by Kara Isaac
She was a shadowy figure of no importance. That’s how they’d set it up. That was how it had to stay.
This was a horrible idea. There had to be a better way to find an idea for a book than having to spend all this time with Lucas and being reminded of everything she didn’t have. Might never have.
Stop it! She turned the cold tap on full, dousing her face, shocking herself back to the real world. Where good guys like Lucas weren’t for women like her.
She dried her face. Tried to shake some of the melancholy off as she walked back into her room. Another book tour, another bland room for a night, just like all the others.
More cities stretched out before them. She wouldn’t be back in Denver anytime soon. Not that it mattered. She had no one to go home to. If she never went back to her condo, the only person who might eventually wonder where she went was her regular Uber Eats delivery guy.
Her entire life was as small as four people. Donna, Max, Lacey, and her vegetative father. Four and a half, if you counted Anna and the few texts they’d exchanged since she left.
Rachel blew out a breath, then watched it mist on the window overlooking whatever the river was that ran through Minneapolis. Below her, people strolled along the boardwalk. Leaving restaurants after a late dinner. Heading home after a night shift.
A knock on her door jolted her from her thoughts. Rachel walked to the door and peered out the peephole.
Lacey?
Pulling open the door, she tilted her head at the publicist. “Hey. Is everything okay?”
“Fine. The charity auction was as expected. I just thought I’d check in and see how tonight went with Lucas.” Lacey was still in her cocktail gown from the evening’s event. A draped affair that made her look like she’d been dipped in silver.
“It was fine. I think. Have you heard otherwise?” Lacey lived on her phone. Juggling her clients. Wrangling interviews and publicity opportunities.
“No. I’m sure I’ll hear from Ethan tomorrow.” Lacey shifted on her feet. What was going on? In the eighteen months she’d been their publicist, she’d never shown up at Rachel’s hotel room. Lacey was all about efficiency. They could have had this conversation at their morning breakfast briefing.
“Was there something else?”
Lacey glanced down the empty corridor. “Can I come in for a minute?”
“Um, sure.” Rachel stepped back to let her into the room.
“I spoke to Anna earlier.” Lacey said the words carefully as she placed her clutch on the hotel desk.
Oh.
“She said your father is still alive?” Lacey lifted the hem of her long, shimmering skirt and then sat on the one chair in the room, leaving Rachel to perch on the end of the bed.
“That’s probably overstating his situation.” Rachel tugged her bathrobe around her.
“That’s where your money goes. That’s why this whole Dr. Donna thing is still going.” It wasn’t a question.
Rachel nodded. Lacey and Anna were the only people outside of Max, the acquiring editor at Randolph, and their original publicist who knew the truth about how Dr. Donna had been created. That was why Lacey had been a no-brainer when their old publicist retired. Lacey or Anna could have ruined everything at any point, but neither of them had ever breathed a word. Whether out of loyalty or penance, she’d never known.
“How is Anna’s husband?”
Lacey leaned back in the chair, closing her eyes briefly. “No change.”
“When did they get married?”
“Five—maybe six?—years ago.”
“You’re still close?” She didn’t know whether to hope they were or weren’t. The thought of their friendship continuing without her hurt. But then, so did the idea that it hadn’t.
“We keep in touch. Nothing was ever the same after you . . .” Lacey’s words trailed off.
Rachel swallowed. Anna and Lacey had been her best friends. The only true friends she’d ever had. The people who had given her hope that she could be more than the sum of her broken parts.
She’d believed they’d destroyed their friendship. Especially Lacey. But the truth was it had been her. She was the one who’d pushed them away, snapped every single olive branch offered, blocked their numbers and frozen them out.
She shook her head. Not even wanting to think about it.
“Rach?”
“I didn’t know how to . . .” She couldn’t go on, her words stuck in her throat. She wasn’t even sure what they were. She’d had to share the blame for her father’s accident with her best friends because she couldn’t carry the full weight of it alone. But their friendship couldn’t shoulder the weight of all that pain.
