Show Time (Juniper Ridge Romantic Comedies Book 1)

by Tawna Fenske

  “I wouldn’t go that far,” I muse, even though it’s totally true. “We’re with your sister, after all.”

  Roughneck looks up and gives a soft “uff,” probably because I quit rubbing his belly. Or maybe he’s spotted the popcorn, because he looks at the bowl and licks his chops.

  “We’ve been reading Julia Child’s ‘Mastering the Art of French Cooking,’” I tell Dean as I bend down to feed my dog a small piece. He takes it gently, smacking his lips as he eyes the bowl hopefully. “Val brought it home from Paris.”

  “For Roughneck, I assume?”

  “Of course. He’s very into cheese these days.”

  “Atta boy.” Dean fiddles with the remote but doesn’t hit play. He’s looking at me oddly, like there’s something he wants to say.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “You seem nervous. I know the show’s been picked up, but a lot hinges on how the pilot does.”

  He grins and takes a sip of his beer. “Nah, I’m good. Gabe and Lauren seem happy with the footage, and Mari had that awesome idea to sprinkle those one-on-one interviews through each episode.”

  “I like Cooper’s concept, too,” I add. “The part about introducing community members with little flashbacks about where they’ve been and how they ended up here.”

  Dean’s eyes light up. This is his favorite topic of conversation. “Wait ‘til you see the promo spots Lana’s developing,” he says. “We’ll have viewers salivating to watch the first season.”

  “Sounds very unsanitary.” I stretch up to kiss him. “Also, I’m proud of you.”

  “Don’t give me credit,” he says. “It’s been a team effort.”

  “That’s what I mean. You stepped aside and gave them a chance to shine and do all the things they’ve wanted to do.”

  He grins. “It helps having a girlfriend who’s a good influence.”

  As opposed to a crazy one who currently resides in the County jail. Andrea’s lawyers fought like hell to get her out on bail, but there was too much evidence against her. It’s staggering how far she was willing to go to get Dean back. Even without my recording, authorities had plenty of proof to nail her.

  I bring none of that up now. I’m too excited about the pilot. “I’m ready anytime you want to hit play.”

  “Sounds good.” He picks up the remote but hesitates. “You good on popcorn?”

  I glance down at the bowl. “We’ve still got plenty.” As I fish my hand in for another helping, my fingers touch something plastic. Confused, I pull it out. It’s a key. A shiny one that looks brand new, and it’s tucked inside a baggie. I hold it up for Dean to see.

  “What is this?”

  He grins. “A key.”

  “I see that, Einstein. What’s it doing in our popcorn?”

  He slips it from my fingers and turns it around so it catches the light. “It’s a symbolic key to an imaginary cabin. Well, not imaginary. It’s just not chosen yet.”

  I study his face, not sure I’m understanding. “What do you mean symbolic?”

  “Well, I wanted to ask you to move in with me,” he says slowly. “But I thought it would be a dick move to just expect you to move into my place. Besides, I figured we’d want something bigger in case we want more dogs or kids or…well, I’m getting ahead of myself.”

  A hint of color rushes his cheeks, and I realize he’s nervous. I lace my fingers through his. “I’m diggin’ it,” I tell him. “Go on.”

  He grins as relief floods his features. “You know how we’re planning that whole section of cabins meant for couples?”

  “Of course.”

  “I figured we could choose one together. Pick a floor plan we both like, and we both get a say in things like paint colors and furniture.”

  “I love it.” Honestly, I love way more than the idea. I love Dean even more for thinking of it. I throw my arms around his neck, spilling a few pieces of popcorn on the floor. Roughneck hoovers it up it while I plant a big kiss on Dean. “I love everything about it.”

  He laughs and kisses me, dropping the key into the breast pocket of my shirt. “I’m glad. I’m in this for the long haul, Vanessa. I love you, and I want to build a future together.”

  “I love you, too.” And I love the idea of a future with Dean in it. A future with a house and pets and the whole ball of wax. “Thank you.”

  He laces his fingers through mine and squeezes. “Here’s to fresh starts.”

