California Dreamin' Collection
Page 19
She winked, and as much as AnneMarie wanted to be annoyed at her interference, she was warmed by Marilyn’s understanding.
“It might not seem as heroic,” Marilyn went on. “But I thought that Lance’s plan to have the two of you on the After-Hours Show on the same night was splendid. He didn’t plan for Clyde to ask you such a leading question, but your answer gave him a little bit of hope—”
“Wait, did you say that having us both on the show was Lance’s idea?”
Marilyn nodded. “They’ve been pestering him to come on for months, but he didn’t want to. Clyde’s questions are always unpredictable, and rehab was hard on the guy. He didn’t want to relive the struggle in front of an audience.”
It was all AnneMarie could do to breathe in and out as her mind turned it all over.
Marilyn leaned her forearms on the table and tapped her fingers on her cup. “In rehab, you take a hard look at yourself— and it’s not easy. Lance hated what his life had become. He’d been so intent on building his image that he didn’t know who he was without the drugs. He felt like everything about him was a lie. Aside from me, nobody knew the real Lance Holden.”
She looked at AnneMarie and gave a half-smile. “Except for one person… you. Talking about you and how you’d cared about him before his fame was the one bright spot in those long hard months. I heard you were coming to the show, and I mentioned it, sort of teasing. But that sparked something in him I’d never seen before— he was nervous and excited and… hopeful.” Marilyn tipped her cup to drink the last of her coffee then put it back on the table. “It took a bit of negotiating by his extraordinary manager to work it all out with the show.”
AnneMarie’s heart beat so hard she could hear blood rushing in her ears. So the show wasn’t a coincidence. He’d planned it—arranged the whole thing to see her. The events of the past few days took on a new shade, as if someone had placed them behind a colored lens, making her see everything in a different light, from the first second their eyes met on set until she ran away from the custodial closet.
She put her elbows on the table and rubbed her eyes. Suddenly her decision to run away didn’t seem so black and white. Was Lance really trying to start again? Did he actually—
Marilyn put some bills next to her empty mug and stood. “I appreciate your meeting me. I need to get going; I have a busy day. We have a concert tonight to get ready for, which reminds me…” She pulled a concert ticket from her purse and set it on the table, sliding it toward AnneMarie with her fingertips. “Just in case you change your mind.”
Long after Marilyn had left, AnneMarie still stared at the ticket. She remembered another ticket from ten years ago, one she’d tacked to her bulletin board next to a picture of Lance. She’d been so excited to go to his first concert, but the time got closer, and they spoke less often…and then not at all… As she thought of Lance’s face yesterday, she realized how she’d hurt him by not going. She’d only thought of her own insecurities. Her heavy stomach soured with guilt.
She pulled her boarding pass from her purse and placed the two papers side by side, looking back and forth between them. Whichever decision she made would turn her life onto a specific course. One would be safe, where she knew what to expect. The other would be a risk. It could lead to more heartache. She rested her head in her hands.
Was there a chance? Was she brave enough to risk her heart?
Chapter Seven
AnneMarie walked down the steps of the Staples Center, second-guessing herself for the millionth time since rescheduling her flight. What in the world was she doing? She wasn’t a cancel-my-flight kind of woman, and knowing that she’d spend the next few hours watching Lance perform made her knees tremble so badly that she hung onto the railing to steady herself. She glanced at her pink cardigan and jeans, wishing she’d bought something new to wear.
She found her row as the opening act was finishing up. Her seat was near the stage, a few rows back from the mosh pit of teenage fans. She had a perfect view when the lights dimmed, and with a blast of noise and explosion of lights, Lance’s band took the stage.
Lance strummed a chord on his electric guitar, and the arena erupted in cheers and screams. He grinned at the audience, then pulled the microphone closer and started to sing. AnneMarie felt like a giddy fan-girl.
Lance was completely at ease moving around the stage as he sang. He held the entire stadium enthralled. The way he moved, his confidence, his talent— he belonged onstage.
