by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair
“Thank you.” Ivy leaned in and kissed him, snuggling comfortably into his strong arms. It would be hard for her not to want to rush into marrying him, but she knew they both needed the time. “I also think we need a while to figure out how all this is going to work.”
“As long as I’m with you, I think it’s going to work out just fine. My grandmother said we were meant to be together, and I believe her. I wouldn’t have hung my neck out there like that if I didn’t.”
“So, the show didn’t fly you out here?”
“No, I came on my own but didn’t know how to find you. I called your phone, but Malcolm answered.”
“Stop right there,” Ivy said. Her mind was still whirling with everything that had just happened, but at least some of the puzzle pieces were fitting together. This was no stunt organized by the show for good ratings. This was the carefully orchestrated romantic interference of her best friend.
When she turned to look backstage, she spied a smug-looking Malcolm waiting for them. She took Blake’s hand and led him over to where Malcolm was standing. “Malcolm . . .” she said in a warning tone.
He immediately threw his hands up. “I am only partially responsible for all of that. I just got him on set. Okay, well, I got him on set and I got everything okayed by the show’s producers. And I gave him the idea. But that’s it.”
Somehow she doubted that, but she was incredibly grateful for his romantic interference.
Ivy wrapped her arms around Blake’s waist, looking up at him with a smile curling her lips. They were in love and getting married. That decided, there were still a million variables to figure out. Where would they live? What would they do? How would they make this work? “So now what?” she asked.
“Well, you still need a couple of tracks for your new album, right?”
Ivy frowned in confusion. “Yes.” How did that relate to anything?
Blake looked down at her, his blue eyes crinkled with mischievousness. “Then you’d better take me back to your house so I can help inspire some brand-new songs.”
Pepper has no interest in Grant Chamberlain . . .until she accidentally wins him at a school auction and finds the mega-hot firefighter impossible to ignore.
Feeding the Fire
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About the Author
Andrea Laurence is an award-winning contemporary author who has been a lover of books and writing stories since she learned to read. She always dreamed of seeing her work in print and is thrilled to be able to share her books with the world. A dedicated West Coast girl transplanted into the Deep South, she’s working on her own “happily ever after” with her boyfriend and five fur-babies. You can contact Andrea at her website: AndreaLaurence.com.
FOR MORE ON THIS AUTHOR: authors.simonandschuster.com/Andrea-Laurence
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To Tom Auclair, with love
Acknowledgments
At Simon & Schuster/Pocket Star Books . . . Huge thanks to Abby Zidle, my editor, for your expertise, wit, willingness to talk about horses ad nauseam, and for making my dream come true. Thanks to everyone at Pocket Star who chaperoned my book on its way to the world.
At Prospect Literary . . . Thank you to Emily Sylvan Kim, for your superb guidance during my maiden literary voyage.
In my writing life . . . Thank you to RITA-nominee Joanne Kennedy for your writing wisdom, for talking me down off several ledges, and for your abiding friendship. To the Firebirds, who have flown with me and kept this necessarily solitary task from feeling solitary. To Belinda, my first reader. To my critiquers: Elizabeth Cappon, Hal Katkov, James Powell, and Tom Auclair, for your insights. To Jean Ditslear, for my brand, website, and business cards. To the Colorado Romance Writers for their support. To the Romance Writers of America, for the Golden Heart contest. To Nikki Enlow, my first fan.
In my professional coming-of-age life . . . Thank you to Susan Elizabeth Phillips for writing books that let me dare to think I could be a novelist, for your humor and kindness, and for letting me stalk you. To the lovely, witty Kristan Higgins, for your generosity, goodwill, good advice, and great books.
In my horse life . . . Thank you to my friends at Singletree Farm and Legacy Valley Farm, especially Gillian, Suzanne, Helen, Hilary, and Reed. To my riding instructors, especially Karen Rohlf, Carol Patty, and Kathryn Meistrell. To all the horses I’ve ridden. To Mary Jo Nolan, for giving me Brooke. To Brooke (a.k.a. Finishing Touch), my real-life Edelweiss, for keeping me company while I wrote in your stall, giving me joy and teaching me to be a better person.
