by Lisa Plumley
“Why?” Casey frowned at her. “It’s already in motion.”
“Well, un-motion it, then!” Impatiently, Heather waved her arms at him. Unfortunately, he was not a spineless sycophant. So her gestures had little effect on him. “Kristen will hate it!”
At her abrupt change of heart, Casey looked understandably confused. “You said she’d be thrilled.”
“I might have been fibbing.”
“But if she’ll hate it, why did you agree to it?”
Heather exhaled. She didn’t want to admit this, but . . . “I’m kind of selfish sometimes. It’s true. Plus, when I did that”—fifteen minutes ago—“I didn’t really know you yet.”
“We met more than a week ago.”
“Right,” Heather agreed, “but I didn’t know you. I didn’t know you loved Kristen! To me, you were just the guy who was here to crush my TV special. I was willing to push through the deal if The Terminator was going to be the fall guy in the end—”
“I really hate that nickname,” Casey grumbled.
“—because I knew I would come out looking blameless. I knew I could always play dumb. I knew I could convince Kristen. After all, it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission, right?”
“No. That’s an idiotic saying.”
“But I didn’t have a smart enough accomplice to help me make the deal happen,” Heather finished, “until now.”
“Until me.” Casey gave a disbelieving chuckle—a chuckle that said he couldn’t believe he’d been outmaneuvered by a brainless pop star with a world-famous shoe collection.
“Yes. But now that it’s you who’ll take the fall and not The Terminator . . .” Heather sighed. “I just can’t do it.”
Casey’s expression turned grave. “Kristen will really hate it? But you two have been talking about collaborating—”
“She’s humoring me.” Heather waved off his “proof” that Kristen might be anything less than unhappy about the prospect of teaming up on a project. “It’s what she does to avoid hurting my feelings. Kristen likes keeping things low-key.”
“But she needs the money,” Casey insisted, jutting his jaw in a stubborn gesture. He didn’t seem accustomed to encountering obstacles. Probably, he wasn’t. “She has bank representatives hounding her. I’ve seen them. Hell, I’ve talked to them—”
“You talked to them?” Heather widened her eyes.
“—and while I didn’t get very much information,” Casey admitted, “I do know that running a small business is no picnic. It’s a low-margin endeavor with every possibility of failure—”
“Kristen’s not going to fail. She’s very talented!”
“—and it can’t hurt to have a safety net,” Casey went on doggedly. “Like a lucrative partnership with a chain of international luxury cafés and high-end chocolate boutiques that’s three thousand outlets strong. That’s the security Kristen needs.”
Heather shook her head. “Good luck convincing her of that.”
“I don’t need luck to convince her of that,” Casey insisted with typical confidence. “The facts will do it for me.”
“If ‘the facts’ could work that kind of magic, I’d have a boyfriend right now.” A boyfriend who didn’t have suspiciously nonexistent “chicken pox” and questionably horrible photos of me on his cell phone. Intently, Heather leaned toward Casey. “I’m serious about this. It’s one thing for me to finagle a deal for Kristen and strong-arm her into doing ads with me. That’s just life. That’s just sisters being sisters.” Feebly, she grinned. “But if the man she loves does that to her—”
“You think Kristen loves me?”
At his adorably hopeful expression, Heather felt her heart turn over. She was glad she’d spoken up before it was too late.
“Well, I can’t know for sure, since all we’ve been doing lately is trading texts and voice mails,” Heather told Casey. “But I can say that if Kristen ever invites you to spend the night at her place, you’ll know you’re in. Because Kristen never invites—”
“She already invited me to stay over. All weekend!”
Casey’s eyes were big, his voice was raspy, and his hands . . . Well, his hands were actually shaking. Heather laughed with joy.
She wished she had a man who loved her so much that his hands literally shook at the thought that she might love him back.
“You’d better start looking for another Kismet-based troubleshooting job,” she advised him with a gleeful poke to his arm, “because I think you might be here for a while.”
