by Tawna Fenske
“Dean, I’m serious.” I’m also laughing, which probably undermines my seriousness. “What are we doing here?”
“We’re having breakfast and a business meeting.” He leans back in his chair and picks up his muffin. “We can bust out some spreadsheets if it’ll make you feel better.”
“I mean what are we doing in the grand scheme of things.”
He gives that some thought. “Well, we’re having the most amazing sex I’ve ever had in my life. How’s that?”
That is a compliment that fills me to bursting with all kinds of good vibes. As heat rushes my cheeks, I fight to keep myself from grinning like a big dork. “But what happens when it all blows up? Won’t that make our working relationship awkward?”
“Not if we don’t let it.” He polishes off his muffin and dusts the crumbs off his hands. “Vanessa, I’m having fun with you. I love spending time together in and out of the office. But if that’s not working for you, I can accept your decision. It won’t change anything between us on a professional level.”
Okay, that’s…not what I want. Is it?
Maybe that’s not the part I should focus on. “You’d do that?” I ask.
“Of course,” he says. “I wouldn’t like it, but if you called it quits, I’m confident it wouldn’t affect our working relationship one bit.”
How can he be so confident?
Or maybe the better question is how can I not be?
“Maybe you’re right.” I pick up my muffin and take a bite. The tanginess of the rhubarb and the sweetness of the peach are such a delicious contrast that I get lost in thought for a moment.
“That.” His voice is gruff and familiar. “That right there.”
I blink. “What?”
“That look.” He leans close, even though Mari and Colleen are far out of earshot and minding their own business. “It’s the look you get right before you come, and it’s my favorite thing in the whole world.”
“Dean.” I pick up my latte to hide the heat in my cheeks. “I thought you said we were in a business meeting.”
“We are.” He grins. “We’re multi-taskers, aren’t we?”
It’s one of many things we have in common. I’m about to say something sarcastic about that when the door chimes and Cooper strides in. His brow is furrowed, and even though I don’t know him well, I can tell he’s upset. Hands clenched at his sides, he scans the coffee shop. The instant his gaze lands on Dean, he makes a beeline for our table.
“Bad news,” he announces with no preamble.
Dean frowns with his mug raised halfway to his lips. “Is there some kind of conspiracy to rain on my morning?
Ignoring him, Cooper waves to Mari. “You’re going to want to hear this, too.”
“Oh?” She looks up from her laptop and frowns. “What happened?”
She doesn’t wait for an answer. Just stands up and walks to our table, her cozy-looking slippers tapping the floor. The second she sits down, Cooper rakes his fingers through his hair.
“Someone called the County on us,” he says. “Our filming permits have been denied.”
Dean’s expression is stony. “That’s not possible.”
“Oh, but it is.” Cooper gives a disgusted grunt. “I just got off the phone with the head of the department. Apparently, they received an anonymous tip.”
“What kind of tip?” Mari glances from one brother to the other. “I thought we nailed down the proper legal clearance months ago.”
“We did,” Dean growls. “I handled it personally.”
“Somehow, it’s been un-handled,” Cooper says. “The County is sending over the report, but apparently it has something to do with code violations.”
Mari looks personally affronted. “We’re following codes to a tee. This is ridiculous.”
“I don’t know, Mar.” Cooper throws up his hands. “Look, it’s becoming pretty clear someone doesn’t want us here.”
“But who?” Mari looks at Dean. “This is asinine. We’ve had focus groups with neighbors. The police have profiled former cult members and assured us they don’t see any cause for concern. For crying out loud, who else would do something like this?”
Dean’s not looking at me, but the weight of the question weighs on my shoulders. The postcard, the balloon snake—it seems so clear this isn’t about the Judson family.
It’s about me.
“What’s our recourse?” I lick my lips, stalling for time. “Can we appeal or pay fines or something?”
Three pairs of Judson eyes swing toward me, but it’s Dean who speaks first. “I’ll handle it.” He looks from me to Mari to Cooper and back again, radiating confidence with every moment of eye contact. “I’ll take care of this, okay? Trust me.”