  As the house lights dim, the silver screen flickers to life. I snuggle up to Dean, ready for the show to start.

  Ready for the rest of my life.

  ***

  Thanks so much for reading this first installment of the Juniper Ridge rom-com series. Want more? Mari’s story is next, and it’s already up for pre-order. Keep reading for an exclusive sneak peek at Let it Show…

  Pre-order Let It Show:

  https://books2read.com/u/m0VkPJ

  Your exclusive sneak peek at Show Time

  CONFESSIONAL 611

  Judson, Marilyn (Psychologist: Juniper Ridge)

  Because this is what I’m wearing. I’m not debating you on this, Lauren. They’re not sweatpants, they’re casual separates. Leisure slacks.

  Look, I stopped having my wardrobe dictated to me the minute I left Hollywood. They’re comfortable. Like a soothing hug from a trusted friend. Like a soft, heartwarming touch from…oh, shut up.

  Fine, they’re sweatpants. Can we start now?

  I shouldn’t have stopped for tea.

  I was already running late for my coaching appointment with the new brewery manager, and I should have gone straight to the conference room.

  But there’s this great new earl grey in the café, and with seven coaching sessions scheduled back to back, my need for caffeine overrode my good judgment.

  The lodge is up straight ahead, so I kick up my pace to a run. The pencil anchoring my bun in place flips out and hits the snow on a bounce. I’ll grab it later, maybe shovel this path while I’m at it. My low-heeled pump slips on a patch of cinder-studded sidewalk ice, but I stay upright as I whirl through the side door and into the carpeted corridor.

  Pressing a hand to the wall, I pause to catch my breath. My fault for abandoning those twice-daily sessions with a personal trainer, though I don’t regret it. Not even a little.

  I start moving again, reminding myself to slow down and walk like a normal human. No, not normal. I know better than to use ableist language, even in my head.

  Squaring my shoulders, I bypass my office and aim for the conference room. The hall smells like Lana’s cinnamon candles and Dean’s burnt coffee and I gulp back a weird wave of complicated love for my family.

  Griffin Walsh is already in the conference room, callused hands folded on the table in front of him. He looks like he hasn’t shaved for a week, which is more appealing than it ought to be. His gaze lifts, and the gaslight blue of his eyes makes me trip over my feet.

  Catching myself on the table, I offer my most charming Hollywood smile. “Thank you for your patience.”

  See what I did there? Opening with gratitude instead of apology starts things on a positive note.

  Griffin just stares. “Does this mean we can cut it short by five minutes?” He glances at his watch. “I’ve got a batch of grist that needs to come out of the mash tun.”

  “Ah.” I can’t pretend to understand the brewing process, but it’s important to show an interest in every community member’s role at Juniper Ridge. “Sounds exciting.”

  “Not really.”

  I claim the chair across from him, grateful I wore a skirt for a change. Not that I care about conforming to feminine ideals for fashion, but it’s important to set a professional tone for these coaching sessions. “You’re settling in okay?”

  He nods and looks at his watch again, in case an hour has passed since he checked thirty seconds ago. “How is this different from all the other interviews I’ve been doing this week?” He meets my eyes ag
ain. “I mean, I know I agreed to have my life filmed, but I didn’t realize it would be so…so…”

  He waves a hand, searching for the right word or maybe expecting me to fill it in for him. I fold my hands on the table and wait. In my experience, it’s best to let patients take their time forming their thoughts.

  I wait a little longer.

  And longer still.

  After maybe twelve hours, I cave first. “The other interviews are about gathering footage for the actual show,” I explain. “These coaching sessions are about deciding what you want to work on. Areas where you’d like to focus your goals for personal growth. It can be something you’d like help with privately, or something you’re comfortable having as a focal point on the show.”

  That’s key, and something I fought for when my siblings and I dreamed up the concept for Fresh Start at Juniper Ridge. If a community member wants privacy for his or her growth arc, I’ll absolutely respect that.

  Griffin gives me a long look. If he’s waiting for me to fill the silence again, he’s out of luck.