She realized her hands were clasped beneath her chin. Her heart pounded along with the music. AnneMarie glanced around at the audience; the same adoration she felt shone out of the eyes of every woman and girl around her. They all loved him. She was no different than any other fan. AnneMarie suddenly felt small and insignificant. She was a shy, small-town girl with a crush on a rock star.
How could she have thought that she’d ever be a part of this life? How could she compete with all of this?
The longer she watched, the more obvious it was that this was a mistake. This was Lance’s world, not hers. He lived for the spotlight. He fed off the crowd’s energy as they hung on every note he played. Why had she ever thought he needed her? That there was room for her? She had nothing to offer someone who already had it all.
Her chest felt empty, and the bass of the music pounded in her head, shaking her from the inside out. AnneMarie stood and scooted past the other fans, toward the aisle. As she started to climb the stairs, the song ended. She was running away again, as she always did whenever she was the least bit unsure. The thought made her angry with herself, but that didn’t negate her need to hide, to get away and stop living in a fantasy world.
Lance’s voice sounded in the microphone behind her. “How about we slow it down a little?”
How could merely the sound of his words melt her insides? When she reached the landing, AnneMarie glanced back and saw him alone on the stage with just his acoustic guitar. He adjusted the microphone, strummed a few chords, and the crowd settled down as if under a spell.
He played a few more notes. “I wrote this song for a girl. It’s about regrets and second chances, but she probably won’t ever hear it.” He cleared his throat. “Because some people change too late.”
And he began to sing.
A lonely villain tired of his wasted days
Given another chance, he’d never have walked away,
Never let her go,
Never said goodbye
Never made her cry.
Would she come back? Would she open her door? Does he dare to even try?
His words chipped away at the walls AnneMarie had built around her emotions, making all of her reasons for leaving seem insignificant. The lyrics were heartfelt and the melody soft and beautiful. The song was so much like the ones he sang to her at Glass Beach that it made her breath catch. A flood of memories assaulted her, and she pressed her hand against the cement wall.
The tune changed subtly and the song moved to the chorus.
My heart was just a part
Missing pieces to be whole.
You see the me
Nobody else can see.
And make it full.
Those words—her words. The poem she’d written for him. He’d remembered them all… the sentiments of a young girl falling in love. They pierced her heart. AnneMarie’s body shook, and her breath came in hysterical bursts. She closed her eyes as Lance’s voice released the memories she’d kept locked away: catching his eye across a classroom, laughing over milkshakes, finding bits of colored glass on the beach, her first kiss… and with the memories, all of the emotions that accompanied them, both good and bad, which she’d pushed down anytime she’d been reminded of Lance. It all returned with a vengeance. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
The song ended, and she stumbled through the auditorium doors into the hallway, leaned against the wall near a concession stand and tried to get herself under control.
She felt an arm around h
er shoulders and didn’t need to open her eyes to know that Marilyn had found her. “I told him that song was a keeper.”
Chapter Eight
Lance’s ears were ringing as he left the noise of the stage and stepped into the below-ground tunnels that led to his dressing room. The concert had gone better than anyone had expected. Being onstage again felt so good, and performing with an alert mind, actually singing the right lyrics and playing the instruments instead of relying on recordings to convey the illusion? Amazing. He’d forgotten the rush that came from standing in front of a pumped crowd.
The cement corridor felt cool against his damp clothes and hair. He was exhausted.
But the tour promised to be a success. The band had performed the songs the way they’d rehearsed, and all of the equipment had worked beautifully. The fans seemed to like the new songs— even the brand new one was well received.
If only the one person who was meant to hear it—
He hated the pang that always accompanied thoughts of AnneMarie. He shook his head, rounding the corner to his dressing room.
He opened a door and stepped into the suite. A few roadies sat on couches in the common area, and Lance tried not to look at the brown bottles they held. He hurried to the adjoining doorway leading to his private room.
