Spotlights came into view, violently bright and focused ahead of her. She knew that now, and she had to find a way to escape. Her arm ached, the injury to her limb nothing compared to the damage that had been done to her sense of trust. Maybe this was a dream and she would wake up engaged to the man she’d thought she was marrying, instead of someone capable of hurting the people she loved.
The woman gestured for her to follow, and they began jogging through clusters of people who all seemed to be standing still.īrooke’s head was throbbing, questions swarming like bees. “Right.” She picked it up from her dressing table and slid the comb into her hair. I’ll pick you up at the airport.” She hung up the phone and forced the annoyed expression from her face, replacing it with a smile before she turned back around.
“I can’t go into details now, but it’s really important. The woman just stared at her and raised an eyebrow.īrooke stood and turned her back to the woman. “Give me some privacy, please,” Brooke said. The woman shook her head, walked in, and put one hand on her hip, leveling her stare at Brooke. We go live in two minutes.”īrooke took the phone away from her ear. “Miss Barrons, you need to come to the set now.” I sent you an email with the details and…”Ī knock at the door and it opened, a tall blonde woman with a clipboard standing there. I made you a reservation to fly into Denver Monday afternoon. It’s really important,” she said, closing her eyes as she exhaled. I hope you enjoy my work.Brooke nodded, holding the cell phone to her ear as she massaged her sore upper arm. Or maybe, if your timing is just perfectly right, I'm sitting on the purple reclining loveseat in a basement full of toys, writing my next big novel while my husband takes care of the chaos for a while.įor him, and for the kids and the stinky, cranky pets, and for the opportunity to tell you a story, I am grateful. Well, it's what the best romances turn into if you're lucky.Īs you read this, I'm probably putting someone into time-out, cleaning something, or explaining to my progeny why I put him/her into time-out or why I shouldn't have to clean whatever it was I just cleaned. People ask when I find time to write, and I point to my husband, the sweet frazzled sight of him as he hoses down a screaming child with one hand and unloads the dishwasher with the other. Old women at grocery stores tell me how lucky I am, that it all goes so fast, and I nod my head and say something pithy like, "It sure does!" while trying to keep the baby from changing the language on the card reader screen or voiding my entire transaction. My house is in a perpetual state of disarray despite my constant attempts to clean it. I'm a USA Today bestselling author with three kids, a husband, a slightly stinky and poorly trained dog, and an ancient calico cat who doesn't like people.
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