  “Beer,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “I was hired to be the brewer, so that’s what I want to focus on.”

  I stifle the urge to sigh. The bare bones of Griffin Walsh’s file are coming back to me, though it’s been months since he applied to be part of our thoughtfully planned, self-sustained community. Unlike most, he wasn’t drawn by the prospect of fame. It was the fresh start that appealed to him, though the details are fuzzy in my mind.

  I’ve interviewed literally hundreds of applicants and reviewed files for thousands more. Today alone, I’ve done five of these coaching sessions, and eight yesterday. Nine the day before. It’s possible I need a break, but more important to make sure the emotional needs of community members are fully met.

  “Beer,” I repeat, stalling for time as I slip a hand into my messenger bag. “Do you have a favorite kind?”

  He studies me like he’s trying to identify a trap. “It changes all the time,” he says at last. “I’ve been playing around with spontaneous fermentation. Fruit lambics, Flanders red ales, even a Belgian gueuze. I’ve got a cucumber mint sour I’m working on right now.”

  “I see.” I don’t, actually. Beer is beer, as far as I’m concerned, which is to say it’s not tea.

  I’m still fumbling in my bag for his packet, still thumbing through my memories of why we hired Griffin Walsh. What was his backstory? He’s not married, but widowed? No, divorced. Or wait. Gay?

  Meeting his icy blue eyes again, I shiver. I’m definitely getting a heterosexual vibe. Not that it’s possible to tell by looking, but something about him is setting off alarm bells in my ovaries. That’s a clinical observation, not an admission of lust. I’m here purely in a professional capacity.

  “So, you’ve come to Juniper Ridge to start over again.” I’m deliberately keeping it neutral since I can’t seem to find the damn packet by fumbling blindly in my bag. “Why don’t we focus there for now?”

  He shrugs and spreads his hands on the table. “Not much to focus on. I got the hell out of Sacramento. Had a brewery there that I lost in the divorce, so this is my shot at starting over without going back to square one.”

  Yes! Divorced.

  Not that I’m celebrating his heartache, but I’m pleased I recalled at least some of his backstory. “That must have been difficult.” I leave it open-ended for him to choose whether to focus on the loss of the marriage or the loss of his life’s work.

  “Yep.” He nods, dragging a hand through his hair. Hair that definitely needs a trim, though it’s not my place to suggest it.

  Lauren, she’s the one focused on image management. On which community members are framed up as jokesters or heroes or the brooding, serious type. My sister is a master producer, while I’m here to make sure we follow the rules and no one cracks under pressure.

  I study Griffin across the table, seeing no visible cracks. There are webs of fine lines beside each eye, which gives him a rugged look. A guy who’s seen too much. Is that why we chose him? I know he brews good beer, but since that’s not my thing, I left most of the hiring details to my siblings.

  I’m wishing now I’d paid more attention. Wishing I’d taken just five minutes to review his file before walking through the door.

  Griffin clears his throat. “There is one thing.”

  I jump at the roughness in his voice. “Something you’d like to work on?”

  He nods and I pick up my pen. “Wonderful,” I say. “Let’s hear it.”

  With a sigh, he scrubs the heel of his hand over his chin. It makes a soft scritch-scritch-scritch sound that gives me the oddest urge to purr.

  Purr? For heaven’s sake.

  He’s talking again, so I shake myself back into shrink mode. “I guess I’m wondering about…” He rubs his chin again. “About talking to girls.”

  “Ah.” That’s right, it’s coming back to me now. Gabe and Lauren’s hope for a storyline about a divorced man seeking a second chance at love. A rough-around-the-edges beer guy with a heart of gold, seeks sweet, sunshiney shop owner or hairdresser or—

  “Is it conversation in general you struggle with, or just the small talk?” I ask.

  He frowns, shaking his head. “No, that’s not it. It’s just—” The frown deepens, and he drums his long fingers on the table. “I feel like I’ve lost this ability to communicate, you know?”

  “Ah,” I say. “So, this is a more recent struggle?”

