her years as a sitcom star. Without April’s gentle guidance, Sara might have added “eating disorder” to her long list of personal issues.
Nine years older than Sara, April had quickly become Sara’s soul sister and best friend. When April’s stuntman husband left her a few years later during April’s grueling battle with breast cancer, Sara had been more than willing to see her friend through months of chemotherapy and radiation treatments and the nasty divorce that resulted.
Neither woman had been lucky in the relationship department—another fact that, despite their different outlooks on life, bonded them deeply.
“You only think you know me. I’m a mystery wrapped in a puzzle clothed in an enigma,” Sara told her friend with a wry smile.
“Right.”
Sara parked the car next to the SUV. “Are you trying to distract me from the probability of another scene with Mommie Dearest?”
“Is it working?” April asked, reaching for the door handle.
Sara grabbed her arm. “Have I told you today how sorry I am you’re in this predicament with me?”
April shrugged. “Things happen for a reason.”
“Don’t go all Sliding Doors on me. The reason your savings account was wiped out and you lost the yoga studio is because I’m a gullible idiot, a loser and the worst friend in the world. We’re stuck in high-altitude Pleasantville for the summer, thanks to me.”
“Sara...” April began, her tone gentle.
Sara thumped her head against the steering wheel. “Maybe I was wrong to agree to Josh’s plan for the summer. If I sold to Mom’s latest sugar daddy we could be back in California next week.”
“Back to what?”
“Our lives.”
“Neither of our lives was that great to begin with, and you know it. Besides, what about Josh and Claire?”
“Not my problem.”
“I guess that’s true,” April admitted. She pushed open the passenger door. “But we’re not going to get anywhere sitting in this car. If you want to hear your mom out, that’s your decision. You have to take control of this situation.”
“Lucky me,” Sara answered, and started toward the house.
* * *
Sara walked through the front door, waiting for the scent of White Diamonds, the perfume her mother had worn for decades to hit her. She smelled nothing.
She turned the corner from the foyer and stopped so suddenly that April knocked into the back of her. She stood perfectly still for one moment, then launched herself across the family room at the man who stood on the other side of the couch.
“I’m going to kill you,” she yelled, reaching out to wrap her fingers around his neck.
Strong arms pulled her away and she was enveloped in a different scent—one that even in her anger still had an effect on her insides. “Settle down,” Josh whispered in her ear.
“Let me go,” she said on a hiss of breath. She fought, and his arms clamped around her, pressing her against the solid wall of his chest. After a minute she stopped struggling. “Let me go,” she repeated. “I’m not going to hurt him.”
Slowly, Josh loosened his hold on her. For the briefest second, Sara fought the urge to snuggle back into the warmth that radiated off his soft denim shirt, to bury her face into the crook of his neck and simply breathe.
She stepped away, needing to break their invisible connection, and straightened the hem of her long shirt. “You’ve got a lot of nerve showing up here, Ryan. Unless you’ve got my money and April’s, too, you can crawl back under the rock you came from.”
“Hi, Sara.” Ryan Thompson, her onetime business partner and long-ago ex-boyfriend flashed a sheepish smile. “I came to apologize.” He held out his hands, palms up. “To beg your forgiveness. Go ahead, attack me if you want. I deserve it. Whatever it takes to put this behind us.”
Sara felt her temper building but kept her voice steady. “What it will take is you handing me a check for two hundred thousand dollars. The money it will take to repay April for losing the studio.”
Ryan looked past her to April. “Do you, at least, forgive me, April? You understand, right?”
“I understand you, Ryan” came April’s taut response.
His brows furrowed and he turned his attention to Sara again. “I messed up. I’m sorry. I’m going to make it better.”
“By writing a check?”
He sighed. “You know I can’t do that.”
Sara knew a lot about Ryan Thompson. They’d met when she was nineteen.
Her career had stalled; audiences did not want to see another childhood star grow into a bona fide actor. She’d had a couple of box office flops, lost roles in several Lifetime movies to former cast members of 90210 and could barely get casting directors to meet with her for even supporting roles. She’d briefly thought of applying to college until her mother had informed her that with the quality of on-set tutoring she’d received, she’d been lucky to get her GED.
Her mother, who was still managing her at the time, had come up with the brilliant idea of sending Sara to rehab for undisclosed reasons.
Although the closest she’d come to an addiction was a great affinity for Reese’s cups, Sara had been legitimately exhausted for months and welcomed a break from the Hollywood rat race.
Rose thought the publicity would make people see Sara as an adult, and if they didn’t get specific about an addiction, the backlash would be manageable. The whole Drew Barrymore comeback—maybe even a book deal.
It hadn’t worked. At all. She’d been blacklisted by every major studio, and her stalled career had gone down the toilet completely. But she’d loved her time at the secluded facility, morning meditation classes and long walks through the desert trails. On one of those solitary walks, she’d met Ryan, a hot young director who’d blown a huge wad of his last project’s budget on his gambling addiction. The producers had sent him to the Next Steps treatment facility for a month-long program. As far as Sara could tell, he was the only other patient at the center not half crazed with withdrawal symptoms or buying drugs from the cleaning crew.
They’d been fast friends and had even tried a romance for about a millisecond. Ryan was prettier than Brad Pitt in Thelma and Louise and higher maintenance than a full-blown diva. He loved women, could flirt the pants off the Pope’s sister and was as good at monogamy as he was at staying away from the blackjack table.
They’d remained close, and while he’d had a couple of critical and box office hits, Ryan continued to be a master of self-sabotage, finding it impossible to resist the lure of Las Vegas’s shiny lights.
He’d been clean a year and a half when he’d approached Sara about forming a production company together. She was at the end of her rope with bad waitressing jobs and potential projects falling through. He presented
