by Zoe York
Because she was definitely done with nonsense like that.
Maybe she’d move to New York. Leave the L.A. house to her mother, and buy a nice one-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side. “Sorry, Mom. Couldn’t find anything with a guest room. You’ll have to stay at the Plaza.” On your own dime. Of course, Holly wouldn’t say the last bit. No point in saying something she didn’t have the guts to actually back-up with action.
A short, pretty brunette bounded out of the diner, looking dangerously chipper. She waved as she approached the limo, and the driver got out and spoke to her briefly before opening the door and gesturing for her to join Holly in the backseat.
“Hi! I’m Olivia. We emailed.”
“Hope Creswell,” Holly said in her smooth, practiced way. Sliding into her stage name—her non-stop public persona—was second nature now. “Thank you for accommodating my early arrival. I trust I’m not interrupting anything?”
“Not at all.” Olivia gave her a warm smile. “Okay, so that’s Mac’s Diner. The owner is Frank. No Mac, that’s just the name. I thought you might want to see where it was. You won’t have a car, right? So if you need food delivery or something until everyone else gets here, you can call the diner and someone will drop off a meal for you. But I’ve stocked the kitchen at the cottage, so you should be okay until everyone else arrives on Sunday. You’ve got those numbers, too, there’s a binder on the counter. I’ll show you.” She took a breath and looked around. “You came alone? I thought you were bringing an assistant with you.”
“Emmett will come up next week. He and his partner are expecting a baby at the end of the summer, and the first OB appointment is this week, so I told him to come up after that.”
“Oh, wow! That’s exciting for him. Well, if you need anything before he gets here, I’m happy to help.” Olivia filled the short ten minute drive south of town with more chatter about the local amenities—not many—and Holly stared out the window. She was being a bit rude, but she was bone tired after a five-hour flight and four-hour drive, even if all she had to do was sit the whole time.
Maybe she could go for a run once she got settled.
And then sleep for days.
The limo slowed at Olivia’s instructions, then turned at a farmhouse, heading down a slight hill into a grove of trees. “That’s Ryan Howard’s house,” her de facto guide said, pointing to the home on the corner. “He’s the son-in-law of the Fenichs, who have rented these cottages to the production company. He’s the property management, so to speak.”
“So to speak?” Holly took in the pile of kids’ bikes on the deck and the minivan parked next to yet another pick-up truck.
“It’s complicated.” Olivia smiled, her expression professional but guarded. “He’s a great guy, just a bit gruff because he’s on his own with three kids now. But he will help you out if you need something.”
The limo snaked under the canopy of trees, revealing first one small cottage, than another, then a few more slightly bigger ones, all in a row. “So the other cast and senior production team members will be staying in these cottages,” Olivia said, then pointed out the opposite window. “And that’s where you and Emmett will be staying.”
That was not a cottage.
The beautiful lakeside home was no more a cabin than she was a movie set intern. It was a home, and for the next three days, she’d be all alone in it. It was perfect. By the time everyone else arrived, she’d have her head on straight and her first week’s lines memorized.
She gazed up at the modern, spacious house with the large wrap-around deck and smiled to herself.
This is what she needed. Work and solitude.
She murmured her thanks as the other woman led her inside, handing over a key before pointing out the kitchen and the bedrooms upstairs.
“All the fireplaces are natural gas, and they give off a good amount of heat. We’re heading into spring now, but it’s still quite cool at night.” Olivia led her back onto the open landing, overlooking the great room below. “And your exercise room is set up downstairs. I’ll show you that.”
Her contract stipulated a workout room, set up just so. It felt a bit prima donna, but the reality was that if she didn’t burn eight hundred calories a day, she gained weight. There was no diet in the world she could stick to for longer than two weeks—and that was only when the carrot at the end of the stick was pretty damn big. Like the Oscars.
Which you haven’t been nominated for in years. She’d only managed one nomination, ten years earlier for best supporting actress. Since then she’d done everything right—time on Broadway, which she’d loved, and taken projects that stretched her in a million directions. None of them had resonated with the Academy.
At least her agent had a nose for good co-stars, which meant that the projects always did well. Like Joshua Pearce, best known for being hot and starring in raunchy comedies, who’d signed on to play a complete asshole here in Unexpected. Everyone in the film had a stake in making this one good. Take-their-breath-away good, get-noticed-and-boosted-to-the-next-level good.
Wipe-away-the-stress-of-being-one-missed-contract-away-from-nobody kind of good.
“Everything should be as you expect it,” Olivia said softly, breaking into Holly’s thoughts.
“Thank you,” she said with a smile. Always with a smile, even when tired. Always with her hair brushed smooth and lip gloss firmly in place. Preferably with sunglasses on. Hope Creswell was cool as a cucumber and slightly aloof. She didn’t spend a second worrying about her career being two missteps away from over.
But as soon as Olivia left, promising she was just a phone call away if Hope needed anything, the movie star went away for the night and Holly pulled out her running gear. Sweatpants, sports bra, t-shirt. Hair up in a messy ponytail. There was nothing cool or calm about Holly Cresinski. She worried and ran, and ran and worried. Every night, for at least an hour, no excuses and no exceptions.
