Catch a Falling Star (Second Chances Book 3) Read online

  “Good for you. So are you going to see him again?”

  Jo shrugged. “I don’t know. I would have said no way, but he keeps texting me.”

  She continued with the story—fighting to stop herself from sounding like a middle school girl with a crush—as they left the building and charged through the rain. Her mind refused to focus until they had walked down the block and were seated at the quaint bistro Diane loved so much. As the waiter fetched their coffee, Jo finally had a chance to check Ben’s message.

  “That doesn’t sound good. Want to stop by before you head home?”

  Her heart fluttered down to her toes. The vivid memory of the way he’d touched and kissed her had her blushing hard in the middle of the crowded bistro. Diane arched an eyebrow at her.

  “I absolutely want to come back,” she typed, “but I have to get home. This wasn’t supposed to be an overnight trip.”

  “I would give anything to know what the two of you are talking about,” Diane grinned.

  Jo blushed even deeper and set her phone on the table. “Well, at the rate I’m going, I’ll need to use this text conversation as fodder for the amazing book I’m writing to save my career.”

  “Please do. I’m dying to know what has you beet red right now.”

  The phone buzzed. Jo peeked at it.

  “Give me a call later if you need to. In the meantime, I’ve got a book to read.”

  She smiled quickly typed, “I will,” before setting her phone on the table.

  To Diane, she said, “Have you ever met someone and clicked with them from the second you started talking?”

  For all her fifty plus years, Diane Glick sighed at the idea and looked like a teenager. “No, but I’ve always wished I’d meet someone like that. Things definitely weren’t like that with my ex-husband!”

  Jo laughed. “It was like that with Ben.”

  Diane blinked. “Ben? Wait. Theater director Ben?” Jo nodded. Diane’s smile vanished into a stark frown. “He’s not Benjamin Paul, is he?”

  Piercing anxiety stuck in Jo’s chest and throat. “Yes, he is. You’ve heard of him?”

  “Honey.” Diane reached across the table and laid a hand on Jo’s. “Benjamin Paul has been the talk of the town since those awards were handed out, and not in the good way.”

  “Why? What’d he do?” Jo’s stomach twisted with disappointment.

  Diane pulled back and sipped her coffee. The hesitation made Jo even more nervous. “He won the award for best director, but apparently he shouldn’t have. That award should have gone to someone else.”

  “I know.” Jo shrugged. “I read an article about it when I was in his bathroom.”

  Diane continued to look wary. “Did that article mention anything about him winning the award because he was sleeping with half of the award’s voting committee?”

  Cold shock dropped straight into Jo’s stomach. “No, no it didn’t.”

  Her skin prickled. The same skin that he had touched and kissed for hours. No wonder he knew exactly how to send her to heaven and back. But it had felt so good. He had seemed so genuinely interested in her.

  She had asked him if anyone had ever told him he was good in bed, and he’d answered yes.

  Goddammit.

  “I’m sorry, honey, I shouldn’t have said anything.” Diane must have seen her alarm. “And it’s only a rumor. You know how things go in this town. People get bitter and catty when anyone does well.”

  “Tell me about it.” It was a poor recovery attempt.

  “But hey, you’re in a better position than anyone to find out if it’s true or a big, fat, vicious lie. He’s still texting you, right?”

  “He’s reading my book right now,” she reasoned aloud. “But I said I’d call him later.”

  “Well, there you go.” Diane nodded. “In spite of all the rules of dating and social etiquette, he texted you right away and wants you to call later. Not exactly the behavior of a serial womanizer.”

  “True.” Jo took a sip of her coffee. It wasn’t half as good as the cup Ben had made her. He’d seemed so genuine over breakfast, but for all she knew he could have picked up women in coffee shops all the time. He’d propositioned her.

  She’d been had.

  In every possible way. And she was still sore to prove it.

