April gave way to May, and Cooper was still in Fisherman’s Landing.
He’d finished his book, had a few months off until edits, and normally would have been long gone. In the past, he would have flown to Vegas or Miami and spent a few weeks drinking, partying, and having sex with the most inappropriate women he could find.
That was his MO. Work and then leave. Find a distraction to make him forget the pathetic life he led. But then, h
e’d never had a reason to stay. And even though it surprised the hell out of him, Morgan Campbell was his reason, and he was totally fine with that. She spent her nights with him, making love and making him laugh (the girl had a serious sense of humor), and her weekends camped out at his place, either in bed or nestled against his chest while they watched a movie or read a book.
It was a simple existence—at least for the moment. There’d been a flutter of pictures in the tabloids after the Bruins game, and he’d been unable to convince her to go to any of the others in the series. He got it. The tabloids probed and prodded, always on a quest to uncover something juicy. The fact that no one had been able to nail down this “mystery woman” fueled the fire even more.
His gut told him the honeymoon was nearly over. He just didn’t know how much time he had. In this day and age, it was a damn miracle no one had tracked him down to Fisherman’s Landing. It was a testament to the tight-knit community and their need to protect their own. It was also one of the reasons that made it harder for him to leave. Out here on the coast of Maine, he went about his business with a freedom he didn’t experience anywhere else.
It was liberating.
His cell phone pinged—again—and he scooped it out of his pocket. It was his agent, Seth. There were also several missed calls from his brother, one from his cousin Jack, and another from his cousin Beau. He frowned, his hand scrolling over two from an unknown number.
Something was up.
His agent was on him to fly to Europe and attend the world premiere of Soft Hands, the latest film adaptation of one of his books. Seth was like a broken record when it came to this—he did it for every single premiere. He didn’t understand why Cooper wanted to keep Lee Holloway a secret, and it was a conversation Cooper had never wanted to have with him, because there were a lot of demons he still needed to face.
Restless, he slid his cell into his pocket and glanced at the clock. It was only two thirty in the afternoon, and Morgan never showed up until around five o’clock.
He thought about Europe in May with Morgan by his side. The premiere was coming up, and not for the first time since Seth had begun pestering him did he think that maybe it was time to “come out,” so to speak.
But would Morgan go with him? Hell, he hadn’t even told her about the Holloway thing. Just the other night, they’d watched one of his movies. He’d had the chance to say something then, but it had slipped by. What the hell was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he just tell her?
But he knew why. Telling her about Holloway would lead to other things. To a past he’d been trying so damn hard to forget.
“Shit,” he muttered.
It was an ironic fact that this particular movie not only starred his cousin Beau, but Beau had directed it. And from what Cooper had been told, he’d done an amazing job with the material. Maverick had scored the film, and his entire family would be there for the premiere. None, save for his brother, his cousin Jack, and now his mother, knew he was Holloway.
There is someone else. He pushed the thought aside as quickly as it had come.
So what the hell was he going to do?
His phone rang, startling him, and he scooped it out of his pocket, the action without thought because he was too damn preoccupied.
“Cooper?”
He stilled as the blood that ran through his veins went ice-cold. The voice was still the same. It was raspy and whiskey soaked, the kind that sounded like a pack-a-day habit.
“Don’t hang up.” The words came slowly.
Cooper walked onto his front porch and gazed across the green grass and the riot of wildflowers that had popped up in the adjacent field. His Godzilla weather vane twirled in the late afternoon breeze, and the scent of rain was in the air.
This was his sanctuary. And she’d just invaded it.
“How’d you get this number?” He bit out the words, turning in a full circle as a wave of rain hit him in the face.
“Maverick. But don’t blame him, I didn’t really give him a choice.”
Son of a bitch. As soon as he got off the phone he was going to hop in the truck, drive to town, and kick his brother’s ass all over the goddamn state.
“What do you want?” A muscle worked its way along his jaw, and he followed the trajectory of a robin as it skimmed the edge of the tree line before bolting up over the house.
“We need to talk.”
“Never going to happen.”