A Brand New Ending (Page 65)

“Anything.”

“If you love this screenplay you wrote, don’t let them take away the heart and soul of your story, no matter what they promise. It’s too important for both of us. Okay?”

“I won’t. This time it’s going to be different. They either like the story as is, or it’s not going to work out.”

“Good. Can I read it?”

He scratched behind his ear and looked away. “I still need to write the ending.”

“Are you stuck?”

“Big-time.”

“Wanna talk it out?”

He seemed to ponder her question. Stared into her face while he stroked her thighs through her jeans.

Knowing it was their story made her feel vulnerable. Would he write them a happily ever after? Or would it end on more of a cliffhanger?

“I feel like I’m forcing it,” he finally said.

“Because you don’t really believe it can work?”

He frowned and gripped her shoulders fiercely. “No, baby. There’s only one way this story ends—and it’s with them together. Forever. I’m just torn about which way to write it.”

She smiled, her heart a bit eased. “Well, you need to figure it out today.” She jumped off the dryer and faced him with a stern expression.

She needed to keep things light. There’d be plenty of time to digest his leaving later, on her own.

“I’ll bring you up coffee and a sandwich, but you know the golden rule . . .”

He grinned, and her heart stuttered. “Vomit out the words. Go with your gut. Fix them later.”

“Exactly.” He moved to kiss her, but she backed away. “No fooling around until the ending is done.”

“That’s just mean.”

“I’ll give you a sneak peek of your reward.” She lifted up her shirt and flashed him her naked breasts.

“You’re not wearing a bra,” he said, voice strained.

She threw him a cheeky grin. “That’s right. And no panties. Happy writing, baby. Get it done.”

She sashayed out of the laundry room, smiling at his groan.

He stumbled into the empty apartment and waited, hoping to catch her scent, or hear her voice, or catch a glimpse of those strawberry curls. Instead, the silence ate at him slowly, devouring him with gleeful intent to drive him insane.

He didn’t know if he could live without her.

The past three weeks, he’d tried to drown himself in work. It wasn’t hard, especially since the movie was about to be wrapped up and he was already being tapped to write a new screenplay to spec. Everything in his career was perfect.

But would it be enough? Success was empty without sharing it with Ophelia. Nothing seemed to be able to take away the throbbing ache in his heart and his gut.

He cracked open a beer and drank, moodily staring at his cell phone. She hadn’t called. Not once. She was his wife, yet she’d left him.

He’d call her right now. Tell her he could change, if she’d just give him one more chance. This time, he would choose her first every time.

He reached for the phone. At the same time, there was a knock at the door.

Growling in frustration, he strode over and flung it open.

And stared at Ophelia.

Dressed in jeans and a simple yellow T-shirt, faint shadows and exhaustion lining her face, she stared back at him. Endless moments dragged on. They were both caught up in the sight of each other, both having so much to say yet not knowing where to start.

“I can’t leave you,” she finally whispered, reaching out her hands, palms turned up. “I tried. But I’m not . . . whole.”

“Neither am I.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her deeply, his tongue thrusting inside, claiming his wife as his own. “This time, I’ll be different. I’m never going to lose you again.”

“And I’m going to give singing another chance. This time on my own terms.”

“We can do it together.”

She smiled so sweetly his heart ached. “I love you, Kyle.”

“I love you, too.”

He pulled her into the apartment and shut the door behind them.

This time, they’d have a brand new ending.

This time, love would be enough.

The End.

Kyle stared at the final words on the page, then read the last paragraph again.

God, it was shit.

He rubbed his head and groaned. It was so fucking saccharine sweet he felt like he’d just given himself a cavity. But every damn movie in Hollywood prided itself on happily-ever-after endings in a big-assed way. Unless you killed someone. And this wasn’t that type of story.

He got up and paced, growling at his muse.

Couldn’t you give me original material, you bitch? I’ve been on my ass for the last six hours and haven’t moved.

Fuck you. I gave you what you needed. They made it. They didn’t break up, and they’re together forever. Plus, I gave you some of that Jerry Maguire stuff that works so well.

He stopped talking to his muse. He never won an argument with her anyway.

No, this was the ending he’d always dreamed they’d have. A way for them to be together and to work through their problems instead of spending nearly a decade apart. This was the type of ending Ophelia deserved. It worked.

Pushing away his doubts, he spent the rest of the evening converting the final chapters into a script format, then emailed it to his agent. He knew Robbie would read it ASAP and get any major changes back to him before sending it on to the team. That would leave him a day or two for quick revisions before he got on the plane.

He’d done it. Both the book and the script were finished. He was back with Ophelia.

Things were finally perfect.

Two days later, he fielded a call from his agent and got the news. “They fucking love it,” Robbie crowed. “Ate it up as the next big Hollywood chick flick. Bell wants in.”

Joy shot through him as he gripped the phone. “Are you kidding me? They liked it? Do they want revisions?”

“Not now. They wanted to talk about it face-to-face. Meeting’s at nine a.m. Tuesday morning. I’ll meet you there a little early to talk about a few things.”

He grinned at the phone. “Sounds good.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you were a closet romantic? Holy shit, it gave me memories of some of the chick-flick classics. Congratulations, Kyle, this one is going to cement you as one of the best writers in Hollywood.”

He clicked off and allowed himself one short fist pump.

Guess the ending had worked. Guess it was so good they were willing to take a chance. Somehow, he’d stretched into a new genre and nailed it.

He couldn’t wait to tell Ophelia, even though it meant he was leaving in two days.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Ophelia poured two glasses of wine and rechecked the table she’d set.

Kyle had finished the script. Usually, he experienced elatedness mixed with a touch of depression when he handed off a project. She always pegged it as mourning the goodbye to characters he’d given his heart and soul to. For a brief time they belonged only to him, but once the story was finished, they belonged to the public.

The guests were settled in various activities—either retired to their rooms or out to dinner. The scents of freshly baked bread and homemade sauce wafted in the air. She spooned out two generous bowls of pasta with sauce and added meatballs, then sliced the crusty bread open and set out a tub of fresh-churned butter. The lights were dim, the candles were lit, and she was dressed in a royal-blue shift dress. With her hair pinned up and actual heels on her feet, she looked ready to celebrate.