A Brand New Ending (Page 13)

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, with 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.