Within This Frame

by Zart, Lindy

  “It is stupid. Why do you care what any of them think or say anyway? It isn’t like the cast of ‘Easier Said’ has been living perfect lives these past ten years. Judith Fletcher is so focused on her career that she’s missing out on actually living. She works, that’s all she does. Have you seen pictures of her? I can’t recall the last picture I’ve seen of her with an actual smile on her face. She isn’t happy.”

  She faced him.

  He ticked off fingers as he spoke. “Benton Jamison is an alcoholic and recently married his fourth wife, who happens to be thirty years younger than him. Tabitha Volden can’t even get a job anywhere because she’s a selfish, demanding bitch who thinks she has way more talent than she does. Sure, she looks good, but that’s the only thing she has going for her. Steven Stephens—well, he’s actually doing well. He’s one of the main characters in a drama that’s getting a lot of notice. Herman Lyle moved to Europe and no one’s seen or heard from him in years, so I can’t say how he’s doing.”

  Lance paused, a sardonic light entering his eyes. “And then we have Lance Denton. He got in so much trouble during his early twenties that he’s a liability and pretty much no one will touch him. The few shows he did get hired for never had the greatest reviews. Apparently he was only good at one role, with one co-star.”

  Maggie’s stomach dropped.

  “He went through women like they were candy, and when he did finally settle down, the marriage lasted all of three years. He was forced to earn money on his looks, not talent, which, as so many magazines deemed, he does not have.”

  “That’s not true,” she rasped. “You’re an exceptional actor, Lance. You just—you stopped trying.”

  A faint smile tipped one corner of his mouth. “I was only at my best with you.”

  She swallowed. Her heart pounded, fast and hard.

  “You shouldn’t be doing this for anyone but you.” He leaned his face down until he was at eyelevel with her, blue gems simultaneously blinding and transfixing her. “You always gave everyone else too much of you and didn’t leave enough of yourself for you.”

  Lance showed her his profile, his jaw tight. “It shouldn’t matter what everyone else thinks. When ‘Easier Said’ ran, you wanted to please them all, the whole world, me, and look where it got you.” He looked at her, the conviction in his eyes strong enough to force her back a step. “Do it for you. Do everything for you. If you don’t, none of it means anything, all right?”

  “Did you . . .” Maggie paused, eyebrows furrowing. “Did you have to do something for you?”

  The smile grew, tipped his eyes in sadness. Lance trailed an index finger down the side of her face, a caress that barely touched her skin but was felt all the way into her bones. “I did. I had to learn to like myself, flaws and all.” He straightened, took a step toward the deck, and the moment was gone. Maggie still felt it, though, living through her. “I’m starving. What did you pick out?”

  Maggie picked up the mug of cooling coffee and followed him into the kitchen. Her throat felt like sandpaper and when she spoke, her voice came off gruff. “Some fish thing.”

  Lance glanced over his shoulder at her, a grin in place. “Some fish thing? Sounds delicious.”

  She set the mug on the counter. Maggie could continue to push him away, or she could enjoy Lance’s company while she had the chance. Keeping up her emotional walls was draining, and she didn’t want to do it anymore. She wanted to know the older Lance. He was open in a way the younger one hadn’t been permitted.

  Maggie smiled, her chest tight, but the rest of her was light with relief. “It sounds about as delicious as every other thing in the cookbook.”

  “Be adventurous.”

  “Trust me, I am.” It wasn’t that Maggie didn’t like healthy food—she ate various fruits and vegetables—but she liked basic, simple meals. The stuff listed in the cookbook was beyond her. If she couldn’t pronounce something, she wasn’t sure she should be eating it.

  After checking the recipe page of the cookbook Maggie left open, Lance rummaged through the white cupboards, finding garlic and lemon seasoning in the pantry. He raised them up for her inspection and Maggie gave him a thumbs-up sign. She got the thawed fish from the refrigerator and retrieved a bag of brown rice. Lance brushed by, setting her skin on fire, and grabbed two tomatoes from the bowl of real vegetables and fruit on the counter that was in place of the fake ones previously there.

  “We need garlic, lemon juice, fresh parsley, olive oil, and salt and pepper for the salad. Can you find all that?”

