MORGAN GALLOWAY

​

“I’ll just die if I don’t get this part!” Morgan folded back the cover of the shooting script and closed her eyes. “And the Oscar for Best Supporting Actress goes to…Morgan Galloway, for Sunset Ranch! And the crowd goes wild!”

​

A soft chuckle rumbled through her headset. “Love the positive thinking, babe, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

​

She studied him as he adjusted the controls of the single engine plane. “How’d I get so lucky, Ben? Luscious boyfriend, up-and-coming agent, and private chauffeur service home to LA—all in one guy?”

​

“Oh, Morgan.” He drew a finger down her cheek. “I doubt luck had anything to do with it. You’re a woman who thinks ten steps ahead.” He squeezed her hand and returned his to the yoke. “It’s one of the things I love about you.”

​

Love. He loved flying his friend’s little Cessna. He loved his talent agency’s soon-to-open office suite. Lord knows he loved money. But another human being? Doubtful. “Because you’re the same way,” she replied.

​

“Touche.” His cell phone rang, the tone the first few bars of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Just so anyone at a neighboring restaurant table would think he was attached somehow to Steven Spielberg. The man never missed a promotion opportunity.

​

He touched the screen, sending the audio to his headset. “Ben Powers... Oh... Really?... Great.” Ben looked over, index finger across his lips in the universal sign for quiet. When he tapped a button, his voice replaced the soft buzz of the single-prop’s engine in her own version of the ugly contraption.

​

“Well,” Ben continued, eyes on hers, “I can tell you she’ll be thrilled at the news.” He tapped her open script. “Of course there’s some paperwork to take care of first.” He winked, and her heart took off for Mars.

​

“The contract terms are as we discussed when we forwarded the script last week,” said a woman’s voice. “It’ll be in your Inbox within the hour, Benoit.”

​

Uh-oh. Ben hated when someone said his name wrong.

​

“Sounds good. And it’s pronounced ben-WAH, by the way. It’s French. My mother’s idea.”

​

Morgan watched him release a deep breath as he banked the plane a bit to the right.

​

“Sorry about that. One more thing.” When he didn’t respond, the woman continued, “We need it signed, notarized, and back to us in forty-eight hours.”

​

He looked at Morgan and waggled his brows. “You’ll have it. You won’t be sorry, Ms. Sarkesian. Morgan’s a brilliant actress.”

 

The single-engine plane lurched to the side and she dropped her Louis Vuitton-knock-off tote bag, spilling her make-up bag and electronics to the metal floor.

​

“Morgan!” Ben yelled. “Get up here and get buckled in!”

​

The plane rocked to the opposite side and she fell, her leg sliding under the back of the seat.

​

“Now, Morgan! What the hell are you doing?”

​

“My foot’s stuck, Benny. Help me!”

​

“I can’t leave the controls, babe! Hold onto something! We’re going down!”

​

​

CONRAD (RIV) RIVERS

​

“Riv! A little help?” Peering out a guest room door, Conrad Rivers watched his best friend Sean Galloway steady the tall cherry wardrobe he’d managed to get up two flights of stairs with a dolly. Riv quickly hammered the last of the baseboard around the hardwood planks they’d restored last week.

​

He spit the nails from between his lips, tucked them into the pocket of his denim work shirt, and rushed through the doorway. “Where’s this one going?”

​

“Jonah’s room.” Sean gestured with his chin to the long bedroom at the end of the hall.

Riv took over while Sean shook out his arms and rolled his head around his neck.  “I would’ve helped you with that, buddy.”

​

“Yeah, well Cassie’s all freaked out about getting the three of us moved upstairs before the painters arrive in the morning.” The couple had their first guests at the island’s newest bed-and-breakfast checking in ten days from now, just before Christmas. They’d lived on the second floor of the stately old Victorian her grandmother had gifted them for a wedding present while the upper story got some seriously-needed renovations.

​

They settled the massive piece of furniture—probably an antique—into a corner of Sean’s son’s room, and unhitched it from the dolly. A fanciful seacoast mural decorated the long wall opposite a bank of four double-hung windows. Cassie’s work, no doubt. The woman was as artistic as she was beautiful. Sean was a damn lucky guy.

​

“Dad! Uncle Riv! Lunch!” Jonah bellowed as the nine-year-old skidded around the corner into his room. “Hey. Cool. This bureau’s bigger than the one Mom’s leaving in my old bedroom.”

​

“Well, you’re growing,” Sean said, nodding for Riv to precede them out the door. “You’ll need more space for your stuff.”

​

“Grandpa says I might be taller than Dad someday.” He stood straight and stretched his neck, hopeful look on his young face as his eyes met Riv’s.

​

“Maybe as big as me, young padawan,” he said.

​

The kid’s eyes grew big as moon pies. “Wow, really?”

​

He squeezed the back of Jonah’s neck as they descended the curving, second flight of stairs to the foyer of the hundred-and-forty-year-old home. “Just keep eating your vegetables, kid.”

​

They followed the savory scent of barbecue to the kitchen.

​

Cassie’s Kiss the Cook apron struggled to get around her eight-months-pregnant belly. “Wash up boys. Pulled pork sandwiches for lunch.”

​

“My favorite,” Riv said, as he planted a chaste kiss on her cheek and sat at the round oak table.

​

“Mine too, Uncle Riv!” chorused Jonah as he chomped a huge bite from the over-stuffed bun.

​

Did Sean understand how blessed a bastard he was? Beautiful, talented, brilliant wife, an awesome kid and another on the way. Gorgeous house that would soon be bringing in money, not to mention co-owning the hardware and garden center he managed.

​

Riv would give his left nut for just of piece of his best friend’s good fortune.

​

“Earth to Rivers,” Sean said, following it with an elbow to the ribs. “Pass the potato salad, man.”

​

Right. He spooned a good-sized portion on his plate and handed the bowl to Sean. “Everything’s amazing, Cass. I don’t suppose there’s pie?”

​

She shook her head and smiled. “Did you think I forgot who was joining us for lunch?”

​

Riv opened his mouth to answer but was distracted by the chiming in his pocket. That hunting horn alert meant an update from his favorite Hollywood gossip site.

​

“What the heck is that?” Sean said before taking a big bite of a dill pickle.

​

He’d set it up for alerts for only one subject—news about Morgan Galloway. The heck he’d want his buddy knowing about that. “Nothing.” The alert sounded again.

​

“Doesn’t sound like nothing.”

​

“Go on and get it, Riv. Sounds important,” said Cassie.

​

He leaned aside and dug it out of his jeans pocket, just to shut everybody up. The headline on the screen almost made him lose that scrumptious lunch.

​

* * *