In my personal life . . . Thank you to Kristen Auclair, for telling me I inspired you to write. To Randy and the Key West gang—for tolerating my babbling when I learned of my book contract. To my book club, for always asking how things were going. To my former colleagues at Jeppesen (Kelly Birchby, I’m looking at you) for nodding politely when I’d go on. To Bouty, Darcy, Elizabeth, Hal, Josephine, Lori, Toni Marie, and Wendy—for your endless encouragement. To my sister Bridget, for being proud of me. To all my family and friends—I am grateful for you and lucky you’re in my life.
To the two males I live with—thank you Galley, for keeping my feet warm as I write, and to Tom, for believing in me, loving me . . . and not minding the messy house.
And thank you to Maxine and Joe Stiglich. Even though you’re not here to see this, you made it possible.
1
Amanda hesitated before picking up the Emmy. But starting today, her life would be intertwined with Grady Brunswick’s, so what was the harm? Besides, if he didn’t want people touching the thing, he should lock it up. After all, her clients loved to see her grand prix jumping trophies. What did he expect with a freaking Emmy?
She held the golden lady while standing in a round room in the actor’s gargantuan log home in Aspen. The room interrupted a hallway—on a blueprint it would strongly resemble a chubby piglet being swallowed by a python. Curving blond-wood walls cradled glass shelves that held glittering trophies. Late-morning May sun blasted the room through a skylight. The air smelled vaguely of Windex.
Amanda hadn’t expected the thing to be so heavy. She ran a forefinger over letters engraved on cool metal and wondered if an Olympic medal would shine like this, if the gold would feel like this. She hoped to find out someday.
“Don’t tell me I missed the speech!”
Grady Brunswick’s familiar, sonorous, decidedly masculine voice was behind her. The mere sound of it made women across the globe collectively tingle, and she was hearing it firsthand, not in surround sound at a multiplex.
She whirled and almost dropped the figure. Eyes wide, mouth open, she was paralyzed and mute.
The in-person Grady Brunswick was both taller and better looking than the movie Grady Brunswick. And the movie Grady Brunswick was extraordinarily good-looking. He leaned his lanky six-two frame against the doorjamb—arms crossed, relaxed as anything—and looked casually elegant in a light-blue shirt and jeans. The same sunbeam that lit the trophies gleamed on his thick, dark-brown hair. Did he pay it to shine on him? There was no hint of the alcoholic, cocaine-snorting, thirty-five-year-old womanizer the tabloids loved.
He continued, looking amused. “Because usually people thank the academy and say the cast was like family. Which was true on that show”—he nodded toward the Emmy—“if by family you mean the Mansons.” And he grinned, causing a shimmer of warmth in her belly.
Just then, an eleven-year-old girl with scrambling, coltish legs, a dark ponytail, and squeaking sneakers burst into the room. She aimed an absurdly large water gun at Amanda, grinned . . . and fired.
A fat rope of icy water slammed into Amanda’s breastbone and drenched her face, hair, arms, and shirt.
With a gasp, she dropped the statuette.
On her foot.
Through a massive act of self-discipline, she kept quiet. The statuette did not. As the base st
ruck the gleaming wood floor, the surprisingly loud thud reverberated through the room.
Amanda watched as the award bounced into a crazy triple backflip. The miniature woman released the atom she had been holding aloft for God only knew how long. The atom celebrated its freedom by rolling in slow motion across the room, clunking along the wood floor, stopping only when it met Grady Brunswick’s expensively loafered foot. He looked at it with mild interest.
Amanda felt her mouth gape open and shut, not unlike a trout’s.
She had broken Grady Brunswick’s Emmy.
The girl, who Amanda surmised must be his oldest daughter, stared at her.
“Wow,” the girl said. “You’re in deep shit.”
Amanda’s voice sprang into action. “Me? You shouldn’t have been—” Wow. She was thirty-two, but had just lowered herself to the level of a sixth grader, and in front of her new movie-star boss.
Grady said, “Solstice. Watch the language.”
“Whatever, Dad.”
“Tell Jacqueline what happened so she can have it cleaned up.”