“I might be here! Even for Christmas.” Casey seemed astounded by the idea. “Even with all this snow and ice and holiday hoo-ha, and not a single margarita in sight.” Suddenly, his cheery demeanor vanished. His stricken glance met hers. “Except I’ve already put out feelers about the Galaxy Diner pie-distribution deal. I’ve already spoken with people at Torrance Chocolates. I’ve already gotten the rumor mill cranking, made potential investors aware that a deal might be in the works—”
“I guess you were pretty sure you could convince me to go along with this,” Heather put in. Casey didn’t need to agree with her. The truth was obvious. She’d only thought she was in the driver’s seat today. “Can’t you just call it off?”
“I’m not sure,” Casey admitted, his handsome brow furrowed. “This whole town is crawling with media. I took advantage of that and slipped out a few hints when I arrived on set today. Plus, I made a few additional phone calls this morning.”
“That . . . doesn’t sound so bad?” Heather tried encouragingly.
But Casey only shook his head. “Part of what makes this deal so perfect is its tie-in to your holiday TV special. That sponsorship—and the associated advertising—could single-handedly make up for all the budget overruns. I can’t undo all that.”
“You can try!” Heather jostled him. “You’ve got to try!”
Appearing conflicted, Casey bit his lip. From outside the dressing room came the sounds of Heather’s prerecorded version of “All I Want for Christmas Is You.” Everyone must be gearing up for another take of her “live” finale number. Her record label insisted it had to be Auto-Tuned to within an inch of its life for “consistency’s sake.” Remembering that, Heather sighed.
This . . . phoniness was not why she’d become a performer.
Looking at Casey Jackson’s anguished expression was not why she’d just sacrificed her longed-for advertising gig with Kristen, either. She could have made it work. Heather knew she could have.
She’d be darned if she’d make a rarer-than-natural-blondes personal sacrifice, just to see her efforts to go waste on a man who didn’t justify them. On a man who wasn’t worthy of Kristen.
So, even though Heather knew that what she was about to do was a little questionable in the morality department, she decided it was for the greater good. It was for Kristen’s sake.
“Well, do whatever you have to do.” Dredging up every ounce of acting ability she possessed, Heather stood. She tried to seem as divalicious as possible. “But I’m afraid you can’t have it both ways. I’m not here to be taken advantage of.”
“Huh?” Distractedly, Casey looked at her.
“If you call off the distribution deal and the joint ad campaign with me and Kristen,” Heather clarified, nodding toward the paperwork between them, “I’ll cut my crew’s available hours. I’ll revert to my original twenty-four-hour timetable.”
Casey frowned. “That won’t be enough time.”
“That’s not my problem. It’s yours.” Holding up her chin, Heather took herself regally toward the door. “Because I’m pretty sure that if my TV special doesn’t get done, neither does the job your agency sent you to Kismet to accomplish. And even if my special does get done somehow, without the additional sponsorship the budget overruns will crush it before it airs.”
Casey caught her meaning quickly enough. “You’re offering me a choice: my career or my relationship with Kristen.”
Heather shrugged. It wasn
’t easy. But if Casey couldn’t bring himself to work a little harder to make Kristen happy, then maybe he didn’t deserve her. “Call it what you like,” she said flippantly. “If someone comes back with my matcha latte, I’ll be on set . . . maybe considering working before leaving town.”
Then she held her breath, breezed out of her dressing room, and left Casey behind—hopefully to do the right thing for Kristen. Because at least one of the Miller sisters ought to be happy at any given moment, Heather reasoned . . . and right now, it looked as though Kristen had the best possible chance of that.
Striding through the disorganized downtown bungalow that served as the primary on-set location for Heather Miller’s holiday TV special, Casey felt a new solidarity with the beleaguered-looking crew, extras, and catering staff who were milling around. Because he felt pretty sure—now that he’d spent more time with her—that Heather Miller was certifiably crazy.
