. You know what I’m really like, and that’s all that should matter. It’s not like we’re making out on set or throwing our relationship in their faces.”

  Ronnie and April came through the door and Trish withdrew her hand from his, which annoyed the hell out of him.

  “We don’t have to throw it in their faces. All it took was that one kiss,” she whispered. “I can’t pretend!”

  “Pretending is what you do for a living,” he reminded her more calmly than he felt.

  **

  THE SET WAS silent, save for the wind whispering through the long grass, where Trish spun like a child dancing through a meadow. Only she wasn’t a child, and she was so pissed off about the gossip and what Boone had said, she couldn’t concentrate. Pretending is what you do for a living. His tone, and his expression, had turned cold when the others had walked into the trailer, and the icy barb had hit its mark. Jared was the worst of them all. He didn’t even have to say anything. Just the way he looked at her and Boone made Trish want to knee him in the groin. She was already on her fourth take of a scene she should have been able to do in her sleep.

  The crew was exhausted and anxious to leave. Tension crackled in the air, as dark and present as the night sky. How was she supposed to portray Delia, hyped up on crack, when she wanted to run away, to cry, scream, and tell the crew they could kiss her ass? How could she maintain the image of not being mentally present when her thoughts were standing sentinel at the forefront of her mind? Everyone knew her as an A-list actress who never let anything come between her and acting, and here she’d broken her own rule and not only slept with her co-star, but she’d slept with the one co-star whose image was the polar opposite of her own. And worse, she hadn’t just slept with him. She was falling in love with him.

  She dropped to the ground as the camera on the crane overhead came into view, forcing into place the vacant stare she’d perfected.

  Had she made a mistake? Gotten swept up in a fantasy like so many actors did when filming emotionally intense movies? In her heart she knew that wasn’t the case, but Boone wanted her to pretend? How could she pretend not to hear and see the judgmental looks and comments? He built walls around himself as easily as she usually fell into her roles. He acted like he didn’t care what anyone thought about his reputation. Only he did care! He cared enough to carefully manipulate and create his public image with purpose and forethought. Wasn’t her reputation due the same attention? Wasn’t it equally as important? Didn’t she deserve for him to step up to the plate and tell all those judgmental people they were wrong? That she hadn’t fallen for a womanizing asshole?

  She lay nestled in the long grass, trying not to look directly into the camera, trying to maintain a blank stare, as she remembered the night of the storm. Flashes of that night raced through her mind. Memories of the passion that had overtaken them, followed by the rumors she’d overheard, swirled together inside her like a bad cocktail. She had to get through this scene and get away from the set before she heard another word of gossip. She needed to get her head on straight before talking to Boone.

  She needed to get the hell out of there before she burst into tears.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “I STILL CAN’T believe she’d stoop so low,” someone whispered behind Boone. “You know he’s only using Trish.”

  Boone closed his eyes and fisted his hands, suppressing the urge to spin around and put the nosy, judgmental ass in their place. But doing so would ruin the scene Trish was already having trouble with, not to mention it would inspire more gossip rather than silencing it. But that didn’t stop fire from searing through his veins.

  When Chuck yelled, “Cut,” Boone opened his eyes, sure smoke was fuming from his ears. He spun around, but whoever had been standing there was gone. Coward. His eyes moved over the dark fields. His pulse amped up as he scanned the crew closing up tents and shutting down equipment, but he hadn’t recognized the voice of whoever had made the comment, and it wasn’t like they’d have a blinking light around their neck. He had no idea what he would have said or done, but he knew it would’ve taken an army to keep him from blowing his top.

  He turned his attention back toward the set, determined to get Trish out of there before she heard more of the same. She was already gone.

  He stormed off in search of her. How could so much go wrong in one day? She was the actress. This was her domain, the place where she was respected and adored, and he’d unknowingly screwed it up.

  He strode across the field, thinking of all Trish had done for him, and he’d be damned if he was going to let her down.

  “Hey, great job today,” one of the crew said as Boone mounted the porch.

  “Thanks,” he said on his way inside, focused on only two things—the emotions swamping him and finding the woman who was causing them.

  He took the stairs two at a time and stood outside Trish’s bedroom door. Trish’s door. That was a weird thought, considering they’d been sharing the same bed practically since they’d arrived. He heard the shower running and headed down the hall to do the same. He opened his bedroom door and loved up Sparky. Not only had their lives been upended by the crew, but Sparky’s had been, too. He showered and dressed quickly, then picked up the kitty and his guitar and went to find Trish. Her shower was still running, so he left a quick note on her bed and headed outside.

  He reveled in the lack of people watching his every move. The crew had left equipment stacked on the porch, and even though there was no way it could, it seemed to suck the air from around him. He walked toward the field thinking about the day—and when he reached the edge of the long grass, he kept on walking. Irritated over what he’d heard, and angry at himself for expecting Trish to ignore such awful comments, he walked until he found grass that hadn’t been trampled, where gossipmongers hadn’t released their nastiness into the air. He walked until his lungs broke free from the vise that tethered them and filled with cool night air. He set his guitar case in the tall grass, realizing he was still carrying Sparky. He kissed his fuzzy head. He probably needed space as much as Boone did.