Marilyn stepped out before he could enter. “Great show. Feel good about it?”
“Yeah, really good.”
“Someone wants to talk to you.” She motioned her head toward the door behind her.
“I’m not up to hanging with fans tonight; one of the other guys might—”
“Not this time.” Marilyn’s lips twisted into a smile. “Trust me.”
Lance studied her. Marilyn had never been the type to bring a girl to his room. Was she trying to make him feel better because AnneMarie had left? That didn’t seem like her.
As Marilyn watched confusion cover his face, her smile grew. She stepped back and opened the door.
Lance looked inside, and time stopped. His gaze met a pair of brown eyes that he never thought he’d see again. “AnneMarie?” His voice cracked like a fifteen-year-old’s, but he didn’t care.
“Great show. I… I heard the song.” Her voice shook slightly, and her brow was furrowed, but she held his gaze steadily, offering her trust. Giving him a chance.
He saw the girl he’d left behind ten years earlier and knew that because she was really here, and if she was really willing to try, he’d never betray that trust again. He could do it. They could make it work. A house in Aberdeen and an apartment in L.A. Maybe a writing desk in the tour bus…
“You came,” he said.
She rubbed her arms and looked at the floor. “I made a mistake.” Her voice was so quiet that he stepped closer to hear.
He barely registered that Marilyn left, closing the door behind her.
“What mistake?” He took another step and reached a finger beneath her chin, lifting her face.
AnneMarie’s expression set his heart racing. “I said that a hero has to be willing to give up anything for the heroine, but the truth is, if she wants him to step into her life, she has to be willing to take a step into his, too.”
“Are you… sure?” His throat was dry and his voice raspy.
She hesitated for an instant and then took a step, closing the space between them. She nodded and placed a hand on his chest. “I thought I’d left behind a villain, but he was actually my hero.”
His throat tightened as he placed his hand over hers. “Are you scared?”
“Terrified.”
“Me, too. But that doesn’t sound very heroic, does it?” He brushed his fingers over her cheek.
AnneMarie closed her eyes and leaned against his hand.
“What’s the hero supposed to say now?”
“Nothing.” She looked at him through her lashes, and the vulnerability he’d seen in her eyes was replaced by a warmth that lit his nerves on fire. One side of her mouth pulled into a smile, and a blush spread over her cheeks. “At this point in the story, there’s really not a whole lot of talking.”
Lance slid his hand beneath her ear and pulled her toward him. When their lips met, all of the apologies, regrets, and shame evaporated. AnneMarie was giving him a second chance.
She entrusted him with her heart, and he’d spend the rest of his life guarding it well. That’s what heroes did.
Jennifer Moore is a passionate reader and writer of all things romance due to the need to balance the rest of her world that includes a perpetually traveling husband and four active sons, who create heaps of laundry that is anything but romantic. She suffers from an unhealthy addiction to 18th- and 19th- century military history and literature. Jennifer has a B.A. in linguistics from the University of Utah and is a Guitar Hero champion. She lives in northern Utah with her family, but most of the time wishes she was on board a frigate during the Age of Sail.
You can learn more about her at authorjmoore.com.
Chapter One
Fairy Face
Jo grabbed her beat up suitcase off the conveyer belt and surveyed LAX. This was her first time in California, and she wondered if maybe she should turn around and get back on the plane. She hadn’t even left the airport, but she already knew three things about California: it was crowded, it was loud, and she didn’t belong here.
“Jolie?”
Jo turned around and saw a man staring at her with a slight smile. He looked harmless enough, but in California, anyone could be a serial killer. They just looked better holding the knife and duct tape. He was dressed in jeans, brown work boots and a white t-shirt, which looked clean and soft. His hair was perfectly California though— thick, a little out of control, with the perfect amount of curl, as if all he had to do was run his hands through it, and he’d be camera ready for a modeling shoot. His face seemed genetically designed by a top modeling agency: high cheekbones, sculpted lips, and dreamy brown eyes under dark slashes for eyebrows.
