Chapter Eighteen
She got it.
Miles realized he was staring at her but couldn’t seem to stop. Not once he’d seen that gleam of understanding in her eye.
She really did get it. She got the deeper parts of what he tried to do, and how he fashioned everything around that, that no matter where he set a show, or what the background story was, or who was cast in it, the dynamic was ever and always the human aspect.
His characters grew, learned, and when necessary—but only when necessary—changed.
The plot specifics he mostly left to the writing rooms, but the human story, the character growth, he never let up on those.
He knew a lot of folks in his business thought he was over-involved, that once the show was rolling, he should step back, let the people he’d selected and hired carry it.
But he was incapable of doing that, and he made sure that all those people knew it.
That they knew he was going to be around, that he would be participating every step of the way.
The actors, the writers, they all knew it going in, and those who didn’t or couldn’t work that way didn’t last. The success of his first two shows had earned him some leeway, but the roaring success of Stonewall had solidified his place in the echelon, and nobody questioned how involved he was anymore.
He’s got the magic. Don’t question it, just enjoy the ride.
He smiled inwardly at the memory of those words, spoken by someone in that Stonewall writer’s room as he’d left one day.
He’d thought it a bit overstated—it was more work than magic—but it had pleased him nevertheless.
Maybe some part of him believed it was, at least a tiny bit, magic, the way the idea had grown out of simply staring at a painting.
And then, before he’d realized he was going to, he was telling her about the note that had come with the paperwork from the art gallery.
She took the abrupt jump in subject in stride. “A note? From Kyle Rafferty himself?”
He nodded. “A very…emotional one. It says a lot about how much he loved this place and his family. I brought it with me, if you’d like to see it.”
“Oh! I’d love to, but…Maggie and the family, they should see it first. It’s their legacy.”
He smiled, widely, both because she’d arrived at the same conclusion he had and that she understood why.
“I know,” he said quietly. “I plan on heading out there tomorrow, to show it to her.”
“Wonderful,” she said, smiling as widely as he had.
“I…would you want to come along?” He’d almost said “with me,” but had chickened out at the last moment. And hastily tried to give her a good reason. “She knows you a lot better than she knows me, so she’d probably like someone…familiar involved. I have a feeling it’s going to be kind of emotional.”
He had to stop and swallow, trying to rid his throat of that lump that had appeared when he thought of the words of that note.
“Was it for you?” Riley asked, looking at him as if she’d read him perfectly.
He didn’t even try to deny it. “Very.”
She was quiet for a long moment before she said, very quietly, “It’s wonderful that you understand what it will mean to Maggie, to all the Raffertys. Kyle meant so very much to them, and died far, far too young.”
She lowered her gaze then, but he didn’t think he was wrong for thinking those deep blue eyes had taken on a sheen, and the fact that she blinked rather rapidly a few times told him he was right.
“I remember him, so clearly, even after twenty years.”
“You knew him?” He knew he sounded startled. So he let the sheepishness that had followed show when he added, “Of course you did. Everybody in this town knows everybody in this town.”
“Actually,” she said, sounding only half-kidding, “I had a serious crush on Kyle Rafferty, when I was in high school. He was so handsome in his uniform, and when you threw in that brilliant artistic talent of his, he was…”
She waved a hand as if words failed her.
“Irresistible?”
“Pretty much,” she admitted. “But boys my age bored me, then.”
He couldn’t help wondering if all this meant she’d only be interested in an older man even now. He’d always kind of thought once you were past thirty you pretty much knew what you wanted and needed, and where you found it didn’t matter so much.
“Do they still?” he asked, keeping his tone carefully neutral.
“They’ve learned a lot since then,” she said, with a light laugh. “They don’t seem so…one dimensional.”
“So you require…layers, in a man you’re interested in.”
He could only hope she’d never read the in-depth interview he’d done with a reporter they’d told him was too big a name to pass up.
Since he’d just been getting on his feet in the business at the time he’d done it.
And gone a little overboard in explaining himself.
Not that it had come out badly, and the reporter, unlike many who came into things like that with their mind already made up, had been kind enough, although a little condescending to the eager newcomer.
But in discussing his projects, the reporter had used that phrase. Layers. Flint’s work, especially his characters, have layers, and that contributes greatly to the depth of the stories he tells.
But the word seemed to fit here, so he’d borrowed it. And it made Riley look at him thoughtfully, for a long, silent moment.
Talk about layers…
“I never thought about it quite like that, but yes.” Her mouth quirked.
Deliciously. “I had a horse once, who was brilliant in the arena. Not quite King level,” she said, nodding toward her obviously beloved buckskin, “but close. The problem was that was all he was good at. Outside the arena he was stubborn, cranky, stupid, and bordered on vicious. To humans and other animals, from dogs to chickens.”
“So he had one single good layer.”
She nodded. “And the rest was unbearable. Especially when I had King coming up, and he’s as close to perfect as a horse can get.”
“So what did you do with him?”
“Sold him to someone willing to put up with it. She did all right with him, but not King level.”
Of all the horses they had seen to this evening, she had spent the most time with the clearly friendly King. She’d practically cooed at him, something that had startled him coming from the usually businesslike woman.
And when she stroked his neck and kissed his muzzle, you about went ballistic.
He couldn’t deny his reaction had been rather…fierce. Just the sight of those hands sliding, those lips puckering, had him thinking things he had no business thinking.
At least, until he could get her to stop thinking she was too old for him.
And then what?
He asked himself the question rather sternly.
Because when it came down to it, just because he’d been spending time here since Jackson had landed on the Baylor ranch didn’t mean he belonged here.
His life was still on the West Coast, and hers was here.
And would always be here, he had no doubt about that. He couldn’t imagine her anyplace else.
Himself, on the other hand…
He spoke hurriedly, asking a necessary question before he could say something else beyond stupid. “Can I call you, about the time for the Rafferty thing tomorrow? If you really want to go, that is.”
“I’d love to, if you don’t mind.”
Mind? Hardly. “Umm…number?”
She looked a little disconcerted but laughed. “I guess that would help.”
Since her phone was back in the tack room, he manually entered the number she gave him into his phone. He wondered what it must be like not to be tethered to the device 24/7. It wasn’t the first time he’d thought about that, but it was certainly the first time he done it so…wistfully.
And he found himself so pleased that he would see her again tomorrow, that he was able to mostly shrug off Nic’s teasing and Jackson’s assessing glances as they headed back to the Baylor place.
“Careful, there,” Nic said. “Riley said you were a good hand, so we’re liable to put you to work while you’re here.”
“Fine with me,” he said. “It felt good, doing some serious, physical work for a change.”
“And the scenery wasn’t too bad, either,” Jackson drawled.
“It’s a beautiful place,” he answered, knowing perfectly well the ranch wasn’t what Jackson had been referring to.
Both Jackson and Nic laughed simultaneously. They were so in tune with each other, it was amazing.
“I’m really happy for you two,” he said suddenly, without thought, because he didn’t need to think about it, it came straight from his heart.
Both of them turned to look at him, Jackson only a glance since he was driving. But there was no doubting the sincerity in that deep, familiar-to-millions voice when he said, “Thank you, my friend.”
Nic simply reached out and touched his hand. “Yes, thank you.”
She looked as if she might say more, but then stopped. He was glad she had, because he had the definite feeling if she’d spoken, it would have been something along the lines of “Now we just need to get you fixed up.”
And if his first thought was Riley Garrett, well, that was only because he’d just been with her.
Maybe.