Burning Up. Sarah Mayberry
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of her rusty Volkswagen Beetle was a box containing a jumble of cookbooks, her recipe folder, her knife roll and, for some absurd reason, a can opener. She’d thrown it all together haphazardly when what Brandon had told her had sunk in.
They were over. Finished. Fourteen years gone, just like that.
Hot tears burned at the backs of Sophie’s eyes as she wound her way up a long driveway, and she knuckled them away and swallowed noisily.
He hadn’t even wanted to talk. That was the thing that hurt the most. He’d presented her with a fait accompli.
“Sophie, I can’t do this anymore,” he’d said. “I’m sick of hoping things will change. I’m sick of lying in bed night after night like an old married couple. I don’t want to get to forty and look back and wonder where my life has gone.”
“I know we’ve been in a rut lately,” she’d said, and he’d laughed—a sharp, hard, angry laugh.
“A rut? Jesus, Sophie, we’re in the Grand freaking Canyon.”
“So we talk. We do something about it. What do you think this afternoon is all about?”
Brandon had sat on the end of the bed and put his head in his hands. “Sophie, a bunch of satin is not going to patch over our problems. It’s time to face the facts—we passed our use-by date years ago.”
That had made her legs go weak and she’d been forced to sit beside him.
“That’s so not true,” she’d said. “We still love each other. We’re best friends. We just need to take time to rediscover each other again.”
“We love each other, but we’re not in love, Sophie. We haven’t been for a long time.”
“Speak for yourself.”
Then he’d sucker-punched her. “I want to sleep with other women.”
She’d gasped. It was a slap in the face the way he’d said it so abruptly.
“I’m sorry, but it’s true. Don’t you ever wonder what it would be like with someone else?” he’d asked, searching her face with his eyes.
“No. No, I don’t.”
He’d nodded then. “I suppose that’s probably true. You like things to stay the same, I know that. You like your routines, and knowing what’s going to happen next. Well, I can’t do it anymore. I feel like I’m suffocating.”
He’d started packing a suitcase then, and she’d been frozen with shock as she tried to comprehend what was happening.
“You’ll thank me, you’ll see. You just need a push to make you get out there and spread your wings. We’ve been hiding with each other for too long, Soph.”
She’d been about to throw herself at his feet and beg him to talk more, to at least give them a chance to try to make things work. But the patronizing, all-knowing, parental tone of his words had made her bristle. And she’d done the first thing that had sprung to mind—picked up the phone and called Julie Jenkins.
And now she was pulling up outside a huge, two-story house—mansion, really—about to embark on four weeks of pandering to one of the world’s most indulged men.
Once again tears threatened, but Sophie refused to cry. She was angry, not sad, she told herself. The things Brandon had said to her, about her…She felt as though he’d been kidnapped by pod people and replaced with an alien. How could he have been thinking and feeling that way and she never had a clue?
For a moment she felt overwhelmed.
She was single. It was almost incomprehensible. She’d been with Brandon since she was sixteen years old, but now, suddenly, at thirty, she was single. Alone. Adrift. All her plans, all her dreams, gone in the time it had taken Brandon to pack his suitcase.
For a moment she gave in to the confusion and leaned forward, resting her forehead against the steering wheel. She had no idea what was going to happen tomorrow, or the day after that. She had no idea where she’d be in a month’s time, a year’s time.
A huge gulf of fear seemed to yawn at her feet.
You like your routines and knowing what’s going to happen next.
Brandon’s words tickled at the edges of her mind and she sat up straight and thumped the steering wheel with her fist.
Why did she feel so defensive about what he’d said? What was wrong with liking routines? With enjoying the known, the secure?
“Nothing,” she said out loud.
Brandon was the one who’d given up on them. He was the one with doubts, urges, unfulfilled desires. This was not about her.
Her jaw set, Sophie swung the door open. Tomorrow morning, Lucas Grant was arriving for a four-week recuperation spell after injuring himself on set, according to Julia Jenkins. Sophie had tonight to look over the strict diet she’d been sent and familiarize herself with the kitchen.
Both tasks that she could handle with one hand tied behind her back, despite what Brandon had said about her.
“Bastard,” she said under her breath. It felt better to be angry. If she wasn’t angry, she had the feeling she was going to be very, very sad. And she wasn’t ready to deal with that yet.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, Lucas threw down his bag and looked around. He’d known the Jenkinses for a long time—ever since John had taught him drama at NIDA, in fact—but he’d never realized quite how loaded they were until now. The Blue Mountains “house” that Julie had offered him for his recovery was, in fact, a sprawling estate, complete with heated in-ground pool, caretaker’s lodge and a spectacular seven-bedroom main house with high, arched ceilings, imported stone floors and every modern convenience. If he didn’t already own three houses of his own—L.A., New York, Sydney—he’d almost be envious.
He guessed if he had to be stuck on crutches, there were worse places to be, and not many better.
Frowning, he glanced down at the bulge his newly acquired knee brace made beneath his jeans. He’d torn his ankle ligaments, as well as the medial ligament in his knee. The whole of his foot was bruised and slightly swollen, although it was hard to tell since most of it was hidden by removable neoprene braces, designed to hold his ankle and knee in the correct position while his tendons healed. The doctor had told him it was a miracle that he hadn’t broken anything, considering what had happened.
It had been two days since the accident, and his leg still hurt like hell. Fortunately, they’d given him some serious Tyrannosaurus-Rex-strength painkillers—as well as strict instructions to take it easy for at least four weeks. Which was why Derek had insisted he take Julie up on the offer of her mountain hideaway. Lucas had a film scheduled to begin shooting next week, and the whole production had been delayed to allow him time to recover. The studio had insurance to cover this sort of situation, but Lucas wasn’t exactly the golden-haired boy right now.
He shrugged the thought off as he dropped his crutches beside the bed and flopped backward onto the king-size mattress. Four weeks wasn’t going to kill anyone—him or the studio. Yeah, he’d stuffed up a little. But it wasn’t as though he’d meant to slip and collide with the balcony railing. If it hadn’t been for that biography…
Crossing his arms behind his head, Lucas stared at the ceiling. It was bloody quiet up here in the mountains. No hum of traffic, no people moving around, no chatter of voices in distant rooms. The only sound he could hear was the faint chirrup of birds in the gum trees outside.
Peaceful. Huh.
After about five minutes of peaceful, he started to get a little twitchy. He wasn’t used to having time on his hands. Usually he spent at least two hours a day training—weights, running, yoga for flexibility. If he wasn’t actually shooting a film, he usually had costume fittings, makeup tests, meetings with studios, meetings with Derek or meetings with