She went through moods like a chocoholic through Hershey’s. She was up one minute and down the next. She was kind, then haughty, then helpless. She was demanding and illogical, loyal and naïve, peculiarly smart and infuriatingly imperious, all at the same time. She was unfathomable. She’d set him up for a two-in-one deal that would simultaneously salvage Casey’s assignment in Kismet and give him something wonderful to give Kristen for Christmas . . . then she’d cruelly and irrationally snatched it away.
Even more than Casey resented all the holiday lights, all the dancers ho-ho-ho-ing in Santa Claus suits, all the decorated Christmas trees and the wreaths and the candles and the candy canes he stalked by in those few minutes, he resented Heather Miller. Because she’d stuck him with an unthinkable choice.
Worse, she’d actually seemed to relish doing it.
Feeling ambushed and confused, Casey hurried past a few backup singers dressed as giant tin soldiers from Tchaikovsky’s The Nutcracker. He nodded at some crew members he knew. He pushed past the garland-wrapped foyer, stepped onto the bungalow’s snowy front porch while pulling on his coat . . .
. . . and almost ran smack into Shane Maresca.
“Casey!” His arch nemesis brightened. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Something’s happening. Some crazy Heather-impersonation scandal just broke, and I think you ought to—”
“I don’t have time for this, Shane.”
Preoccupied, Casey glanced at his watch, then brushed past Shane. He didn’t know if he could trust Heather or her take on Kristen’s feelings about the Galaxy Diner–Torrance Chocolates deal. He didn’t know if he was doing the right thing or even approaching the ballpark.
But he did know that he’d never failed to successfully complete an assignment. Being the man who completed assignments, every single time, on time, was his entire identity. And he knew that seeing Shane gave him even more reason to go forward with the deal. Because after all, his former friend had also advised him that Kristen wanted to put a baked-goods-distribution deal in motion. Especially if it involved Heather.
Casey had done that. So it looked like he won.
Or at least he might have won, depending on which version of Heather’s story was true. She’d already admitted lying to him once. Was she actually lying about lying? Would Kristen appreciate the deal or not? If she was reasonable, she would. But reason didn’t always trump feelings. Damn. This was a mess.
If he could get to Kristen, Casey knew, he could find out the truth. Maybe she would like the idea. Maybe the sponsorship deal could go forward and erase the budget overruns. Maybe he could do something nice for Kristen this Christmas. The deal was already put together, exactly the way Casey specialized in, awaiting only Kristen’s signature to make it happen.
Maybe he could still win on all counts and emerge a hero. Just the way he always did. This situation was still manageable.
“But the press is going crazy!” Shane followed him down the bungalow’s front walk, sliding as he maneuvered on the layer of SnoFoam the crew had put down to match the acrylic icicles on the eaves. “The story’s already hit the Internet—”
“Seriously.” Feeling beleaguered, Casey stopped. Wearing his most intimidating expression, he faced Shane. “I’m busy.”
“You should be ‘busy’ crisis-managing this impostor situation.” Shane shot an interested glance toward the bungalow, where Heather’s crew were still hard at work trying to make her holiday TV special happen. “Hey, is it true what I heard about Heather’s ‘twenty-four-hours or bust’ ultimatum? My sources say she’s already booked a private charter flight back to L.A.”
Casey wasn’t sure who Shane’s sources were, but they were uncannily accurate. “Heather won’t be leaving Kismet anytime soon”—he hoped—“whereas I have someplace else to be.”
“You’re leaving all this in chaos?” Shane spread his arms, indicating the bungalow set. “Now? Is that a smart move?”
Exasperated, Casey stared at him. It was just like Shane to taunt him with his looming potential on-the-job failure. But in that moment, Casey realized, he wasn’t worried about his job. He wasn’t worried about his reputation. Or winning. He was worried about Kristen and how she would react to the deal he’d made.
“Yeah. I’m leaving,” he said, and the decision felt weirdly easy. Weirdly right. “It looks like it’s your lucky day.”