“What about you? Have you ever married?” It was the closest they’d ever gotten to a personal conversation. Some unspoken agreement had kept things purely professional since Lacey had come on board.
Lacey propped up half a smile that shadowed weary around the edges. “Only to my job.” She shrugged. “I date, but mostly I get my romance vicariously through Emelia.”
“How is she?” Rachel had met Lacey’s cousin a few times. A clever, quiet woman. An unspoken understanding had formed between them when they’d discovered their similar hands dealt by life.
“She’s great. She lives in England and is dating an Olympic rower.”
Would not have picked that. “Wow, good for her.”
“Indeed.” Lacey shook her head as if dispatching memories. “Anyway, I should get going. Can you look in on Anna when you’re back home this weekend?” Lacey pushed herself off her chair and grabbed her purse.
“She doesn’t need me, Lace.” Anna’s husband’s room had been filled with friends and family the day they’d met. “I’m probably the last person she wants to see.”
“Just think about it, okay? She could use all the friends she can get right now. And you know what?” Lacey gave her a tired smile. “You could probably use one, too.”
- 10 -
“And one and two and three!” At his brother’s signal, Lucas threw all his weight against the obstinate fence post. He slammed his shoulder into the side and paused for a second before wrapping his arms around it and wrenching it back in the opposite direction.
They’d been at it for twenty minutes and the fight was now personal. So far the score was fence post six, Lucas and Scott zero, but they were about to win the war.
Lucas whipped his Stetson off and swiped his filthy, sweaty forearm across his forehead. “This is the last time I trust you, big bro. You wouldn’t know the definition of easy re-fencing if it trampled you like Milton there.” He nodded over to Scott’s prize bull, grazing in the next pasture.
His brother leaned back against the rear of his pickup, a sheen barely breaking his brow. “You’ve just gone soft, little bro. All those hours sitting behind a microphone spoon-feeding people their emotions sent your body to seed. Shame. Used to be such a beautiful specimen, back in the day.”
Lucas jammed his hat back down, trying to stop the blustery May wind from taking off with it for a third time. “Whatever.” His brother was right and they both knew it. Not that anyone could accuse him of being a tub of lard, but he certainly couldn’t compare to his brother, whose life on the land had him built like a brick outhouse.
“Tell you what.” Scott satisfied himself with the unspoken victory. “Chuck me a water and then we’ll finish her up.”
Lucas fished into the cooler in the back of the truck and pulled out two bottles. Throwing one to his brother, he snapped open the other and took a deep drink. The self-proclaimed pure spring water provided welcome relief as it sloshed an icy trail down his parched throat.
His brother stared into the distance, water bottle still in his catch hand, unopened.
“What’s up, Scott?”
His brother started. “Sorry, what?”
“Everything okay?”
“Fine, fine.” Scott averted his eyes.
Lucas tossed his bottle back into the cooler. “
You and Grace okay?” For all the unwanted practice he’d had, he should’ve been a pro at probing, but he shifted his feet. “I mean with the trying and all . . .”
His brother sighed, opening his bottle, only to toss the lid in his hand. “We’re fine. All things considered.”
All things considered? What did that mean? “Is there something wrong with you? With Joey? What is it?” A twisting fear hit him in the gut. They were all he had.
Scott shook his head. “No, nothing like that.” He sighed. “Look, it’s no big deal, Luc. We’ve just leveraged ourselves a bit paying for these treatments. As long as it’s a good summer, we’ll be fine.”
“And if it’s not?”
His brother closed his eyes for a second, as if it pained him to even think of the possibility. “Well, then it will be . . . tight.” He lifted his bottle to his lips and took a couple of long gulps.
Scott saying it would be tight meant it was anyone else’s financial Armageddon.
Lucas opened his mouth to offer up the contents of his meager savings account, but his brother cut him off with a “don’t even think about it” look.
