her head back down.
She’d practically thrown herself at him since the moment she’d stumbled into his stupid garden, but no more. He was her neighbor and her trainer and that was all.
Well, not all, she thought, her lips twitching with irritation. He’d actually been a pretty decent friend tonight when she was telling him about her life.
…move to the suburbs, stop partyin’, find some solid friendships, buy a few horses, and make time for your family…since you loved makin’ a movie…make another.
With an annoyed huff, she sat up in bed and looked over at her desk, which was surrounded by UPS and FedEx boxes that had been forwarded to Le Chateau from her apartment building in LA.
Purposely ignoring them, she slipped out from under her duvet and walked to the French doors that led to a balcony. She opened the doors to the cool, damp early-morning air, closing her eyes and breathing deeply.
…you loved makin’ a movie…make another…
“You don’t have all the answers,” she said aloud, her eyes popping open. “You don’t even know me!”
…make another…
She stepped back onto the plush cream-colored carpet she’d chosen in high school and crossed her arms over her chest, looking at the pile of boxes.
…buildin’ a life is about takin’ the pieces that matter and figurin’ out how to fit them together.
She padded across the room and knelt down on the floor next to the boxes, picking up the first one, ripping the tear strip, and flipping the box over so that a bound script fell into her lap. She pushed the cover letter aside to see the title:
The Sultan’s Surrender.
“Ugh,” she groaned, reaching for another box.
Give It to Me One More Time.
“C’mon!” she muttered.
Another.
Lady and the Trump.
She rolled her eyes and grabbed another, ripping the strip open.
Shipwrecked.
Another.
Forever My Girl.
“C’est des conneries!” she cursed, looking through the pile for something that looked different, that looked real, that looked interesting and provocative, not just sensational drivel.
And then she saw it: a plain, white, unassuming envelope with local postage and a Philadelphia postmark. Pushing two other boxes aside, she pulled the white package from the pile and opened the envelope, flipping over the script and reading the title:
Philadelphia Vice.
Hm.
Scooting away from the pile of hopefuls and rejects, Jax leaned her back against the leg of her desk and opened the script.
Three hours later, she was breathless with excitement, jerking her head up with surprise when Mrs. Jefferson, her mother’s housekeeper, entered her room with a pot of coffee, fried eggs, and toast on a breakfast tray.
“Morning, Ms. Rousseau,” she said, heading for the balcony, where Jax preferred to take her breakfast. “Looks like someone’s been up for a while.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Jefferson!” said Jax, realizing for the first time that her room was bright with morning sun. “What time is it?”
“Breakfast time. Eight thirty,” she said, setting up Jax’s breakfast on the small two-person bistro table outside. She’d brought a towel to dry off the tabletop and one chair. “Rain stopped an hour ago. It’s a beautiful morning!”
Still gripping the script, Jax stood up and stretched, leaning her neck from side to side to get the kinks out. “I’ve been reading.”
Mrs. Jefferson nodded, surveying the mess of tear strips, open boxes, and discarded scripts strewn on the floor around Jax’s desk. “I see.”
She shrugged sheepishly, holding Philadelphia Vice against her chest. “Might have found a winner.”
“A new movie?” asked the older woman with a surprised smile.
Jax shook her head. “No. TV.”
“Well, now. I didn’t know you produced TV shows,” said Mrs. Jefferson, heading back toward Jax’s bedroom door.
“I’ve never tried,” said Jax. “But…”
“There’s a first for everything,” said Mrs. Jefferson, giving Jax a kind smile before she slipped from her bedroom.
“Yes,” said Jax, placing the script on the table across from her like a dining companion and picking up her coffee cup with a bemused grin. “Yes, there is.”
Chapter 8
Gardener’s walk to Le Chateau was much faster on Wednesday afternoon, partly because he knew the way through the hedgerow and partly because he was irritatingly eager to get there. He hadn’t seen Jax since their kiss on Monday night and—fuck him—it had felt like a long time. He’d pathetically hoped she’d show up on Tuesday night with another six-pack of Abita and that they’d both admit that the kiss they’d shared was a lot more than a blip, but no such luck. The rain showers from Tuesday morning had returned by dusk, and he’d spent the evening alone and ornery, missing her company and hating himself