Chapter One
“Could you repeat that?”Griffin Draper drew a deep breath, not quite able to process film producer Matthew Holt’s incredible announcement.
Had he really said, “Sold?”
Was Griffin’s script actually going to become a movie?
Too stunned to think straight, Griff dropped down onto the overstuffed couch in the twentieth-floor conference room of Bender, Twain & McGuire’s Austin office, where Griffin and Beverly Martin had been asked to come meet Holt and Griffin’s entertainment attorney, Evie Morrison.
The moment Griffin sat, Beverly did the same, settling in right next to him, only a few inches of air separating him from the dark-haired actress’s hypnotic beauty.
He forced himself not to scoot away from her even as he told himself that the tightness in his gut was the result of nerves about Holt’s news—not about her. He might be attracted to her—what man wouldn’t be?—but since there was nothing between them, and there never would be, why the hell would he be nervous?
Sure, they’d become friends, but even that had developed slowly. Mostly because he’d kept his distance since, dammit, he’d been attracted to her from the first moment she’d settled down on a barstool next to him about five months ago in May. But that attraction was tainted with the knowledge that he couldn’t have her. Ever.
Story of his life, right?
But at least his personal torment had inspired a good screenplay.
The thought brought him back to the present and to Matthew—the Hollywood wunderkind known for his serious expression and no-nonsense manner—who now stood in front of Griffin, sporting an uncommon hint of a grin.
“Lost in dreams of the red carpet premiere already?”
“Would you blame me?” Griff quipped. “But, seriously. I need you to say that again.”
Beside him, Beverly shifted but remained silent. In front of him, Matthew’s smile widened. “You heard me, cowboy. Apex Studios is a go. They’re putting everything behind Hidden Justice, and unless we go seriously off the rails, filming will begin in Vancouver in the spring. For a release the following summer.”
“I can’t—” The words caught in his throat. It was all too much.
“Congratulations, Griff.” Evie Morrison, his attorney, hadn’t said much during the meeting, even though the conference was taking place in the Austin office of the LA-based law firm where she worked. Now, she looked like she was about to explode with delight for him. “I’ll be back in LA tomorrow, and I’m getting together with Van to go over the deal points,” she added, referring to Griff’s manager. “It’s really happening.”
Beside him, Beverly flashed the bright, sweet smile that had become famous all across America. “Congrats, Griff. Not that I’m at all surprised. I told you it was a winner.”
An Austin native, Beverly Martin had recently starred in a quirky independent drama that had hit the current American zeitgeist perfectly. Suburban Love Song had racked up all sorts of awards, and Beverly had suddenly found herself sheathed in a cloak of fame.
From what Griffin had seen, she wore her fame well. Serious about her career and smart about her choices, Beverly continued to live primarily in Texas, and she’d done only one other project since her debut—a smart and edgy thriller that was set to release in about a week. She’d let Griffin read the script—which was brilliant—and had promised to get him an early DVD of the film.
Now, she leaned forward. “Who’s directing?” she asked Holt.
“Christopher Deaver. He all but begged.”
“Really?” Griffin turned to Beverly, whose smile had widened. “He directed the one coming out next week, right? Crypto Games?
“He did.” She looked positively radiant at the news, and Griff’s gut tightened. Not with jealousy, of course. How could he be jealous? It was only that he was the odd man out, having never met Deaver.
“That’s the best news,” Beverly said to Holt and Evie before turning her attention back to Griff. “He’s got a real talent for edginess and suspense. We couldn’t ask for a better director for a project like this.”
As she spoke, she casually reached out, then closed her left hand over Griffin’s right. Griff fought the urge to flinch as he reminded himself that she couldn't feel anything. As usual, his hand was mostly concealed by the sleeve of the overlarge hoodie-style sweat jacket he habitually wore. So there was no way she could feel the rough, horrible scars. No way she could tell that he only had a nub for a pinkie finger.
He told himself that … and at the same time, he casually shifted on the couch, pulling his hand away as he did so, then stretching in what he hoped was a nonchalant manner.
Looking sideways, he saw Beverly press her lips together as she moved her hand to her lap. Yeah, she was one hell of an actor, because if she was embarrassed or annoyed, it didn’t show at all. And the truth was, he actually wanted to hold her hand. Wanted a physical connection between them during this incredible moment—a moment that belonged to both of them. After all, none of this would be happening if she weren’t attached to star in the movie.
Except that he didn’t go for physical. He never shook hands in greeting—people habitually extended their right hand, and that sure as hell wasn’t going to happen. Plus, he didn’t hug or do air-kisses, because why the hell would he get close enough for someone to get a good look at his face?
The only exception was Kelsey, and that wasn’t even because she was his sister. Instead, it was because she carried much the same scars as he did—hers just didn’t show. She’d been babysitting him the night it happened, making him promise to be good and to keep her secret while she snuck out for a date. He’d been almost thirteen, old enough to stay home alone and stupid enough to believe he knew everything. He’d wanted to toast marshmallows on the outside grill and make s’mores.
Now he couldn’t look at the things without throwing up.