Screwing his lid back on the bottle, Scott threw it to Lucas and turned back to the stubborn post. “I reckon another couple of shoves should have her. Ready . . .” They both positioned themselves on the same side of the post, arms gripping the top, heels digging into the ground at its base. “One, two . . .”
“All the single ladies, all the single ladies . . .” What the . . .? Some pop chick belted out of Lucas’s back pocket, the combination of surprise and volume sending both men flailing into the dirt.
Scott stayed there, his whole body shaking with guffaws. Across the paddock, Milton joined in with a series of bellows.
Lucas scrambled to wrench the phone from his jean pocket. He was going to kill Ethan. He should’ve known something was up when his producer, a country-and-western nut, exited the studio humming the catchy tune last night.
Blocked number flashed on the screen. Blasted telemarketers. Apparently the “do not call” registry didn’t extend to India. Half the continent seemed to call him about changing his long-distance provider.
“Look, I’ve told you, I’m not interested!”
Silence for a second, followed by what sounded like some hybrid of a West Coast accent. “Will you at least hear me out first?”
“Who is this?” Lucas glared at his brother, who was still lying in the dirt, shaking like a bowl of Jell-O.
“First can I just confirm who this is?”
Lucas pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it. Seriously? This guy wanted him to verify himself?
“Buddy, if you don’t know who I am, then get off my line—I’ve got work to do.” Not to mention some serious ribbing to get over and done with.
“Attitude, huh. I like it. Hear that’s part of your charm. The no-holds-barred good guy.”
Surely this guy wasn’t hitting on him. “Who is this?” Lucas’s finger hovered over the end call icon. He gave the guy one more sentence or he was gone.
“This is Brad Shipman.”
“How stupid do you think I am, Ethan?” Lucas stabbed the button, then turned the phone off for good measure. He’d fix the song later. While plotting his revenge. How stupid did Ethan think he was? Like he was going to fall for the age-old trick of the fake LA producer call! He’d never understand how his producer managed to be so good at his job when he had all the maturity of a fourteen-year-old.
He turned his attention back to his brother, who had managed to raise himself from the earth and was propped against the obstinate post, a smirk still on his lips.
Lucas folded his arms across his chest, daring Scott to mess with him. “You want to finish this fence off or not?”
• • •
LUCAS LEANED back in his chair and stared at the screen in his palm. For the life of him, he could not work out how to get the hideous song off his ring tone. Blasted newfangled phones. Give him the old flip phone any day. Calling, that was all a man needed. Maybe the occasional text message. Not these ridiculous contraptions.
He spun the phone across the console. There was no way he was letting Ethan exit their booth tonight without fixing it.
Stretching his aching arms above his head, he scanned the news feed for possible topics for the evening. He liked to select both the ordinary and the slightly off-center.
His gaze lingered on a story about an aspiring NFL player arrested for domestic battery. That would get the airwaves pumping.
“So any interesting calls today?” Ethan’s backpack hit the floor with a thud.
Lucas didn’t even bother lifting his eyes from the screen. “Actually, yes. Dawson called; he wants his hair back.”
“Seriously.”
“Yeah, I’m sure you found it seriously funny doing the Beyoncé/Shipman double hit. FYI, Scott also found it so hilarious it’s going to be Thanksgiving 2025 before he’ll bother to find another story to tell over the turkey.”
His eyes landed on a story about a fifteen-year-old girl drinking Drano after her boyfriend dumped her. Seriously, what was wrong with this country? Where was the father who should’ve taught her no guy was worth that?
It didn’t matter. Tonight was about sports. Just sports. Not feelings. Or relationships. Or love advice from someone completely unqualified to give any. Sports.
“Brad Shipman called?” Ethan’s puppy-dog tone demanded acknowledgment.
“Sure, Brad Shipman called.” Lucas lifted his finger off the mouse long enough to denote bunny ears around the name.
“Well, what did he say?” Eager eyes peered over the dividing ledge. Lucas had to give it to him: the guy was a decent faker.