Because people were counting on her. Emmett and his baby-to-be. Her agent, manager, publicist…although they’d all find other clients. But still. And her mother.
The woman child at age fifty. Maybe because she’d been a child herself when she had Holly, or maybe because she’d never gotten comfortable in that role of mother and adult woman.
Holly had been supporting them both since her early teens. At least now they didn’t need to live in the same house, not that Maggie Cresinski respected property boundaries.
Her therapist would say this kind of dwelling was unhealthy. Is she here? Is this an immediate problem? Is there anything you want to do about this? No, no, and no. Holly increased the speed on the treadmill.
An hour later she dragged herself upstairs to the master bedroom, turned on the shower in the attached bathroom, and waited for the room to fill with steam.
And waited.
She stuck her hand in the water, cursing at the ice cold droplets hitting her skin.
Downstairs, she flipped open the information binder and picked up the phone to call Olivia, but her gaze fell on the name at the top of the page. Ryan Howard, property support. Letting out a deep breath, she typed in his phone number.
Busy signal.
She tapped her finger on the numbers on the page. She could call Olivia. Wait, and try this Ryan guy again. Or she could just walk up the lane and knock on his door.
It was just getting dark outside—not too late. And she needed hot water.
Grabbing a sweatshirt from her bags, still piled in the living room, she headed outside, not bothering to lock the door behind her.
The farmhouse at the top of the road was lit up, and through the big window at the back of the house she could see a man moving around the kitchen. She climbed the three steps to the small deck attached to that part of the house and knocked on the door.
A child of maybe seven or eight answered, and before he could say anything, he was joined by two others, one smaller, one bigger. Two boys and a little girl.
From behind them,
a man bellowed. “What did I tell you guys about just opening the door? You can’t do that!”
The tallest kid shrugged at her before stepping out of the way, making room at the door for a tall Viking of a man. Big, burly, and, as promised by Olivia, a little gruff. “Can I help you?”
He couldn’t possibly mean it less. He said it because that’s what you say when someone comes to your door, but she’d obviously caught him in the middle of something, and this had been a mistake.
Except she didn’t have any hot water.
Her hair wasn’t brushed and she wasn’t wearing any lip gloss, but she put on her best Hope smile anyway and tipped her head to side. “Are you Ryan Howard?” When he nodded, she steamed ahead. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m staying in the house down at the lake—”
“That’s my Grandma’s house,” the little girl piped up from where she was twirling around her father’s leg.
Holly grinned at her, sensing a possible ally. “Well, it’s a beautiful house. But there isn’t any hot water, and that might be because the cast isn’t arriving until Sunday. I’m a few days early.”
“Ah. Okay.” The back-lit giant turned, urging his crew of mini-Vikings to return to the table.
Holly stood in the doorway, unsure if she had an invitation to enter the home or not. After a moment, she decided to take the chance and stepped inside, closing the door behind her.
“Olivia said if we had any problems, we could ask you…”
He stood at the stove, his back to her. “I just need to finish dinner,” he tossed over his shoulder. “We’ll all walk down in ten minutes or so, if that’s okay? It’s just the hot water heater that needs to be turned on.”
“Oh.” Maybe she should have thought of that before coming up here, although she didn’t have the faintest clue where she’d find that. “Is it something I can do myself? Is that in the bathroom?”
He froze, the extra-wide shoulders stiffening momentarily before he turned off the stove and set the spoon he’d been holding on the well-used stovetop.
“Look, miss…” He turned and Holly got her first good look at him. His solid jaw was covered in a few days growth of stubble, and his light brown hair had a decidedly unfashionable curl at the ends, but the sum total of his parts was unexpectedly attractive. Actually, each of his individual parts were appealing, too, but that still didn’t explain her immediate attraction. She worked with good-looking men every day.
But this wasn’t about seeing a good-looking man. This was about seeing one doing something as mundane as cooking his kids dinner. He’s like the town, she thought to herself. Real and normal and unlike anything she’d ever had before. And as strange as it seemed to describe such a masculine man as cute, that’s exactly what she thought. So cute.
He gave her a pained look which promised that her fascination with him was most definitely not returned. “It’s not in the bathroom. It’s in the furnace room.”
Holly tried like hell to keep the stupid look off her face, but on this front, she was stupid. “Furnace room?”
He just looked at her, like he was waiting for her to realize this was beyond her, but if it was just the water heater that needed to be turned on, surely she could do that.
“Let’s try this again.” She flashed another smile, because that always worked. “Is this something I can do myself?”
He looked like he desperately wanted to say no, but maybe he equally didn’t want to come down to the house, because after a long beat, he nodded. “Sure, yeah.”
“I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
He let out a sigh. “No, I need to get used to stuff like this. I guess when those fancy Hollywood types get here, this won’t be anything compared to the drama they’ll bring with them.”
Those fancy Hollywood types? “Uhhh…” Holly nodded. What else was there to do? “Right. This is pretty straightforward, so I can do it. If you could just give me some instructions, maybe?”