  “I would hope so, it’s my kitchen.”

  He pointed a tomato at her. “No lip.”

  Maggie crinkled up her nose at him and collected the items he’d called off.

  “You know what else we need?” he said, using a can opener on chickpeas.

  “What?”

  “Music.” Lance looked up. “Music is a must for cooking.”

  Turning on the small, vintage radio near the refrigerator as a Sara Bareilles song came on, Maggie remarked, “Remember how bad of a cook you used to be? You’ve improved.” He’d wowed her taste buds a few days ago with honey garlic chicken, forcing her to grudgingly compliment him.

  “I remember,” he commented, giving her a look. “I’ve had a lot of years of practice to make up for the chicken and broccoli debacle. I made most of the meals when . . . when I was home with Olivia and Ivy.”

  A dark cloud washed the joy from Lance’s eyes and he turned away. Olivia was his ex-wife and Ivy was their baby. Maggie wondered why he was working in another state instead of spending as much time as he could with his daughter, but it wasn’t her place to ask. He had to miss her, and maybe he even missed his ex-wife. She directed her attention to the tomatoes, slicing them up to dump in a medium-sized bowl.

  Lance handed her a red onion and she went to work on that, eyes stinging and tears streaming down her face. The onion was potent, taking over her senses to the point that that was all she smelled. Maggie sniffled, nose running, as she cut the vegetable as quickly as she could.

  “Don’t cry,” Lance said from behind, his body close enough that she felt the warmth of it against her backside. “It’ll make you seem clingy and we can’t have that.”

  Maggie partially turned and tossed an onion chunk at him, laughing when it hit his chin. Lance blinked, and then a mischievous glint entered his eyes and he shoved a hand into the can of garbanzo beans and flung a handful at her. They rained on her like pellets, hitting her hair, face, and front. Maggie stood frozen, mouth open.

  When the sound of Lance’s laughter filled the area, loud and warm, determination sparked through her, heating her blood. Maggie went on a fruit and vegetable rampage, throwing whatever was accessible at him. Lance ducked, arms raised to block his head, and then he found his own edible ammunition.

  “You throw like a girl,” she taunted, her feet skating along various food matter that covered the floor.

  “Good. Girls throw better than boys.”

  Maggie paused at that, and Lance took advantage of her momentary befuddlement to grab her around the waist, pull the top of her shirt away from her body, and drop tomatoes down the front of it. She shrieked, reaching for the bowl of chopped onions as she clung to him, their feet imbalanced on the slippery floor. They swayed back and forth as Maggie rubbed the onions onto his cheek, eyes tearing up at the close proximity to the strong-smelling vegetable. Lance’s blue eyes filled as he stared at her, chunks of onion hanging from his face.

  “Don’t cry, Lance,” she teased, tossing his words back at him with what she knew to be a devilish smile on her face. “We had a good run, but now it’s time to move on. Wouldn’t want to seem clingy, would we?”

  His eyes narrowed even as a sexy grin claimed his mouth. With his gaze locked on hers, he bit his lower lip and grazed his upper teeth along its fullness. Maggie fought to breathe, fingers digging into his biceps. Aware that his hands held her waist, his body inches from hers, she closed her eyes
and counted to herself, trying to steady her crazy pulse.

  “Not even a week,” he said with derision, dropping his hands and moving away.

  Maggie opened her eyes to find him studying her.

  “Not even a week around you and it’s like no time at all has passed.”

  She crossed her arms. Maggie felt it too—that unquestionable force that had her gravitating toward a person that should have remained a part of her history, not standing in her kitchen in the present.

  “I wonder why that is.”

  Lance’s mouth quirked as he looked her over. “I have phenomenal sex appeal.”

  Face on fire, she averted her gaze to her chest, dismayed to find gobs of mashed tomatoes coating the tops of her breasts and shirt. “We should probably start over on the salad.”

  Smirking as he walked past, Lance said, “Only if there isn’t a chance of a rematch.”

  “You started it,” she lied.

  A lone chickpea flew through the air to smack her shoulder. “I did not, and you know it. Chickpea and tomato salad, round two, here we come,” he muttered, grabbing another tomato.