A shiver ripples up my arms, but I nod because that’s what Cooper and Mari are doing.
But deep down, I know it’s not that simple. Deep down, I wonder if I’m the last thing in the world Dean Judson needs right now.
If there’s more than one reason we shouldn’t be together.
Chapter 15
CONFESSIONAL 371.5
Judson, Dean: (CEO, Juniper Ridge)
Did I ever tell you what they called me at the first studio I worked for? Mister Fix-It. No, it had nothing to do with repairing shit. It’s that something would go wrong—a sponsor pulling out or a problem with the venue or whatever—and everyone would look to me. Like they thought I had some kind of magical power to solve it.
The thing is, I usually did. Probably ninety-eight percent of the time, I did. That other two percent, though…[scowling] yeah, I’m not perfect. Who the fuck is?
That evening, sitting on my back deck with crickets chirping in the field and a cold beer in my hand, I can’t stop thinking about Vanessa.
It’s nothing new since we started sleeping together, which I realize was supposed to be a one-time thing. But come on, that’s like having one taste of a perfect Wagyu ribeye with a 2008 Screaming Eagle Cabernet and then saying, “no more, thanks, I’m good.” Who does that?
Not me, which is currently the least of my problems.
I spent two hours on the phone with County officials, trying to sort out the bullshit with our filming permits. In the end, I got a tentative okay to continue what we’re doing.
“You’re not in the clear, yet,” the woman on the phone informed me. “There’s still an appeals process we’ll need to go through. And a thorough review of—”
“I’ll handle it,” I told her. “Whatever hoops you need me to jump through, I’ll take care of it.”
“Hmph,” she said and hung up.
Now I’m on my back deck, clutching one of the sample beers we got from a brewer we interviewed late this afternoon. I take a sip, savoring the dark, malty froth of the porter. It’s the creation of a guy named Griffin Walsh, a brewer out of Colorado. He’s got great plans for opening a brewery right here at Juniper Ridge. Great beer, too.
I rest the bottle on the arm of my Adirondack chair and gaze out over the sunset. So many colors, orange and pink and red and even bright magenta right at the edge of the mountains. I wish Vanessa were here to enjoy it with me. I’m supposed to head to her place later, but for now I’m enjoying this rare breath of quiet. I haven’t been alone much since moving to Oregon, and it’s a nice treat.
As though summoned by that thought, my phone pings with an incoming text. I pick it up, heart ticking excitedly at the thought of seeing Vanessa’s name on the screen.
It’s not Vanessa. It’s Andrea.
Hey, Dean. Any chance you’re free to talk?
Hell. I take another sip of beer and sigh. I could pretend I haven’t seen it. Just act like I don’t have my phone glued to my hand at all times.
But Andrea knows me better than that. She once took me to task for checking my phone during our anniversary dinner, which I know now was a dick move. At any rate, she knows I have a tough time disconnecting, so she’ll use that to her advantage. She’ll keep texting until I respond.
What do we need to talk about?
There, that’s plenty blunt. Hopefully enough that she’ll take the hint. I start to set the phone down, but there’s already a message coming in.
I’m moving to Oregon. Please call.
What the—
I stare at the screen, hoping I’ve read it wrong.
I’m moving to Oregon. Please call.
She can’t be serious. Andrea was born and raised in Hollywood. She’s been part of that world her whole life. No way could she leave that behind for this quiet, sleepy part of the Pacific Northwest.
I’m dialing her number before I have a chance to process that this is exactly what she wants. I’m sure Mari would have a name for whatever psychological phenomenon it is, but I’m too annoyed to care.
“Dean.” Andrea’s voice is soft and sweet on the other end of the line. “How are you doing, hon?”
I brace for my body to respond to the term of endearment. My only response is irritation. “What are you talking about? What is this about moving to Oregon?”