What kind of people hired a model to pick up their nanny? Talk about throwing out the welcome mat.
“Ah, you’re hard of hearing,” he said. “Sorry, they didn’t tell me.” His eyebrows rising in question as his mouth quirked on one side.
Jo cleared her throat and blushed at being caught thinking instead of opening her mouth and using words. “No, my hearing is fine. I was trying to figure out who you are…” She let the sentence drift off as she raised one of her own eyebrows.
The man grinned, his eyes gleaming in amusement as he held out a hand. “Call me Fitz. Short for Fitzgerald. I’m the driver-slash-man-of-all-trades for Bax and Lila James. Please tell me you’re Jolie Barrett. I’ve been sitting here for a half an hour looking for a girl with brown hair, big hazel eyes and freckles. You’d be surprised by how many women fit that description.”
Jo grimaced. “Yeah, I don’t exactly stand out. And call me Jo.” She glanced around the constant movement of people around her and could almost feel the pulse of energy flowing around her. She felt somehow diminished by it, deflated. She swallowed back a wave of nervousness and straightened her shoulders. She was here to be a nanny, not to audition for a TV show. She didn’t have to compete with these people. All she had to do was be the nanny to two little angels. At least that’s how her cousin Lindsey had described them.
Fitz grabbed her suitcase. “Okay then, Jo, follow me.”
As Jo walked outside, the instant heat and bright sun made her grab for her sunglasses, a going-away gift from her mom. Jo didn’t want to think of the tears on her mom’s cheeks as she’d waved goodbye in Denver. Kim Barrett had a new life now. She had a job she loved at the hospital, and she had a new boyfriend. She didn’t need an adult daughter hanging around, mooching off her. No, it was time to grow up and do something besides send out resumes every day, hoping to get a job.
But Jo wished somebody had told her how hard it would be to actually get a job after graduation. She’d never imagined she’d end up being a nanny. But here she was, one of the unemp
loyable, educated masses with a hefty college loan weighing her down.
Lindsey’s call had come at just the right moment, when she’d been seriously considering a job as manager at the local McDonald’s. Spending the summer in Santa Monica, watching two kids, had to be better than working fast food.
I’m hoping. Lindsey had been the Jameses nanny for the past year but quit when she’d married her high-school sweetheart. Donovan was a Marine, and he’d been transferred to a base in Maryland. Lindsey hated leaving Truman and Nellie but said she felt better knowing she was leaving them with a trustworthy replacement.
During Jo’s Skype interview with Baxter James, he’d spent maybe five minutes asking questions about her. He hadn’t even bothered asking if she had any childcare experience. Instead, he’d spent most of the time asking about her favorite movies. Interesting people she would be working for.
They reached a brilliantly white, perfectly clean BMW, where Fitz stowed her suitcase while she took the passenger seat. She ran a hand over the plush leather seat, feeling overwhelmed by the luxury— a far cry from her 1990 Toyota Corolla with rust holes all over the back bumper.
Fitz backed out of the parking spot and slipped into the traffic then headed away from the airport. “So,” he said as if he was trying to fill the awkward silence. “Bax said you’re from Colorado. What part?”
Jo was so used to silence that she’d forgotten how it made other people uncomfortable. “Colorado Springs. And uh… what about you? Are you from here?” Was that the appropriate response?
Fitz smiled, and she relaxed a little.
See? I can do this. She could talk to a good-looking stranger as he drove her around in a BMW. Yeah, no big deal.
“I’m a native Californian. Grew up in Culver City. You’ll love it here. Plenty of sun, beautiful beaches, and enough fun to fill a lifetime.”
Jo nodded and looked out the window as she felt a wave of homesickness climb up her stomach and lodge in her throat. I don’t want to be here. She wanted to be at home with her books, her dog Tinker, her best friend Sadie…