“Ethan. Give it up. You got me; now let’s move on. In case you didn’t notice, we’re on air in twenty and we haven’t even outlined the show yet.” Lucas took a gulp of his water.
“Okay, Beyoncé was me. But I’m not joking, Luc—Brad Shipman wasn’t.”
Lucas stared at him. He couldn’t be saying what he thought he was saying.
Ethan was fumbling with something on his side of the desk. “Listen.” He held up his phone, set to loudspeaker, the electronic voice intoning he had one saved message.
“Ethan.” The same voice he’d heard earlier echoed around the room. “Brad Shipman here. Hey, I’ve heard good things about your guy, Lucas, and listened to a couple of his shows. You guys have a nice thing going there. Just wondering if you can do me a favor and pass on his number. I’m interested in talking to him about some opportunities I have coming up.” He listed a couple of phone numbers.
Lucas’s head hit the desk about the same time the tone indicated Brad had hung up. He thumped it on the hard wood. Twice, three times, for being so stupid, stupid, stupid.
“What happened?” Ethan’s voice was Mickey Mouse high.
“I hung up on him.”
- 11 -
Lucas studied the discreet sign above the brick facade. Matterhorn. Trust Brad Shipman, a stranger from LA, to know the trendiest place in town.
He fisted his hands in his jeans pockets. Brad was the one who’d flown all this way only a few days after their initial phone conversation. The one who’d requested the meeting. It wasn’t as if Lucas had done anything to make this happen. In fact, the hanging-up debacle only seemed to make Brad fall over himself more to meet him.
So here he was, a week later, fingers tugging at the collar of the designer shirt Ethan had made him go buy. No call for fancy suits and shirts when your job takes place in a cell. He’d almost had a heart attack when he’d managed to sneak a look at the price tag. A hundred bucks for some flimsy material with a couple of sleeves and some buttons. Unbelievable.
Brad Shipman. His fingers tightened around the mahogany door handle. Brad Shipman here, in Madison, to meet him.
“Hey, buddy! You coming or going?” The loud voice behind jerked him from his pondering.
“Sorry.” He pulled the door, it openin
g with a swish to reveal an interior of paneled wood, red velvet, and starched tablecloths. A tall, slim hostess with gleaming white teeth stood behind some sort of podium. Glasses tinkled and the hum of conversation captured the air.
“Welcome to Matterhorn.” The sparkling teeth got even more prominent.
“Hi.” Sweaty palms wiped the outside of his jeans. “I’m Lucas Grant. I’m here to meet—”
“Mr. Shipman.” She didn’t even consult her book. “Right this way, Mr. Grant.”
She cut through the room like the bow on a ship, Lucas trailing in her wake. The restaurant was heaving with men in suits and women in cocktail dresses. Not a pair of jeans to be seen. What on earth was he doing? He didn’t belong here. Saints almighty, if there was a legion of knives and forks waiting for him at the table, he was done for.
“Mr. Grant?” The hostess stood behind a chair, holding it out for him. He’d never let a lady pull a chair out for him in his life. It just wasn’t right.
“Lucas!” He was saved by the sole other occupant of the table launching up and grabbing his hand. “Thanks for coming—sit, sit, sit.” His other hand windmilled toward the chair, which thank goodness, now had an empty space behind it.
“Mr. Shipman?” He didn’t mean it to sound like a question. It was his voice, so clearly that’s who he was. Except it wasn’t. Not the Brad Shipman he’d conjured up, anyway. The Brad Shipman in his mind was all LA—buffed, bronzed, angelic looking. But if they were talking heavenly creatures, the man across the table owned a large amount of real estate at the cherub end of the angelic continuum.
Brad Shipman sat, the bench underneath groaning at the burden of his navy-blue-swathed girth. A platinum halo encircled a bald scalp, and his face segued into his chin, which disappeared into his collar. In the middle of it all sat a small pair of shrewd pale blue eyes.
“Call me Brad. Champagne!” He clicked his fingers at the waitress Lucas hadn’t even seen hovering by their table.