  It had all felt so right, seemed so genuine. Why would he be texting her now if she was another notch on his bedpost? Well, she’d thought all along that he was like a hero in a romance novel. He was every scandalous rake she’d ever written about. It wasn’t so sexy when a guy turned out to be a rogue in real life.

  “Jo.” Diane interrupted her thoughts. Jo blinked to focus on her. “Stop thinking about it. I’m sure things are fine. Gossip is gossip, not gospel. Think about something else. What do you want to order?”

  Jo picked up her menu with a sigh. Fat chance she would be able to think about anything else.

  She enjoyed her brunch on the most superficial of levels. She chatted with Diane about business and the unfortunate Hannah and her supposed propensity for getting things wrong. Diane even walked her to the nearest subway station after the meal and Jo managed to smile and laugh along the way.

  “You focus on writing something new and splashy for me,” Diane said as Jo’s train rolled in. “Get out of your rut and I’ll make you a star.”

  It came out sounding like an ultimatum. Jo nodded, her throat too tight with panic to form words. The pressure was on, and how.

  She slipped back into quiet melancholy once she was on the subway heading north. It was easy to be melancholy on the subway. It was even easier to writhe with disappointment on finding out your Prince Charming was a man-whore. But he had seemed interested in her. He asked if she wanted to stop by his place to tell him about her bad day. What was going on?

  She’d parked her car at the last stop on the line, and was glad it was still there a day later. The whole trip had turned into so much more than she had bargained for in every way, but climbing into her car and turning the ignition reminded her that she was, in essence, back where she’d started. With a six hour drive in front of her, she still didn’t have enough money to pay property taxes.

  She’d been driving up the Merritt Parkway for half an hour when her phone rang. She eyed it sideways. She had never been one to talk on the phone while driving, but Ben’s name flashed up on the caller ID. Her heart lurched. Traffic was smooth, so she picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “I never thought I’d say this,” Ben’s voice vibrated through her, “but this is a really intriguing book.”

  Hearing him say that—hearing him at all—made her smile. Their connection was real, dammit, and no vicious gossip could change that. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I really do,” he went on. “It was engaging and dramatic and emotional.”

  Jo couldn’t help but laugh. “I wouldn’t have thought those were traits that would endear it to a man.”

  “Male, female, it doesn’t matter. Everyone wants a story with a strong impact and this story has that.” There was something thrilling and serious about his words, something that went beyond the flirty Benjamin Paul she’d spend the day and night with.

  “Well, thank you,” she said. “Now let’s hope that I can do that all again.”

  “I have full confidence in your abilities after reading this.”

  His compliment sat heavily on her chest. It was wonderful to hear, but daunting at the same time. So much was riding on her ability to churn out another great book, and probably another and another after that. She could feel the pressure closing in on her already.

  “Are you there?”

  “Yeah, sorry,” she answered. “I got a little distracted is all.”

  There was a short pause from his end. “Is everything all right? You said earlier that your meeting wasn’t going well.”

  Jo hesitated, took a breath. Did she really want to tell all of her problems to a man she’d spent an amazing
night with, but who may or may not be playing her like a Shakespearian tragedy?

  Yes. Yes she did.

  “My publisher has cut the amount of advance money for my next book,” she spilled. “It won’t be enough to pay the taxes and repair costs on my family house.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that,” he answered. “What are you planning to do?”

  “Well.” She took a deep breath and switched lanes to join the slower traffic. “My agent, Diane, wants me to try writing something different. She wants me to write a contemporary romance, something that’s selling more these days. She says I should self-publish.”

  “Are you going to do it?”

  “I don’t see that I have much choice.” She would try not to feel bitter, really she would. “I’m sure I can come up with something, but it’s a big change.”

  She could hear his smile as he let out a breath. “Change can be good. I’m sure you’ll ace this.”

  “Thanks for your vote of confidence. It means a lot to me.”

  Ben couldn’t be playing her. He never would have called her if he was. He never would have texted her. She had to be more than sex to him, more than a way to kill time on a dreary afternoon. And night. And morning. He’d cancelled a meeting for her. There had to be more to what happened between them than nookie.

