Jo swallowed. It wasn’t the first time in the last few days that he’d had calls like this. Each one tied her stomach in knots for his sake. They weren’t good. Neither was it good that since the Pollard twins’ brief appearance at her house two days ago, the calls had come more frequently and drained more of the color from Ben’s face.
“Thanks, Leon. I truly appreciate it.” He paused. “I know, I know. It is what it is. Thanks. Bye.” He tapped his phone, then lowered it to his side, letting out a breath.
“Everything all right?” Jo ventured.
“No.” Ben’s snapped answer came too fast. Misery practically dripped off of him as he rounded the edge of the couch and plopped into it. “Everything is decidedly not all right. I’m being evicted.”
Jo didn’t know what was worse, the news itself or the fact that it didn’t surprise her. “That sucks.” Lamest reply ever, but it was all she could manage.
Ben’s sagging sigh became a bitter laugh, and that pinched into a grimace. He hid it by rubbing his face and growling. “Two weeks? Was it two weeks ago or three that I was sitting on top of the world, ignorant of evil?”
“Closer to three.” Jo picked up another of the scripts on the table and flipped through it, if only to take the pressure of her watching off of Ben. It was the least she could do.
“At least I’ve got a few dollars in my bank account again.” Ben let his hands drop to the couch cushions.
“Yvonne make sure you got paid early for Second Chances?”
Ben nodded. “Living off of the charity of friends.”
“Hey, you’ve got some pretty nice friends, you know. I’m technically living off their charity now too, since the only writing I seem to be able to squeeze out these days is for these scripts, and I’m not even supposed to be doing that.” She swatted at his leg with the script in her hand, but the gesture ended up leaving an awkward lump in the air between them.
“Whatever pays the bills?” At last, a smile formed on his lips, even though it was a weak one.
“It’s all I’ve currently got.” Jo met his pitiful smile with one just as pathetic. “Unless I want to waste my time writing a book no one would buy.”
“I’d buy it.” He studied her for a moment, let out a breath, then stared out the picture windows at the vast, white landscape outside of the house.
The crew of Second Chances had come by earlier in the morning to film a few exterior shots from the patio, which had left tracks and scuff marks in the otherwise pure white. Everyone had the day off, since it was Sunday, which had given Jo a chance to go through several Second Chances scripts to see how screenplays were written. She’d also sorted through manuscripts for a couple of the books she’d published, looking for one that she could envision as a Broadway musical. The problem was, none of them seemed quite right. What worked between pages wasn’t necessarily going to look good with a full chorus and orchestra, as the Second Chances scripts seemed to be telling her.
“You don’t happen to know of any good books about writing for stage and screen, do you?” she asked when Ben had been silent for too long.
“I know lots of books about both.” His quick answer surprised her. She hadn’t thought he was paying attention. He turned to her. “Is Charles still interested in having you get your writer’s union card so you can work on the show?”
She tilted her head to the side and nodded. “He did mention something. Yvonne thinks I’d be good at writing television. But I’m more concerned about this musical idea. I can’t adapt a book into a play if I don’t know the first thing about playwriting.”
The tiny sliver of contentment on Ben’s face vanished. He stared out the window again, jaw tight, eyes intense. The reaction sent a chill of warning down Jo’s spine.
It also caused a spark of anger to flare. Making a musical out of one of her books had been his idea. Why was he so close-lipped about it now? And what was with everyone telling her she should be making changes in her career, but then leaving her totally on her own when it came to actually making those changes? She’d called Diane to tell her about the Pollard twins’ offer, but all she’d gotten on that end was a few hems and haws and a promise to look into it. Not that she should have expected more. Still, a little guidance would be nice.
“Bye, Jo. I’m heading out.”
Jo’s burst of anger evaporated as Nick stuck his head into the room. He wore the coat with a thousand pockets that he called his “adventure coat,” and had his duffle bag slung over one shoulder. She shot to her feet.