“Yep. Hang on a second.” He pointed at the little girl, who’d hopped out of her chair again and was spinning in circles in the open space between the two grown-ups. “Table, Maya.”
Maya laughed as she scampered into her chair, but quieted down as her father set a bowl of macaroni and cheese in front of her. Two more bowls, with larger portions, were set in front of her brothers, and then the mountain man with the curly hair and perma-scowl grabbed a pad of paper off the fridge and sketched something out really quickly.
He handed over the paper, and pointed at it with his pen. “The furnace room is in the basement, through the door beside the laundry.” She’d seen that; it was across from the workout room. “There are two units. The square one is the furnace. The round one beside it, here, that’s the water heater. There’s a knob on it. Turn it to the left. Call me if you have any trouble.”
About that. “I tried to call before I walked over, but the line was busy.”
He swore under his breath and stomped out of the room, returning shortly with a handheld phone. He pointed it at the little girl, who didn’t seem cowed in the least. “No phones. Not a toy.”
“Sorwee, Daddy,” she said in an exaggerated little girl pout.
“Maya.”
“Daddy.”
The entire family paused for a second before cracking up, and Holly covered her mouth with her hand, trying in vain to hide her own amusement.
“Seriously, kid, people need to get in touch with me now. I’m sure those movie stars won’t be as understanding as…” He trailed off and looked in Holly’s direction. “Sorry, what did you say your name was?”
There was only one answer here. Hope Creswell, one of those awful Hollywood types. Sorry to be a bother. But she couldn’t bring herself to be that person tonight. “Holly. Holly Cresinski. And I’m sure everyone on the film shoot will be very understanding that we’re all crowding into your lives for a few months, really. They’re not so bad, those movie stars.”
“Ryan Howard.” He extended his hand, and she took it, enjoying the way he gripped her fingers, his skin warm and dry and rough against hers. He squeezed her hand more than people usually did, and she felt the stern shake all the way up her arm.
Who knew she’d been missing an honest handshake in her life?
He let go and crossed his arms over his broad chest. She looked up at him—way up. She was average height for a woman, and he still towered over her. In his plaid shirt shoved up to his elbows and his faded jeans, he looked every inch the rustic lumberjack she thought might live here—except for the cute part. That was unexpected.
And inconvenient, because this particular lumberjack had a family. She needed a clone of him back in Los Angeles, although she suspected that maybe something would get lost in translation.
“Thanks for the instructions. I’ll call if I have any questions.” She waved the paper in the air as she blindly reached for the door behind her.
He nodded, his face showing none of the distraction that rioted through her midsection. Of course not. She was a random nobody, sweating and flustered, who’d showed up in the middle of a late dinner demanding help.
But she could help herself, armed with the piece of paper in her hand. It was a little thing, but was hers.
He grabbed the door as she swung it open, closing it quietly behind her as she headed back into the night.
Holly Cresinski, maybe you should pretend to be yourself more often.
— THREE —
IT turned out the celebrities staying down the road from Ryan’s house were pretty easy guests, because they were never home.
Olivia had promised being the property manager would be a relatively easy task, and other than the young intern coming to complain about the hot water heater before everyone else arrived, he hadn’t had any other maintenance calls. So maybe his friend was right.
Everyone else in town was fascinated by the movie being made in their backyard. On the first day of filming, the cast and crew had finished early and thrown a barbecue for
the community, but Ryan hadn’t bothered to go. None of his kids were interested and it had been a school night. And even with the distraction of famous people, there would be the inevitable looks of concern and murmurs of so-called helpful advice.
But even if he didn’t have to run the gauntlet of well-meaning intervention, he still wouldn’t be interested in the fantasyland extravagance of making a movie. The amount of money they were paying his in-laws for the cottage rentals alone was crazy. What a complete waste.
So when his first counselling appointment in three months started with small talk about the filming, which had been under way for a week, he was a bit harsh.
Maybe more than a bit.
“So you’re not a fan,” Gayle, the counsellor, said drily.
“Sorry,” Ryan said, then cleared his throat. “I’ll be happier when they’re gone, that’s all.”
“Even though the movie has brought you a bit of work?”
After a lengthy back-and-forth, Lynn’s life insurance policy had paid out, and he lived mortgage-free in the home Lynn had grown up, that his in-laws had moved out of when they built the house at the other end of the lane. For the immediate future, he didn’t need to work more than his very part-time reserve Army schedule required. “If I wanted to work more, I’d go back to being a paramedic.”
“And you don’t want to do that?” She looked at him gently. She had a way of listening that made these sessions tolerable. Ryan wouldn’t go so far as to say he liked Gayle, but she was a good counsellor—better than the first one they’d tried as a family.
He’d do anything to protect his kids—from invasive questions for which they didn’t have answers, for example, or other risks. Harder to pin down ones, like leaving them with other people, even if that wasn’t rational, because he was okay with them going to school or being watched by Olivia or his other friend Dani for a few hours.
But he still couldn’t leave them overnight, with anyone. Not their grandparents, not any of his well-meaning friends. Definitely not a hired babysitter or nanny. “I’m happy being a full-time dad right now.”