  “Jo? You still there?” His voice held all the uncertainty that she felt.

  “Sorry, I’m disappointed right now. Not to mention driving.”

  “I probably shouldn’t be enabling that.”

  Dammit, but she could see the crinkle around his eyes as he spoke, could practically feel his hands groping as he flirted. It had all been so wonderful, insane though it was. There was no possible way she could be falling for a man-whore.

  “Yeah, probably,” she admitted after too long of a pause.

  “I’ll let you go then.” And just like that, he was as normal and warm as a friend she’d had for ages. “Call me if you want to talk.”

  “You do the same,” she said before she could stop herself. “You’ve got your meeting soon, right?”

  “Oh, shit.”

  Jo grinned, tempted to laugh out loud.

  “Sorry, I’ve really got to go.”

  “Go, go,” she encouraged him.

  “Drive safe,” he charged her, then ended the call.

  A hard lump caught in Jo’s throat as she lowered her phone, checked the screen, then put it in the cup-holder beside her. As if she needed the problem of a hardcore crush right now, while being squashed between the house and her career. Ben lived in New York City, for gosh sakes.

  When he wasn’t filming twenty minutes away from her house.

  Crap. She needed to clear her mind and come up with a stellar idea for a new book.

  Instead, she was reasonably certain she’d spend the next six hours reliving the taste of Ben’s skin, the groan deep in his throat when he came, and the excitement of who she’d been in his arms.

  Ben fought the growing twist of panic in his gut as he charged down Eighth Avenue toward Café Lunch. Don’t go blowing things out of proportion, he steadied himself. Most threats are hollow. The twins need a show to make money just as much as you need money to make a show.

  Nothing. The words did nothing to counteract the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. At least the rain had stopped, though now that the temperature was dropping, patches of black ice were forming left and right. Black ice. Nasty stuff that you didn’t see coming which would slap you flat on your ass before you could blink. Kind of like life. At least in Maine, when it snowed, you knew it.

  He blinked as he reached the brightly decorated windows of Café Lunch—lurid flowers and bright, painted sun in utter denial of the season. Where had the thought of Maine come from?

  That one was no mystery. Jo.

  He grabbed the door handle and swung it open, rushing into the cozy warmth of Jett and Ashton’s favorite, kitschy, little sandwich shop. The twins glanced up at him from their special table under a painted mural of various well-known—and very naked—Greek statues frolicking in an imaginary field of flowers and butterflies that could have been painted by a first-grader. They raised their hands in twin waves, but their smiles were as fake as their tans. He doubted even Jo would believe—

  Nope. Time to drive that distraction from his mind. Wrong time, wrong place, wrong woman. Wrong him.

  “Jett, Ashton, sorry I’m late.” Ben fought to keep things light as he dodged around a few tables in the cramped restaurant. “I was helping out a friend.” True enough for these two.

  “Yes, we know all about that now,” Ashton drawled.

  If the mural behind the twins wasn’t enough to make Ben lose his appetite, the obsequiousness in Ashton’s voice finished the job. Ben helped himself to the seat across the table as the brothers stared at him with their annoying, twee smirks.

  He was saved the hassle of trying to interpret those smirks by a waiter who looked as though he’d been waiting in the wings, ready to pounce. “What’ll it be, sugar?” the man asked with a saucy wink.

  Ben forced a smile to keep from rolling his eyes. Clearly the waiter was an actor, and just as clearly, he knew who Jett and Ashton—and Ben—were, and thought he could score points by pretending to be gay. Not unlike the twins themselves.

  “Just coffee,” Ben said.

  “That’s it?” Ashton asked. “You’re not ravenously hungry after helping that friend?”

  Somewhere between Ben’s need to punch the man in the face and to protect Jo’s reputation by deflecting the entire course of the conversation, he managed to nod to the waiter and say, “Just coffee.”

  “Coming right up.” The waiter sashayed off.

