End Scene

First came the director yelling, "Action! Next came the actual acting. Last came . . . the end scene. Or at least, that was what I liked to call my job as a publicist to Hollywood's elite. If my client hit it big, I was the one who'd made that possible. And while being on call twenty-four seven meant I was chronically single, I was fine with that. I'd been in a serious relationship once and had ultimately discovered that I wasn't cut out for commitment or being tied down or living in a small town. I needed lights and excitement, paparazzi and enough traffic that the air always smelled faintly of exhaust. I definitely didn't need one Aaron Weaver—my ex-boyfriend and current occupant of my former home and very, very small town in Utah—tying me down or making me feel like the world's biggest jerk, just because I wanted my life to be something more than open fields and cow patties. But then I had to leave L.A. and go home to my...