“Where are you going?”
For a half second, Nick’s glance flickered to Ben. “I’m all for filming the show at the house, but I’ve kinda had it up to here with people everywhere. I need to get out and recharge.”
Jo’s shoulders dropped. Another source of support bailing when she needed back-up. Then again, she couldn’t blame him for wanting to get away from it all.
“Let me know where you end up, so I don’t worry.” She marched past Ben to meet Nick by the hall, and hugged him.
“Call me if anything happens,” he murmured so Ben couldn’t hear.
“It’s all under control,” she told him with a teasing grin. Yeah. Big lie.
“See you when I see you. Bye, Ben,” Nick called, turning to go.
“Bye,” Ben replied, distracted.
Nick left, the door clicked shut behind him, and Jo returned to the sofa. She stared at the pile of her manuscripts, then at Ben. Gorgeous sex god as he was, right then he looked more like the poster child for a midlife crisis.
“Come on,” she said, holding out a hand to him.
He blinked at her hand, then up at her. “Come on what?”
She nodded toward the door. “Let’s get out of here. We’ve been cooped up in this house for almost two weeks, barely leaving the property. You can’t tell me that’s normal.”
“It is normal when you work from home.”
Whether his protest was genuine or teasing, she chuckled and reached down to grab his hand and pull him up. He came, but she could feel the heaviness, the hopelessness, in his body.
“Having a film crew shooting in the house where you happen to be staying is not the same as working from home. And you shouldn’t let it keep you from getting out and breathing some fresh air.”
“I have laundry in the dryer.”
Jo laughed. “Laundry in the dryer is no excuse for turning into a hermit. Now come on. We’re going out.”
“We’re not going to the beach again, are we?” Now he was teasing. He followed Jo out of the living room and into the hall, to the coat closet. “My feet still haven’t thawed from that little excursion.”
“Your feet are fine. Trust me, I know.” She did know. She’d felt them at the end of the bed for the past few nights. Ben hadn’t just moved into her house, he’d skipped across the hall and moved into her bed too. She wasn’t complaining, even if she should.
“Don’t you have work to do?” he continued to protest, even as he shrugged into his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck.
“I can’t look at it anymore,” she answered seriously. “Personally, I’m not sure if any of my books would make a good musical.”
His silence and the way he avoided her eyes set her teeth on edge. She would have said there was something he wasn’t telling her, but she was pretty sure there were a thousand things he wasn’t telling her. So why did she keep him around? Why hadn’t she sent him on his merry way?
Because she liked him. The reason was as true and as dumb as that.
“So how is writing an actual, new book coming along?” he asked as they walked through the kitchen and out into the blindingly bright chill.
“I can’t think about that right now,” she sighed. “Not with this play idea gnawing at me. Well, and the script for the next episode that Charles wants me to look at.”
“He wants you to make changes?”
She shook her head. “No, but he wants me to take a look, then maybe talk t
o the head writer.”
Ben was silent. As they climbed into her car, his expression was thoughtful and cautious. He stayed quiet as she drove down the driveway and out onto the main road. A reassuring sense of ease came over her as they traveled the familiar roads. When she was in the thick of writing a book, it wasn’t unusual for her to go days without leaving the house or talking to another person, except online. Even still, when she wasn’t in that part of the process, nothing felt better than physical movement, a change of scenery, even if it was still part of her routine.
“Okay. Enough silence,” she said as the miles rolled past, the sunshine on the snow cheering her. “Are you depressed about being evicted?”
He darted a sideways look at her. “Wouldn’t you be?”
She nodded. “Fair enough. But I know you, Ben. This is about something else.”
“Do you know me?”
His question was a shade too harsh. The hot, numb feeling she hated so much ran down her back.
“Yes.” She opted for boldness. “I think I do. You’re an artist who is currently out of his depth. And before you protest, I know all about that.” She couldn’t stop there. “Why do you think I was so attracted to you in the first place, enough to sleep with you an hour after meeting you? Do you think I do stuff like that all the time?”