  It took another three seconds for it to occur to Ben that the Pollard twins could have no idea he’d spent the last day and night with Jo, or even who Jo was. So why the snide inuend—

  Oh.

  Jett pulled a glossy magazine out of his messenger bag and tossed it on the table. “It hit the newsstands today,” he said, not a trace of humor in his voice. Broadway Snitch was one thing. Stage Professional Magazine was another entirely. “Care to enlighten us as to your extracurricular activities?”

  Acting had never worked out for Ben, but as he sent Jett a bored look and reached for the magazine with a steady hand, he thought he deserved another award. The issue was hot off the press, almost literally. Or maybe that heat came from the dread of what Ben knew he’d find inside.

  “We’ve taken the liberty of marking the article for you,” Jett said, jaw tight, color high.

  No point in delaying the inevitable. Ben cleared his throat and flipped to the folded-over page. Lovely, a two-page article, complete with big, fat, glossy pictures of him with half a dozen starlets and backers at various events last year, along with a headline that read, “Benjamin Paul: The Things I Did For Awards.” Only “Things” was crossed out and replaced with “People” in what looked like red lipstick. There was no point in reading the article itself.

  He closed the magazine and tossed it casually on the table. “Looks like I’ll be calling my lawyer today.”

  “And why would that be?” Ashton asked.

  “To send out cease and desist orders or to cover your busy little ass?” Jett added.

  The waiter returned with coffee and eyes so sharp with interest in the conversation that Ben had the impression he would be sliced to shreds in theater circle gossip before the end of the day.

  “Here you go, Mr. Paul,” the waiter practically whispered. He set the coffee on the table, then rushed back to a spot by the kitchen door where two other waitresses were watching as if a bomb were about to go off.

  Ben made the best outward show of nonchalance that he could as he added cream and sugar to his coffee and took a sip. Even though his stomach turned. And here, only twelve hours ago, he’d been wrapped up in sweaty sheets, making love to a woman who knew how to make fantasies into realities, on paper and in his heart.

&nb
sp; No, not now.

  He finished his sip of coffee, set the mug down, and leveled a no-nonsense glance at Jett across the table. “So I’m the butt of industry jokes for a week or two. We all have to take our turn in the tabloids.”

  “Stage Professional is not a tabloid.” Ashton reverently picked up the magazine.

  Ben shrugged. “Any press is good press.” He shifted forward in his seat. “We can use this to draw audiences next year when Last Closing Time opens.” Not that he would relish pillorying himself to sell tickets, but if it meant the show could go on… “Now, I’d like to start auditions for the workshop as soon as possible. I’m off to Maine in ten days and won’t be back for a month because of Second Chances, but—”

  Jett held up a hand, stopping him. “Pollard Productions doesn’t want to be associated with anyone who cheats to win.”

  Ben’s throat closed up. He held his breath, staring at Jett’s beady little eyes. “Sorry?”

  “It doesn’t look good for our integrity to continue backing someone who wins major industry awards based on something other than talent.”

  “Well, theatrical talent,” Ashton added with a wink.

  Rage welled up in the place of shock. “I am a damn good director,” Ben whispered, leaning further over the table. “I don’t care what that magazine or any other wants to print saying otherwise. I earned that award. I earned it on merit.”

  “Honey, I don’t think anyone is disputing that.” Ashton’s salacious smirk returned.

  Ben gripped the edge of the table hard enough to crack through it. “The streets of this town are paved with rumors. Are you seriously going to throw away a five-year working relationship that has netted more than this one award, not to mention enough stellar reviews to paper your walls?”

  Jett leaned forward to meet him stare-for-stare. “Rumors have a way of becoming reality. I still haven’t heard you try to deny any of it.”

  Cold sweat broke out on Ben’s back. “My love life is none of your business.”

  “It is when it affects the work.”

  “It hasn’t. It doesn’t. It never will.”

  “You just have an uncanny knack for coaxing voters and critics into your bed, right?”