  Frowning at the remains of the onion lying on the counter, Maggie grabbed the knife and chopped up the rest of it.

  “My face is burning,” Lance commented a few minutes later, rubbing his cheek against his shoulder as he worked.

  So was hers, but not because an onion had been mashed against it. It was the guy in the room with her—the sound of his voice, the way he looked at her, the power he exuded merely by being. Even as Maggie smiled at him, she knew she was in trouble.

  LANCE—1996

  SINCE THE NIGHT of his embarrassing erection and the viewing of ‘Nightmare on Elm Street’ some months back, he and Maggie had fallen into a friendly, if somewhat reserved, association. Lance fought it at first, but it soon became clear that Maggie would not be anything other than a friend to him. She distanced herself, having excuses any time he asked her to do something, and he finally allowed it. He found a diversion in the form of Anne York, an eighteen-year-old model who was visiting relatives in Virginia for the fall.

  ‘Easier Said’ debuted in August and ratings for the show were promising. The show was picked up by a prominent network and if ratings continued to climb, a second season was guaranteed. It was nearing the middle of October and things were looking good for the cast and crew of the show.

  Grin in place, Lance climbed the stairs to reach the bedroom used as Cecilia’s in the show, knowing Maggie was inside. He knocked on the door, and at the sound of her voice, opened it and entered the girlish space. The interior of it was all wrong for Maggie—frills and lace and colors of cream and white. It worked for Cecilia, but it was too soft for the girl who played her.

  Maggie fiddled with her hair as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. She scowled and dropped her hands, turning to face him. “I hate wavy hair,” she mumbled.

  Over the months he’d known her, she’d transformed from a soft, awkward girl into a slim, graceful young woman. She’d had her sixteenth birthday, bringing her to the same age as him for a brief three weeks before he had his own and was once again a year older than Maggie. She didn’t have her driver’s license yet, waiting to take the test when she was home again.

  Lance had given her an ‘M’ keychain in pink sparkles for when she passed her driver’s test and got her first set of car keys. Maggie had given him a shirt that said ‘Legend Status’.

  “I like your hair.”

  Maggie shot him a look full of doubt, and he shrugged.

  “What’s up?” She turned to stack what looked like hundreds of pieces of papers in order. They were show scripts, he knew.

  Lance sprawled out his long body on the bed and let his head drop back as he closed his eyes. In spite of his speeding pulse, he kept his tone neutral as he said, “Herman insists we do the kissing scene before the end of the week.”

  When there was no response, he lifted his head and opened one eye. Maggie had gone pale, throat bobbing as she tried to swallow. She shifted her eyes to him and away, skin flushing. Lance looked her over. The peach and white dress she wore complemented her coloring. She was radiant, like a damn sunshine walking around.

  He got to his feet, resentful that he still wanted her, still thought of her more times than he should. He’d been looking forward to the kissing scene way too much since he found out about it a month ago. The scene was part of a New Year’s Eve special, scheduled to air Christmas week.

  Anne was tall and slender with golden skin, emerald green eyes, and wavy blond hair that ended at the small of her back. She was sexy and sensual. Perfect. She was a model, for crying out loud. And she didn’t make his heart pound or his palms go sweaty like Maggie. It was incomprehensible.

  “It’s Thursday,” she said.

  “It sure is,” Lance said cheerfully. “Look at you, remembering your days of the week.”

  Maggie wadded up a piece of paper and chucked it at him. It hit his shoulder and fell to the floor.

  “Why are you always throwing stuff at me?”

  She crossed her arms. “Name the last thing I threw at you.”

  “You.”

  Maggie opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She shook her head as soft laughter fell from her lips. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Don’t say words I don’t understand.”

  She narrowed her eyes and pointed a finger at his face. “Don’t act dumb when you aren’t.”

  Shrugging, Lance touched a lacy curtain and gave her a slanted look. “We can practice, if you need it.”

  “If . . . I . . . need . . . it,” she repeated slowly.

  He nodded. “It’s been a while since we kissed. I’m sure you’re rusty. Don’t worry, I’ve been working my lip muscles on a daily basis.”

