chapter 2
“So how is this going to work again?” Charlotte asked, glancing around. She wasn’t so famous that everyone she passed would
be able to identify her—especially without her husband at her side, towering over her—but there were a lot of Lakers fans
in the area who would know who she was. Someone was bound to notice her.
Julian clasped her hand more tightly, steadying her. He’d driven her over to Westwood, one of the most popular neighborhoods
in Los Angeles. It was a fun place to hang out, with trendy shops and eateries, movie theaters, the Hammer Museum and UCLA—and
there was usually a crowd of people milling about the streets, especially on a warm spring evening like this one.
Tonight proved no different.
“I texted my friend, told him where we’ll be. He’ll snap a few pics and email them to various online sites.”
She smoothed her dress with her free hand. “How do I look? Okay?” She’d decided she couldn’t go out without washing her hair,
so she’d ended up showering, and he’d visited with her mother while she put on makeup.
“Much better,” he said. “Relax.”
She slid her sunglasses higher on her nose. There hadn’t been anything she could do, even with makeup, to hide her swollen
eyes, so she had to cover them. “Where are we going?”
He scanned the crowd. Now that he’d dragged her out among the wolves, he seemed determined to make sure she didn’t get eaten,
and his protectiveness helped. “To a little French bistro.”
“Is the food good there? Because I’m suddenly famished.”
“I’m not surprised. Your mother said you haven’t eaten for a week.”
“I’ve eaten,” she argued, but when he challenged that statement with a pointed look, she broke eye contact. “Just . . . not
a lot,” she admitted.
As they reached the restaurant, a man stepped out of the shadow of the building and started taking pictures of them. Julian
feigned outrage at the invasion of their privacy and yelled for him to go away—all while making sure he angled aside so the
lens could catch her face well enough to make her recognizable—and the attention made others turn to look. Soon, several people
were murmuring about them and lifting their phones for photos.
Charlotte forced a smile as she clung to Julian. “You’re sure this is a good idea, right?” For a second, she was afraid this
would mean Cliff would never take her back. She knew she probably shouldn’t want that, not after what he’d done, but she did.
“You’ve got this,” he responded.
“Charlotte! Charlotte Jackson! Over here! Is that your new man?” someone yelled from not too far down the street.
Charlotte struggled to broaden her smile as she turned. “Just a friend I went to high school with!” she called back.
“Perfect. You’re doing great,” Julian told her and led her inside.
While they waited for the hostess, the door opened behind them and a group of teenagers who’d seen the commotion on the street poked their heads in.
“Do you think that’s her?” . . . “No, dude. She’s not that tall.
” . . . “You’re just used to seeing her with Clifford Jackson, who’s, like, six-nine!
” . . . “I heard someone call her name.” One of them tried to get a snapshot of her and might have succeeded had the manager not shooed them out.
“This isn’t going to be as bad as I thought,” she told Julian after the hostess had seated them. She probably couldn’t have
braved going out on her own, but she felt safe with him.
“It’ll get even easier from here,” he said. “You just have to take one small step forward every day.”
The waitress came to bring water. “Everything looks delicious,” Charlotte said, scanning the menu.
She chose the French onion soup and pistachio-topped salad. He chose the salmon and lentils with capers.
“Look, this place is also a cooking school.” She pointed at the back of the menu.
He leaned over to read the information. “I didn’t realize that.”
“They offer classes—the Art of Making Pasta, Date Night, Springtime in Paris. It’d be fun to sign up for one.”
“Maybe you should.”
She frowned. “I have to finish my book before I do anything else.”
He spread his napkin in his lap. “Your mother mentioned you were on deadline. How’s your second book coming along?”
“Great,” she lied.
He called her bluff with a skeptical look, but she nodded, trying to convince him.
“Your first book was good,” he said.
Her hand froze with her water halfway to her mouth. “You read it?”
“I did. I downloaded it shortly after Sloane told me you’d been published.”
“That’s so nice!” Her own husband hadn’t read it. Cliff had acted proud of her, but he wasn’t much of a reader.
“I knew how much it would mean to you to see your name on the cover,” Julian said.
“Too bad I didn’t use my maiden name on the cover,” she grumbled.
“You can change it for the next one.”
“Not really. Not without hurting sales. An author’s name is more than a name. It’s a brand. If I go back to Williams, the
readers who liked my first book might not even realize I’ve written another one.”