He opened his mouth, remorse lining his face.
“No, I don’t.” She didn’t give him the chance. “In fact, I’ve never done anything so crazy or so dangerous in my life. But do you know why I did? Because in that coffee shop, in that moment, I had this weird feeling that you and I were a lot more alike than not.”
He shut his mouth, leaned his elbow against the bottom of the window, and rubbed his mouth.
“You don’t believe me, but it’s true. We both struggled to get where we are in professions where only a select few actually succeed, and we both know the taste of fear that we could lose everything we’ve worked for. So I’d appreciate it if you’d stop hiding in your shell and start trusting me with what’s eating you.”
The anxious, numbness spreading across her back burst into prickles that raced through her entire body. Whoa. She’d actually said all that. It was the kind of thing she would have put down on paper, but she’d never imagined she would actually work up the nerve to say it.
Beside her, elbow still leaning against the window, Ben smiled. He didn’t look at her, the lines around his eyes were still rife with tension, but he reached out his left hand and rested it on her leg, squeezing.
Of all the damned things, tears stung at the back of Jo’s eyes. Men were such idiots. They had as many emotions as women, but God forbid they would actually say something like, “You’re right. I should trust you. I’m afraid of where my life is. I need support.” Oh no, instead, they kept their perfect lips shut tight, and with one touch, made the women in their lives weepy sacks of empathy.
They reached the parking lot of the local grocery store. Jo turned the car in and found a spot. She cut the engine, then let out a breath and looked at Ben. He was still staring out the front windshield, a million miles away. Still miserable.
“Hey. It will be all right,” she said.
He looked at her, arching one doubtful brow.
Jo shrugged. “Yvonne says you should concentrate on the things that you have right now instead of fretting about the ones you may or may not have lost. That sound like solid advice to me.”
“So you’re on Yvonne’s side now?” His voice was low and rough, as if he hadn’t used it in weeks.
“I’m on her side because she’s on your side, and you know it.”
He hummed. That was it. A second later, he reached for the handle of the car and opened the door. It was all Jo could do not to growl and kick him when she got out of the car herself. Whatever was bothering him, it was going to reach a crisis point, sooner than later.
So this is what a conscience feels like.
Ben indulged in a wry grin as he rolled over the stabbing pain that kept shifting between his gut and his heart.
“You can put those bags on the table,” Jo told him, nodding to the kitchen table as they each carried armfuls of grocery bags into the house.
“Okay, boss.”
She grinned at him.
All right, he wasn’t exactly being fair with himself. He had a conscience. More of one than was convenient for him to have at the moment. Otherwise, he would have sold out everyone and their brother to the Pollards years ago to get what he wanted. But did that make him feel better? Not at all.
“Ah. See, that didn’t hurt, now did it,” Jo teased him as she brought the last bag in and set to work storing all the food they’d bought.
“No, it didn’t.” He chuckled. Actually, it had been sweet rolling up and down the aisles of a regular old suburban grocery store by Jo’s side. He could have had a whole shelf of awards, but not a single one of the harried mothers with small kids or retirees who shared the store with them knew the first thing about who he was. He was pretty sure he caught one middle-aged woman eyeing him as though he were a piece of fruit she needed to squeeze before purchase, but it wasn’t the same as the sharks of Manhattan.
No, if he was being honest, he’d enjoyed himself.
That didn’t change the fact that he was a rat bastard that was about to cause irreparable harm to someone without being able to stop it.
“Do these go in the pantry or one of the shelves in here?” he asked, taking several boxes of granola bars out of one bag.
Jo paused what she was doing to consider. With her hand on her hip and her bottom lip turned out the way she did when she was thinking, Ben was reasonably certain she was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. Still no make-up, no designer clothes, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. What if the thing he’d considered to be sexy all these years was a myth and the reality was standing in front of him?