  “Just stay with me, buddy.” He opened his guitar case and set the kitten in the top. Then he stripped off his clean shirt, removed the guitar, and replaced it with his shirt, then set the kitten on it. As if on cue, the kitty curled up, licked its paw, then dragged it behind his ear. Guess he needed a shower, too.

  Boone stood in the long grass, gazing up at Trish’s bedroom window. The lights were on, the window open. Was she okay? Was she angry? Upset? Blaming herself when he deserved all the blame? He debated going back up to her bedroom, but she might need space, too—from him. Although that thought pained him, he’d messed things up for her and he owed her the luxury of time and space. He turned away from the house and gazed into the darkness. Without thought, his fingers began strumming one of his songs, but the tune ground against his nerves like sandpaper. He wanted to get as far away from himself as possible.

  **

  TRISH STAYED IN the shower so long her skin pruned up. She hadn’t experienced this rough of a day since she’d first started acting, and even then the stress had been totally different. Back then she worried about her skills, which was something she had control over. Today was a mess of convoluted emotions and worries, and the gossip around the set only made her question herself even more. She’d always thought she was in control of her emotions, but today taught her she was nowhere near in control. At least not as far as Boone was concerned. She dressed in a pair of jeans and a tank top and sat on the edge of the bed reading the note he’d left.

  Beautiful girl—Needed air. Outside. Come find me? B.

  She ran her finger over his writing. She’d been fascinated with handwriting when she was in the tenth grade, and she’d learned a lot about what handwriting said about a person. Boone’s writing was dark, with larg
e spaces between the words. The dark writing was perfectly Boone. He took things seriously. He was loyal, and he didn’t run from commitment—that much she knew—although he didn’t seem to take her worries over her reputation seriously. That gave her pause, but she had dwelled on that enough in her too-long shower. She couldn’t stew over it anymore. She wasn’t even sure she was in the right where that was concerned. Pushing those thoughts away, she looked down at the wide spaces between each word he’d written and recalled what it meant. He didn’t like to be confined. She smiled. Needed air. Outside. The straight line of his d’s meant he was self-reliant and independent. The baseline of his handwriting was uneven, which meant he was moody and restless. That was the Boone she’d known when they’d first begun filming, although he’d become far less restless over the past ten days. She wondered if the day had gotten to him, too.

  Looking down at his cryptic note again, she found the size of his writing the most perplexing. Large writing usually indicated a demand for attention, but it could also mean he needed elbow room. Boone rarely demanded attention, and his note asked her to find him, which conflicted with the idea of him needing room. She smiled at that, too. You definitely strum to your own beat, Boone Stryker.

  She set the note beside the bed, slipped a hoodie over her tank top, pushed her feet into a pair of sandals, and went in search of the man she could not, for the life of her, stay mad at.

  The sky was inky black, with few stars and a blue-gray moon illuminating the fields to the far reaches of the property. The sounds of crickets chirping blended with ribbits and the croaks of tree frogs, creating a cacophony of melodies, which was underscored by the faint sounds of Boone’s guitar. She paused in the long grass and listened more carefully. Boone rose with the moon at his back, like an angel in the night, and the tune of “Don’t Stop Believing” by Journey hit her ears. He began singing, and she laughed and cried, one hand over her heart, as he hit the high notes perfectly.

  When he finished the song, he went immediately into “Any Way You Want It” by Journey, drawing her like a fish to water. She ran to him like a swooning teenager, and she danced, right there in the moonlight, waving her hands over her head, flipping her hair, swaying her hips, and singing every word with him. She felt free and alive for the first time since the crew had arrived. As the song came to an end, she didn’t wait for him to sing the last note. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, long and passionately, with all the emotions she’d felt compelled to hide when they were on set and all the love she’d been hoarding in her heart.

  “I am so sorry,” she panted out. “I was a bitch, and you didn’t deserve it. You were right. I should let the gossip roll off my back. I wasn’t sure how to react to the comments, and not reacting to them was eating me alive. But I took a really long shower and thought about everything—the weirdness of having the crew suddenly barge into our lives, how it feels to know you’re not the guy everyone thinks you are, and not being able to scream it from the rooftops. Which, by the way, I do not want to do. I’m just making a point.” She was talking so fast, she couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out. “But I finally realized what’s really important. Your image protects your family, and it’s important for your band’s success. It doesn’t matter what the rest of the world thinks about you or us. I don’t care if I end up in rag magazines, or what anyone else says. I’m—”

  He smothered her words with another loving kiss, and when their mouths finally parted, he framed her face with his hands and gazed into her eyes. She could feel his love enveloping her.

  “You’re more important to me than my reputation will ever be,” he said with such certainty it felt palpable. “I was an idiot to even suggest you let the gossip roll off your back. You’ve worked hard, baby. I don’t want to come between you and your career, and I know how highly everyone thinks of you. Including me. I’ll fix this. I promise you, I’ll fix this.”