“Oh, that.” She gives a musical little laugh. “Yes, well, there’s a cute little ranch that came up for sale near Prineville. I’ve been wanting to find myself some quiet retreat, away from the cameras and gossip rags and—”
“You’d hate it there,” I blurt before she gets the words out. “Trust me, Central Oregon’s too small for you. It’s farms and ranches and not a Chanel boutique in sight.”
That should be enough to scare her off, but Andrea only laughs. “I’m not as shallow as you think, Dean.”
“I never said you were.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, eager to have this conversation over. “You’ve never not lived in a city.”
“Please.” She makes a scoffing sound. “Besides, Portland’s not that far.”
“Three-and-a-half hours’ drive each way.” Longer on snowy roads in winter. “And even Portland’s not like the cities you’re used to. Trust me, this isn’t your scene.”
“Don’t you think I’d be the best judge of that?”
Her tone is mild and almost flirty, which means my gruffness isn’t getting through. “No,” I grunt. “I don’t.”
“There’s the Dean I know and love.” She laughs again, and the sound is starting to annoy me. “You always think you know what’s best for everyone. It’s sweet, actually.”
Her praise leaves a sour taste on the back of my tongue. I swallow and try another tack. “Look, I don’t own the state of Oregon. If you want to come check it out, be my guest. I’m just telling you as a courtesy that this isn’t your kind of place.”
Andrea scoffs. “Is that what you’re telling all the castmates on your show?”
“The ones who won’t love it here, you bet.” I clear my throat. “I believe in being honest.”
Unlike some people.
If she hears my unspoken accusation, she doesn’t let on. “Oh, Dean. You haven’t changed a bit. Another thing I love about you.”
“Great.” If she’s fishing for a compliment, it’s not happening. “Do what you want, Andrea. But I’ve moved on with my life, and I hope you’re doing the same.”
There’s a long pause, followed by a deep breath. “Dean, I just want to say again that I’m sorry.”
Some of the tension leaks from my shoulders. I’m not angry anymore. That’s when I realize it. I’m not sad, either. I’m just…over it.
“I forgive you,” I tell her. “I’m sorry, too.”
“For what?”
“For being a self-absorbed dick. For working too much and ignoring you. I wasn’t a great fiancé.”
“Oh, Dean.” Tears choke her voice, and I think that’s my cue to end the call.
“So, yeah.” I clear my throat. “I guess that’s it.”
Closure. Funny how it feels nothing like the closure I tried for with Vanessa. Every moment with her, every shared breath or sigh, it feels like a beginning. Before I know it, I’m grinning like a fool.
“You’re right,” Andrea says, and I remember I’m still on the phone with her. “LA brought out the worst in both of us.”
“Yeah. I’m in a better place now.”
Andrea laughs. “Well see? Now you’ve convinced me I really do want to see Oregon.”
I sigh. “I won’t stop you. Just please don’t make any rash moves.”
“Like ending our relationship over text.”
Ouch. Ouch, but not incorrect. “I’m sorry again about that.”
“I shouldn’t have said that.” Her voice softens. “It was a cheap shot.”
Maybe, but I don’t care anymore. I truly don’t. “It was nice talking with you.” It wasn’t, but I’m being polite.
“Same. Really nice. Thank you for everything, Dean.”
“I’ll see you around.”
I hang up the phone and stare at it a few beats. It’s not like that’s the first time we’ve spoken since the split.
But it’s the first time I haven’t felt even the tiniest pinch of “what if?” Of wondering what might have happened if I’d stayed in LA or she’d stayed faithful or I hadn’t been such a self-absorbed prick. I wish her the best, but I honestly don’t care what she’s doing with her life. That’s really fucking freeing.
I don’t know how long I stare at my phone before I hear voices. My ears prick up, and it takes me a second to recognize my brothers bickering at the front of my house.
“Well, he must not have seen it yet, dumbshit.”
“Which means he’s not home, dumbshit.”
“Jesus, Gabe—don’t touch it.”
“I wasn’t touching it. Just getting a closer look.”