“We’d better put them in the pantry,” Jo decided, oblivious to the flush of hot and cold that raced through him, or the way his heart pounded against his ears. “They’re for the cast and crew. I know craft services provides plenty for them,” she went on before he could say something, “but my mom would roll over in her grave if I didn’t play the good hostess.”
“Remind your mom whose job it is to feed everyone.” He glanced up, as if to heaven, sounding so smooth and casual, flippant even, that there was no way she would be able to see past to the panic that inched its way through him. Enjoying grocery shopping, finding jeans and a hand knit sweater sexy, feeling more comfortable in an old family home than a ritzy penthouse. Who are you, Benjamin?
“I know,” she said from the kitchen as he stacked the boxes on an empty shelf in the pantry. “But old habits and the memory of mothers die hard.”
An ironic grin pulled at his mouth. She was the ideal hostess, the ideal lover, the perfect woman. She’d read him the riot act in the car—every word true—and he hadn’t been able to answer the way he should have. He should have told her that he felt the same way, that it was amazing to find someone who might actually understand him, that it wasn’t her he didn’t trust, but himself.
“I’m going to check on the laundry,” he said, crossing through the kitchen where she still worked, barely glancing to her.
“Let me know if you need any help.”
He smiled at her words. Some people were beyond help. It was an even chance that he was one of them.
The sheets that he’d stripped from his bed in an effort to be a good guest were still warm and smelled of lavender meadows as he pulled them from the dryer. It was such a domestic smell. Better than thousand dollar a bottle perfume. He balled them in his arms, then marched out of the laundry room and upstairs to his guest room. In the last two weeks, he’d gotten used to the quiet of the house. In New York, he’d never noticed things like the hum that the heating system made or the slither of ice-filled air brushing against a window. You couldn’t hear any of those things over the noise of the city. You couldn’t hear the beating
of your heart either.
He fanned open the fitted sheet, then spread it across his bed. For years now, he’d hired a maid to come in and do his laundry, make his bed, clean his apartment. It was a privilege of wealth. But in all those years, he’d missed out on the honest scent of fabric softener, the swish of smoothing a clean sheet over a well-worn mattress.
Would it be so bad if he let everything in New York drop? What’s the worst that could happen if he simply walked away from the Pollards, let them do their worst. The contract they’d given him for Jo was currently buried under socks and underwear in the top drawer of the guest room bureau. What would happen if he just left it there, ignored its existence? He’d never work on Broadway again, but he’d have clean sheets and winter mornings.
“Do you need some help with that?” Jo asked from the doorway.
She leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, her head tilted to the side. All this time, Ben had been telling himself that she was sweet, innocent, perfect. Well, the look in those brown eyes of hers right now was as wise as the ancients. Judging by what she’d said in the car, he would never be able to pull anything off on her.
“If you could get that side.” He edged around the bed, taking one side of the top sheet. She came all the way into the room to take the other side.
Together they lifted it up, let the air catch under it, and spread it across the top of the bed. They moved simultaneously to the foot of the bed to lift up the mattress and tuck it in, both smoothing the top to work out the wrinkles.
Three seconds and the scent of lavender, and Ben was as hard as a rock. His world was upside down.
“Where did you put the blanket when you stripped the bed?” Jo asked, practical, unsuspecting.
She stepped to the foot of the bed, stretching her neck to check the floor on his side. Ben met her at the corner, swept her into his arms, and kissed her with his eyes closed.
She melted against him with a soft exhale, her arms lifting to rest on his shoulders. It wasn’t the slinky sort of move that women who wanted something from him used. Jo’s arms around him were as comforting as sheets fresh from the drier, and just as hot. He rested his arms around her waist, sneaking his hands under her sweater and shirt and pulling her closer to him. Every problem in the world could be solved with sex, including the gaping chasm in his heart.
Catch a Falling Star (Second Chances Book 3) Page 20