  “No, Boone. It’s not your problem to fix,” she insisted. “I have to pull up my big-girl panties and get through it. I can do it.”

  “Well, hell.” His eyes turned playful. “I was hoping you’d take off those big-girl panties a little later.”

  “We’ll see about that.” She poked his chest.

  He took her hand and sank to the grass, bringing her down beside him.

  “Today felt like it took a month,” he said, reading her mind. “From the moment the crew arrived, I felt like our world had tilted. I’ve had you all to myself, and it’s been incredible. Not having a second alone with you was hell, especially since I knew you were having a rough time. But what was worse was feeling like our connection, our relationship, was being dragged through the mud. I’m used to ignoring the gossip that comes with being a celebrity, but tonight, when I heard those comments directed at you, about me using you…” His jaw clenched, and he shifted angry eyes away. “I was ready to kill someone. No one talks about my favorite girl behind her back.” He kissed her softly, and her heart squeezed with the intimate endearment. “I’ll straighten this out.”

  She loved that he wanted to protect her, but she needed to learn to deal with this on her own. “Boone, you don’t need to. Didn’t you hear anything I said?”

  “Of course I did.” He cupped her face, gently brushing his thumb over her cheek. “But this time you need to trust me. You’re on my list, remember? Right at the top. That means I take care of you.”

  “As much as I love hearing that, I’m not a damsel in distress.”

  “You’re right. You’re my girlfriend, which means I get to protect you, and I get to be a bit of a caveman where other people are concerned.”

  She rolled her eyes. He was nothing if not painfully honest. How could she deny him the thing he did best? “Please tell me you’re not going to get in people’s faces and do something stupid. I really think we need to play this cool and not flaunt our relationship in front of everyone.”

  “I won’t need to be a caveman. Promise.” He kissed her again. “But you’d better give me an idea of what not flaunting our relationship means.”

  “I don’t know. We didn’t flaunt it today. Just not a lot of PDAs, I guess. You know what I mean. Whether we like it or not, this is our workplace, so we have to keep a level of professionalism.”

  He mulled that over. The idea of holding back his emotions wasn’t one he liked, but she was right. This was their workplace, and more importantly, her career. He had no desire to mess that up any more than he already had.

  “Okay, we can try that. But don’t think for a minute that I don’t see that you were protecting me by not telling everyone that my rep isn’t real. I appreciate that. But from now on, if we have to behave on set, I need to know that if you feel like you need to say anything at all to protect yourself, you’ll say it. I can deal with the fallout. You are important to me, and I never, ever want to cause you heartache, okay?”

  “No way. I’m not throwing you under the bus to save myself.”

  “Trish,” he warned.

  “I can’t do it, Boone. The same way I know you could never say something that you know might hurt my career.”

  “But it was tearing you up not to, and that’s not good for you or your career.”

  She huffed out a breath. “Well, I won’t do it.”

  “Then I won’t play any more of your music,” he challenged.

  “That’s not fair,” she complained. “Although I was surprised to hear you playing the songs you tease me about.”

  “I was playing your favorite songs because I felt far away from you and I wanted to be closer. I was trying to give you space, and figured you’d come out if you wanted to. And if not, then at least you wouldn’t feel suffocated by the guy who was fucking up your world.”

  “Fucking up my world? Is that what you thought?” Is that how I made you feel?

  He shrugged. “How could I not? Before me, no one talked crap about you, and then I made that stupid comment about ignoring it all. And our scenes? You k
new your lines inside out and backward, but today you had a really hard time with some of them. That had to be my fault.”

  “That’s not true.” She swallowed hard, knowing that wasn’t quite true either. “Okay, the part about no one talking about me on set might be true, but the trouble I’m having acting wasn’t because of you.” She took both of his hands in hers. “I wanted to feel everything. The emotions I feel for you, the fear Delia felt on the cusp of Rick’s life-changing events, the sadness she felt for letting him down. Her helplessness, the way the drugs numbed her, leaving her barely present. But I couldn’t get there because everything around me felt wrong. You said our world tilted when the crew showed up, and you were right. In my head, and in my heart, this place had become ours, and suddenly not only was it invaded by noise and lights and people, but some of those people were saying things I didn’t like, and I wanted to kick them off the property.”

  “But they said things because of me, baby. Don’t you see that? Any way you cut it, it’s because of me.”

  She shook her head and climbed into his lap. “Because of us, but that’s not the part that matters. It doesn’t matter if they were saying things about us, or about my acting, or my hair for that matter. The point is, I’m used to not putting up with crap from anyone, but I lost sight of where that stops. I blurred the lines between reality and fiction. This house isn’t ours. Those people weren’t our guests. We’re living on a film set. No matter how much it feels like it’s ours when we’re the only ones here, it’s not. I lost sight of that. Just like I lost sight of how little what they said should matter. I let it eat away at me and I couldn’t concentrate. That’s my issue. I wanted to blame you, or them. But come on, Boone. I can no sooner do that than if you went onstage at a concert and forgot the words to a song and blamed me.”