Even from the other side of the house, I hear Cooper’s grunt of disgust. “Where the hell is he, anyway?”
“Back here.” I shout loud enough for them to hear me. I’m pretty sure they’re on my front porch, and I try to recall if I left the door unlocked. No, wait. I didn’t go inside, did I? Just walked around to my back porch to watch the sunset in silence. I already had my beer, so there was no reason to hit the kitchen first.
My brothers aren’t saying anything, so I shout again. “Gabe? Coop? I’m in back.”
There’s another silence, then footsteps. I turn to see both of them walking around the edge of the cabin. I’m expecting laughter, maybe one of them throwing an elbow at the other.
But I’m not expecting the grim expressions. I sit up as they trudge up the steps to the deck like it’s some kind of death march. “What is it?” I look from Gabe to Coop and back again. “What the hell is wrong?”
“Dude.” Gabe’s trademark brown eyes are wide and a little stunned. “What the fuck?”
I frown. “Can you be more specific?”
“See?” Cooper gives him a look. “I told you he wouldn’t leave it like that.”
Gabe shakes his head and looks at me. “Did you go in the back door or something?”
“I haven’t been inside.” I gesture to the sunset with my beer bottle. “I didn’t want to miss that. Now what the hell are you talking about?”
Gabe stares at me. “How long have you been back here?”
“No idea.” I glance at my watch, struggling to ignore the growing unease in the pit of my stomach. “Twenty minutes or so.”
“Come on.” Cooper jerks a thumb toward the front of the cabin. “You need to see this.”
Neither of them wait for my reply. They just turn and march back around the side of my house. I consider not following. They’re acting like weirdos, and it’d be just like them to play some kind of prank.
But something tells me they’re not messing around. Standing up, I set my beer on the deck rail and follow after them, pushing back the wave of unease in my gut.
As I round the corner, I see them on the lawn beneath my front steps. They’re bickering again, and Cooper’s pointing at the front door.
“Don’t you think we need to call the police?” he’s saying.
“That’s his call,” Gabe argues. “It�
��s his damn house. Maybe it’s some kind of inside joke with him and Vanessa.”
It’s Vanessa’s name that gets me moving. I practically sprint to the edge of the porch where they’re standing. “Call the police for what?”
Cooper points to the front door. “That.”
As my gaze follows his finger, the blood slowly drains from my body. “Holy shit.”
My brain takes a few beats to process what I’m seeing. There, in my front door, is a large knife. Big and sharp with a dark wood handle and a shiny blade, it looks a lot like the chef’s knife I use in my kitchen. It’s jarring to see it anchored in the wood of my door, but that’s not the worst part.
I blink, trying to refocus my eyes. “Vanessa. That’s a photo of Vanessa.”
“Yeah.” Cooper’s voice is soft as he shuffles closer to me. “I got a good look at it when I went to knock.”
“The dumb fuck actually touched the doorknob.” Gabe sidles closer, looking grim. “Hopefully that doesn’t screw with fingerprints.”
But I already know there won’t be prints. Just like there weren’t any on the snake or the balloons or the postcard. Just like Colleen can’t figure out who the hell is screwing with our website. Just like County officials can’t seem to trace that anonymous tip.
I hate the feeling of helplessness that blasts through me. I hate it more than anything.
“I’m sure whoever did this wore gloves.” I glance from brother to brother. “You didn’t call the cops?”
Gabe shakes his head. “We waited for you.”
I take a few steps closer, trying for a better look at the photo. Unlike the picture of teenage Vanessa, this one’s recent. I can’t tell if it’s candid, but it’s definitely a professional shot. I take one more step, frowning. Something’s off.
It comes to me in a rush. “She doesn’t have a dimple.”
“What?” Gabe steps up beside me and stares at the photo. “What are you talking about? She’s got a dimple right there.”
“Right, but Vanessa doesn’t.” I’ve studied her face awake and in sleep, happy and sad. I know that face like the back of my hand, and this isn’t it. “That’s not Vanessa.”