Solstice shot her father a look, hissed dismissively, then stomped across the small round room and down the hallway opposite Grady.
“At least I didn’t bust your stupid Emmy!” she called.
Adrenaline whooshed through Amanda and made her forget that her foot felt like the business end of a tiki torch. Where was the reprimand? If she had a daughter who had soaked a total stranger and then said something rude, Amanda would’ve come down like the Old Testament. Obviously Grady Brunswick was a celebrity daddy who thought his child shouldn’t be disciplined.
Great. Three months of this. Surely she could handle the darling for three lousy months. For now, though, she’d better make amends to her new boss, and quickly.
Then the pain roared back, hip-checking those thoughts out of her head and making her eyes water, but the movie star would never know because her face was dripping wet. She winced and squared her shoulders. “I’m sorry about the Emmy. I’ll pay for it. You can take it out of my salary.”
The action hero wrinkled his brow. “Don’t worry about it—I always suspected it was defective anyway. And you work for me? Did my manager hire you to align my cufflinks? Warm my socks? Polish my M&Ms?”
Amanda was having trouble remembering he was an indulgent, chronically entitled, obnoxious rich person because his charm had stepped in.
She almost smiled, but was too surprised. “I’m your new riding instructor.”
“Ah.” He looked at her, tilted his head, and narrowed his eyes. “Why don’t I find you a towel?” His voice was low and warm. Like heated molasses.
She shook her head. Droplets of water flew from her rapidly—and probably unattractively—curling brown hair.
“No! I’m fine. It was nothing.”
“No offense, but you look like . . . well . . . a muskrat. Sorry about that. She must’ve thought you were her sister.”
“The eight-year-old? Is she an Amazon?” Probably not the best thing to say, but hadn’t he just called her a muskrat?
He smiled, and even through the pain Amanda could see why the camera loved him. His gaze traveled down her body to her sandaled foot, and his eyebrows slammed together.
“You dropped that thing on your foot?”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s seven pounds! It’s like dropping a canned ham!”
“I’m fine, really.” She looked at her foot and saw that a lump the size and color of a cherry tomato had formed on her instep, along with a trickle of blood where the atom-toting woman had stabbed her. She bent to get the trophy.
“No need,” he said, and she straightened. “Here.” He took her elbow, nudging the gold atom so it rolled with a quiet rumble and clunked into the wall. “Let’s find you a seat. Besides,” he said as he looked around, “if Solstice comes back, we’re sitting ducks.”
Grady Brunswick was touching her elbow! Don’t be starstruck don’t be starstruck don’t be starstruck. She tried not to limp, but her foot was burning. Mmm, he smelled like clean laundry.
Her heel skidded on the wet floor and her upper arm pressed into his solid, warm side.
“Easy,” he said.
She could balance on two little stirrups when jumping a hot horse over a five-foot fence, but walking in a movie star’s mansion, she wobbled.
He led her to a small couch in a nearby guest bedroom.
“Put your foot up.” She did, holding her breath to ease the pain. “I’ll get Jacqueline.” He pronounced his assistant’s name in perfect French, then looked at Amanda. “I’m Grady, by the way.” He offered his hand. His grip was warm and solid. He was looking at her. Expectantly. “And you are?”
“Mortified. But my name’s Amanda Vogel.”
He smiled, tilted his head back for an instant and laughed. His eyes crinkled when he laughed. “Nice to meet you, Amanda Vogel. Be right back.” He took a second to dazzle her with a smile. Then long strides carried him out of sight.
Oh, God. He was going to fire her before she even started. She just had to pick up his Emmy and break it. This was the second-worst day of her life. “I can’t get fired,” she said to herself. “I can’t lose this job.” She wondered how much a new Emmy cost and where the hell she could find one. Then she thought of her minuscule checking-account balance and her foot seemed to throb harder. Apparently it understood economics.
Minutes later Grady returned with a bath towel, a glass of water, two ibuprofen tablets, a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dish towel, an antiseptic pad in foil packaging, a Band-Aid, and a person Amanda remembered was Jacqueline Heinrich.