“Lucky day?” With his usual disingenuousness, Shane frowned. “I wouldn’t say that. The fact is, I’m not here to—”
Screw up Heather’s production, Casey could almost hear him saying, in defiance of every shady thing he’d ever done. At that moment, Casey just didn’t have the patience for it.
“If you want to try derailing Heather’s TV special, have at it.” Casey gave a belligerent gesture toward the set. “I won’t be here to stop you. There’s someplace else I have to be.”
“You’re giving up?” Shane’s frown deepened. “But I—”
“I’m not giving up,” Casey told him. “I’m reprioritizing.”
Then he turned his back on Shane and headed to his car.
Hunched in her favorite leopard-print coat and oversize designer sunglasses, Heather hid behind a light scrim on the bungalow’s front porch, listening to Casey and Shane Maresca argue. The minute Casey resolutely announced, “I’m not giving up. I’m reprioritizing!” she heaved a tremendous sigh of relief.
Her gamble had paid off. She’d given Casey an opportunity to prove himself worthy of Kristen, and he’d triumphed. So far.
Obviously, Casey was headed to work some of his deal-un making magic with the investors and businesspeople he’d contacted. What would happen after that was anyone’s guess.
Technically, that meant Heather should have cut her crew’s working hours again, the way she’d threatened to do. But that had been just that: a threat. Now that Casey had decided to reprioritize, there wasn’t any need to go through with that. She and her crew could have all the time they needed to finish her special. Not that Casey needed to know that.
Feeling a little better about herself in light of that dual success—and in spite of losing her longed-for joint ad campaign with her sister—Heather looked up at the holiday lights strung along the bungalow’s eaves next to the artificial icicles. Casey had told her she was capable of more than just a fake, crummy holiday TV special and all the ridiculousness that went along with it, and he’d been right.
She was capable of more. What she’d just accomplished with Casey proved it. She was capable of reconsidering her actions, evaluating the consequences . . . and changing her mind.
Biting her lip, Heather glanced over her shoulder to the bungalow’s interior. Alex was there, busy at work on the latest iteration of the finale set. He looked sexy and stalwart and full of all the qualities she’d ever wanted in a man (except a true Luddite’s loathing of picture-taking technology). For the umpteenth time, she wished things were different between them.
If you ever decide to get real, look me up.
Maybe, if The Terminator could grow a heart and turn into a real, loving
man who put the woman he cared about ahead of his career prospects, Heather Miller could change, too. But first . . .
Jerking her chin in the air, Heather flounced down the bungalow’s front porch steps. She approached Shane Maresca.
He wasn’t quite as brilliant as Casey. Or as appealing as Alex. But Shane was certainly an arresting man in his own right. And his function on her holiday TV special’s set was similar to Casey’s. Shane was a consultant. He was trained to solve problems. And because Heather had foolishly sent away her assigned on-set troubleshooter, she needed a replacement. Stat.
She’d learned to trust Casey. She could trust Shane, too.
“Yoo-hoo! Shane!” Heather waved at him. “Hi!”
In the midst of watching Casey’s car driving away, Shane turned. His eyes widened at the sight of her. “Heather. Hi!”
Was it just her imagination, or did Shane seem positively eager to get down to work with her? Well . . . who wouldn’t be?
“I couldn’t help overhearing what you said a minute ago—about the Heather impersonator?” she began. She was definitely curious about that development—and the answers it might yield about her supposed secret pregnancy, discount-toilet-paper shopping, and unknown bohemian boy toy. “I’ve obviously got to know more about that, even if Casey didn’t.” Confidingly, she smiled at Shane. Then she chanced another longing glance at Alex. She gathered her courage. “But first, I need your help.”
“My help?” Shane seemed surprised. And maybe a little bit amused, too. “When I got here, you said you already had one too many—and I quote—‘interfering know-it-alls’ on set.”
Heather waved that off. “Well, now I have one too few.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Casey was serious about quitting?”
“He wasn’t quitting,” Heather reminded Shane. Loyally. After all, her sister loved Casey. “He was reprioritizing.”