  Brow furrowed, he nods once. “Yeah, I guess. Like she’ll act a certain way and sometimes I just want to put her over my knee and paddle her backside until—”

  “Oh.” I drop my pen, struggling not to show surprise. It’s something I’ve prided myself on as a therapist, my ability to keep a straight face no matter what a patient says.

  But Griffin Walsh is throwing me off my game.

  “Well, certainly that’s understandable.” I pick up my pen again, then set it back on the table. The last thing he needs is a fear that I’m writing this down. “We all have things we want to do. Basic urges. Needs.”

  Kill me now.

  Griffin’s staring at me like I just licked the table, so I straighten in my chair. “My point is that there’s no shame in having those kinds of thoughts.”

  He frowns. “I wouldn’t really do it. I mean, spanking—that was never my thing. It’s a figure of speech.”

  The room feels blazingly hot, or maybe that’s my face. Should I reassure him these desires are totally normal, or talk about consent? He’s looking at me like I have answers, and I’m not sure I remember my own name.

  Some therapist you are.

  I clear my throat. “Let’s start with the basics,” I say. “Strategies for initiating more productive conversations.”

  “How do you mean?”

  I tap my pen on the table, then realize I’ve picked it up again. When did that happen?

  “How about dinner?” I say. “Or coffee. Something simple to set the stage and give you both something to talk about. Or beer, how about beer?”

  Besides being a master brewer, he’s a cicerone, which I had to google after reading his application. It’s like a wine sommelier, only for beer snobs. Surely that gives him plenty of fodder for conversation.

  “Beer,” he repeats, frowning. “You mean talking about it or drinking it?”

  “Either, really.” Anything to get him to open up. “Maybe both.”

  Griffin shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

  “Fair enough.” Also, interesting. Maybe his love interest is in recovery, or not a beer fan. It isn’t my place to judge. “I agree that alcohol consumption comes with its own set of challenges in social settings.”

  Lord knows I’ve done my share of dumb things. I start out sipping chardonnay, desperate to have something to do with my hands at girls’ nights or family gatherings. But instead of lowering my inhibitions, it just makes me awkward.

  More awkward.

/>   It’s really hot in here.

  “Have you tried asking questions?” I’m still fishing in my bag, and I resist the urge to cheer as my fingers close around the info packet. “Maybe even starting with a list. Easy topics for conversation that you can prepare ahead of time so you have them handy when you need them.”

  There’s a flicker of interest in his eyes. He nods slowly, a shock of dark hair falling over his forehead. I set his packet on the table, then sit on my hands to keep from reaching across to brush back his hair.

  “Yeah, that’s good,” he says. “What kinds of questions?”

  “Ask about her interests.” We’re back on safe ground, so I’m warming to the subject. “What sort of things is she into?”

  Griffin looks down at the table, chiseled jaw clenching. “Makeup,” he mutters. “And hair. She’s always messing around with it. Curling it and then flattening it out with this weird clampy thing.”

  “Careful with the judgment words,” I caution, even though I’m with him on that one. What is it with this societal pressure for women to make their hair do the opposite of whatever it’s naturally inclined to do?

  Like you didn’t glam it up for the cameras.

  I take a deep breath and order myself to focus. “I totally understand that makeup and hair care may not be in your wheelhouse.”

  “You think?” The faintest hint of a smile tugs those full lips, and my stomach rolls over like a very good dog.

  “Right.” I clear my throat. “But the point is to ask questions that show you’re interested in her, even if the subject itself isn’t something that interests you. Something like, ‘how do you decide what you want your hair to look like on any given day?’ Or maybe you could focus on how she feels about her beauty routine.”

  “How she feels about her beauty routine?” He shakes his head and grimaces down at the table. “Christ, I’m not cut out for this.”

  His voice is rough, but when he meets my eyes again, his are filled with an unexpected softness. He’s trying, he really is. He wants to get this right, and I want that for him very much.

  I flip open the packet, careful to maintain eye contact. We’re making progress, and I don’t want to derail that.