A thoroughbred of a woman, Jacqueline had an aristocratic face with a smooth forehead that was currently furrowed. Her flawless skin was the color of coffee with cream, and her lilting French accent and honey-smooth voice both commanded attention and put listeners at ease. Amanda had liked and respected her during the initial interview several weeks ago, and had been on her best behavior in Jacqueline’s company since arriving at the estate fifteen minutes earlier.
Noting the pain-relieving accoutrements, Amanda said, “That’s not necessary. Really. I’m fine.”
“We imported you from Florida,” he said. “You’re too valuable to be limping around the place. Here.” He handed her the antiseptic pad, and she swabbed her wound. He gave her the Band-Aid, which she smoothed on. She took the pills and drank the entire glass of water. He gently draped the bag of frozen peas over her instep.
“Thank you.” Amanda squeezed water from her hair with the towel. “And I’m so sorry. I don’t usually—”
“My daughter shouldn’t have power-washed you.”
“Not that water gun in the house again!” Jacqueline said.
“She’s a good shot,” Amanda said, and blotted her face and arms.
Grady raised his eyebrows and nodded slightly. “Should be. She trained at Quantico.”
Amanda couldn’t help but smile.
“You got lost on your way from the bathroom?” Jacqueline asked Amanda.
Grady turned to Amanda. “Lots of people get lost here. There are probably a few still wandering around from last summer.”
“But Grady, that Emmy was for Brennan and Blake—,” Jacqueline started.
“Jacqueline, don’t worry about it. It’s insured for damage caused by Floridian riding instructors startled by water guns.” He smiled at Amanda and a few endorphins danced in her brain.
“Very well,” Jacqueline said, in a tone that said she was, indeed, going to worry about it, and Amanda would, too, if she had any sense.
Grady glanced at a watch worth as much as first prize in a major jumping competition. “I have a call. See you later,” he said to Jacqueline. He nodded at Amanda. “Welcome to Aspen Creek. See you ’round . . . Mortified.” He grinned, winked, and left.
Amanda felt like she was in the principal’s office, even though the principal was close to her age. Jacqueline regarded her frozen-vegetab
le-blanketed foot. “I suppose we can talk here for a time until your foot feels better. Now then, you will report to me. You are not to bother Mr. Brunswick—he chose Aspen because there are many celebrities here and the town is accustomed to them. If you have questions, you are to ask me. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Your contract begins today and ends Labor Day. I will gather the tax forms and bring them here. Do not get up.” Jacqueline rose. “And, please, be careful. That Emmy was his first major award.” Amanda let out a long sigh as she watched Jacqueline leave.
Ten minutes later, paperwork completed, Jacqueline escorted Amanda through the house. Carrying her damp dishtowel and bag of peas, Amanda limped through a maze of hallways and onto a vast patio of native red stone. She took in a pool, hot tub, waterfall, fire pit, outdoor kitchen, large dining table, and sturdy, expensive wood furniture with fat cushions arranged in several conversation clusters. Impressive, yes, but nothing compared to the view of the Elk Mountains in the distance.
Jacqueline spoke. “The property encompasses approximately one thousand acres. You are free to go anywhere on the estate. The house is off limits unless you are invited or escorted. Understood?”
“Absolutely,” Amanda said, trying to sound reliable. Like someone who wouldn’t drop Emmy awards. And would get daily invitations to the mansion for the rest of the summer.
While Amanda hobbled through the grand tour, Grady took a call with his publicists about the upcoming release of his latest film, Deadly Horizon, and absently doodled “muskrat” on an envelope. What had possessed him to call her a muskrat? Wasn’t he Mr. Charm? Then he leaned back in the ergonomic chair at his large antique desk, tossing and catching a baseball autographed by Babe Ruth.
He had said he wanted to be more “hands on” this summer. He wanted to conference in on meetings. Ha! He listened as his “people”—he hated that term—debated the merits of granting an interview to Rolling Stone. He hated this. He wanted to act and only act, to make movies, but this summer was going to not only be about Deadly Horizon, but would be his Summer of Broadening Horizons. He was going to learn other aspects of the business. He was going to become well-rounded and well-versed. He was going to be more like Tom Hanks or Robert Redford.