  “Kissing people’s asses?” she inquired politely. “Maybe talking out of yours?”

  Lance glared at her. “You know I only kiss the asses I want to—and they’re all female.”

  Maggie lifted one shoulder and averted her face as she said, “Just because I haven’t kissed you in months doesn’t mean I haven’t kissed anyone.”

  Lance went motionless, his expression devoid of emotion. Inside, though, his blood blazed with jealousy, his heart thundering with it. He felt cold and hot and sick and furious, all from the thought of another guy’s lips on hers. Maggie didn’t notice, thankfully, turning her back on him as his hands curled into tight fists.

  “When does he want us to do the scene?”

  “Now,” he bit out.

  She looked at him, one eyebrow lifted at his harsh tone, and nodded. “Okay. I’ll be ready in two minutes.”

  Lance couldn’t think of any logical reason to hang around, and with a bitter taste in his mouth, he swung toward the door. The door shut with satisfactory brute force, and with evil intent in his blue eyes, Lance headed down the carpeted stairs.

  He grabbed a bottle of water from an assistant, noted the cute body and features, a smile creeping over his face when he winked and she turned a brilliant shade of red. Why the hell didn’t Maggie Smiley fawn over him like all the other women? Shrugging his shoulders in irritation, Lance met up with the first group of guys he found. Most were stagehands, but there were a few show extras.

  “Hey,” Lance said, leaning close. “You guys know my co-host, Maggie Smiley?”

  The six men went quiet, all shifting their eyes and feet. It was obvious they did, but they were leery of Lance. He didn’t blame them. He was moody—one minute friendly and the next vicious.

  A cautious, yet brave one asked, “Yeah, what about her?”

  His name was Jeff Mitchell. He was one of the stagehands, possibly in his early twenties, and decent enough looking. He wanted to professionally act, but was working for now until he got a permanent gig. Lance knew all that because Jeff had tried out for the role of Derek Ryan. He kept tabs on competition. Lance wondered if he was the guy who’d placed his filthy mouth on Maggie’s.
Too old for Maggie, he decided.

  Feigning nonchalance, Lance leaned against the kitchen wall, directing his gaze toward the windows that showed a backyard of trees. “Well,” he began slowly. Acting hesitant, he met Jeff’s brown eyes. “I shouldn’t say anything, but . . .”

  All eyes were on him, breaths held in anticipation. Lance was younger than every one of them, and yet, because of his status as an actor on the show, they treated him with deference.

  “We’re supposed to do this kissing scene today—”

  A few snickers sounded, even more faces showed glimpses of envy. Lance paused at that, wondering if Maggie was just as appealing to other guys as she was to him. The thought made him want to tear each and every one of their heads from their bodies so they were unable to look at her ever again. He knew it wasn’t rational, and swallowing thickly, he put an awkward smile upon his lips and continued the charade.

  “I was told Maggie has horrible breath—an onion, garlic mixture of rancidness. Any of you able to confirm that?” Lance wasn’t completely sure what he was going to do with the news if one of those guys had kissed Maggie, but he had to know. And if none had, his words would assuredly keep it that way.

  Jeff opened his mouth, and Lance went tense, staring at him with all the deadly calmness of a snake before it struck its victim with its poisonous bite, but then Jeff’s eyes shifted away from his face to beyond him. Even though he hadn’t done a damn thing wrong, Jeff’s face went red and he took a step back.

  Lance briefly closed his eyes before turning around, having a good idea who stood behind him.

  Maggie glared at him, her face pinched like she’d unknowingly bitten into a lemon—stunned, horrified, and disgusted.

  “I knew you were behind me,” he lied.

  Her eyes narrowed.

  “It was a joke. Really.”

  When she inhaled a sharp breath, but remained mute, Lance shrugged. “I’m sorry?”

  She spun on her heel and stomped away. Lance watched her go, finding it hard to breathe normal. He kept his eyes on her until she disappeared from view, lost behind the bodies that were required to properly put a television show together. Then he looked at the half dozen guys near him. One shook his head, another smirked. They quickly departed, like Lance was a disease they didn’t want to catch.