“So you’ll stick with Jackson,” he said with a shrug. “No big deal. Anyway, I liked the story. You’re going to be fine.”
She took a drink before putting down her glass. “Do you typically read romance?” she asked with a grin.
He winked at her. “Only yours so far, but I might read more in the future.”
When the waitress came to pick up their menus, they agreed to get a bottle of white wine, and he ordered it. “So . . . are
you going to continue living with your parents?” he asked.
“For the time being, I guess.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Because you’re hoping Clifford will take you back?”
“Yes.” She gave him a pitiful look before reversing her answer. “No.”
“It would be a mistake to go back to him, Char.”
“I know. But when you love someone . . .”
“He’d just dump you again, and maybe by then you’d have kids, which would make it that much harder.”
She knew he was right. “Did you see that picture of him online with Marija Vidmar?”
“I don’t follow him.”
“Then how’d you know we split up?”
“My parents said something about it. My dad’s a big Lakers fan. I prefer college ball. Who’s Marija Vidmar?”
“Only a model,” she said. “And the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“In the whole world, huh?” He grinned. “Wow, that is beautiful.”
She called up the picture on her phone and turned it to show him. “See?”
“She’s not bad,” he allowed. “But Sloane told me Clifford picked you out of the crowd at one of his games and sent someone
over to ask for your number.”
“He did.”
“So something must’ve caught his eye, and it couldn’t have been your sparkling personality.” He waved a hand. “Anyway, who cares? Let her
have him. You have a book to write. That’s what you need to focus on—the opportunities that lie ahead of you.”
If only she had the confidence she needed to make the most of those opportunities. “I don’t think I can write it, Jules. I . . .
I’m going to blow the only thing I’ve ever really wanted to do.”
“No, you’re not,” he said, growing resolute again. “You can do it. Your first book proves it.”
“My first book only proves that having a big social media following can turbocharge a writer’s career—and I got that by dating
and then marrying Cliff.”
“Your book was good,” he reiterated.
She wanted to believe him, but the doubt was too crippling. She took another drink of water before asking, “What about you?
Do you still have an art gallery in Moab?”
“It’s not a full gallery—just my work. It gives me a direct outlet in a place that sees a lot of tourists, thanks to the national parks in the area.”
“Who works the store when you’re off taking pictures?”
“I have an employee. She can’t be there all the time, of course, so she just tailors her hours to fit her schedule. That’s
how a lot of places do it down there. And we also sell online.”
“I’ve seen some of your work,” she said. “You’re incredibly talented.”
“I love what I do, mostly because it gives me the opportunity to travel.”
“You’ve been all over the world.”
“I’ve seen a lot of places, but there are still destinations on my list.”
“Like . . .?”
“Lencóis Maranhenses National Park, for one.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s in Brazil. There’re too many places to name, actually. The world is a big place.”
It was a big place, with so much to discover—and yet she’d been living her life as a satellite to someone else. Had she truly been
happy?
She’d been grateful, felt lucky because so many women would be eager to trade places with her. But Cliff never seemed to care
much about her goals and dreams. His were much more important. They always came first.
“What are you thinking?” Julian asked.
The waitress appeared with their food. Charlotte leaned back and waited until the woman had set down their plates before responding.
“I’m thinking I need to quit wallowing in self-pity and start writing my next book.”
He seemed pleased to hear it, but then the smile slipped from his face. “Wait a second . . . Did you say start writing your next book? When’s it due?”
She gave him a sheepish look. “In three months.”
He sat back. “Can anyone write a book in that amount of time?”
“It’s possible,” she said. “But it won’t be easy—especially for a newbie like me.”
When he got home, Julian found his mother sitting on the couch in a robe watching TV. “Where’s Dad?” he asked.
“Went to bed.”
“It’s barely ten. He feeling okay?”
Although his mother was sitting in the dark, the TV made it possible to see her face as the colored lights flickered across
it. “I think so. He got up early. And he typically beats me to bed these days.”
“You weren’t waiting up for me . . .” Julian said. She’d been so interested when he’d said he was going to visit Charlotte, he’d half expected it.
“Maybe I was,” she admitted with a laugh. “I’ve been curious. How’d it go with Charlotte?”
“Better than I expected. She’s resilient. She has a tough road ahead of her, but she’ll rise to the occasion.”
“She must’ve been surprised to see you. It’s been a long time.”