Show Time (Juniper Ridge Romantic Comedies #1) - Tawna Fenske Page 0,68
recourse?” I lick my lips, stalling for time. “Can we appeal or pay fines or something?”
Three pairs of Judson eyes swing toward me, but it’s Dean who speaks first. “I’ll handle it.” He looks from me to Mari to Cooper and back again, radiating confidence with every moment of eye contact. “I’ll take care of this, okay? Trust me.”
A shiver ripples up my arms, but I nod because that’s what Cooper and Mari are doing.
But deep down, I know it’s not that simple. Deep down, I wonder if I’m the last thing in the world Dean Judson needs right now.
If there’s more than one reason we shouldn’t be together.
Chapter 15
CONFESSIONAL 371.5
Judson, Dean: (CEO, Juniper Ridge)
Did I ever tell you what they called me at the first studio I worked for? Mister Fix-It. No, it had nothing to do with repairing shit. It’s that something would go wrong—a sponsor pulling out or a problem with the venue or whatever—and everyone would look to me. Like they thought I had some kind of magical power to solve it.
The thing is, I usually did. Probably ninety-eight percent of the time, I did. That other two percent, though…[scowling] yeah, I’m not perfect. Who the fuck is?
That evening, sitting on my back deck with crickets chirping in the field and a cold beer in my hand, I can’t stop thinking about Vanessa.
It’s nothing new since we started sleeping together, which I realize was supposed to be a one-time thing. But come on, that’s like having one taste of a perfect Wagyu ribeye with a 2008 Screaming Eagle Cabernet and then saying, “no more, thanks, I’m good.” Who does that?
Not me, which is currently the least of my problems.
I spent two hours on the phone with County officials, trying to sort out the bullshit with our filming permits. In the end, I got a tentative okay to continue what we’re doing.
“You’re not in the clear, yet,” the woman on the phone informed me. “There’s still an appeals process we’ll need to go through. And a thorough review of—”
“I’ll handle it,” I told her. “Whatever hoops you need me to jump through, I’ll take care of it.”
“Hmph,” she said and hung up.
Now I’m on my back deck, clutching one of the sample beers we got from a brewer we interviewed late this afternoon. I take a sip, savoring the dark, malty froth of the porter. It’s the creation of a guy named Griffin Walsh, a brewer out of Colorado. He’s got great plans for opening a brewery right here at Juniper Ridge. Great beer, too.
I rest the bottle on the arm of my Adirondack chair and gaze out over the sunset. So many colors, orange and pink and red and even bright magenta right at the edge of the mountains. I wish Vanessa were here to enjoy it with me. I’m supposed to head to her place later, but for now I’m enjoying this rare breath of quiet. I haven’t been alone much since moving to Oregon, and it’s a nice treat.
As though summoned by that thought, my phone pings with an incoming text. I pick it up, heart ticking excitedly at the thought of seeing Vanessa’s name on the screen.
It’s not Vanessa. It’s Andrea.
Hey, Dean. Any chance you’re free to talk?
Hell. I take another sip of beer and sigh. I could pretend I haven’t seen it. Just act like I don’t have my phone glued to my hand at all times.
But Andrea knows me better than that. She once took me to task for checking my phone during our anniversary dinner, which I know now was a dick move. At any rate, she knows I have a tough time disconnecting, so she’ll use that to her advantage. She’ll keep texting until I respond.
What do we need to talk about?
There, that’s plenty blunt. Hopefully enough that she’ll take the hint. I start to set the phone down, but there’s already a message coming in.
I’m moving to Oregon. Please call.
What the—
I stare at the screen, hoping I’ve read it wrong.
I’m moving to Oregon. Please call.
She can’t be serious. Andrea was born and raised in Hollywood. She’s been part of that world her whole life. No way could she leave that behind for this quiet, sleepy part of the Pacific Northwest.
I’m dialing her number before I have a chance to process that this is exactly what she wants. I’m sure Mari would have a name for whatever psychological phenomenon it is, but I’m too annoyed to care.