Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
R eagan pulled her tear-streaked face from Ike’s chest to study him. Brody looked with her, consoled by the fact that the older man’s color was good—not that the muted green hospital gown was doing him any favors.
“What h-happened?” she asked with a sniffle.
“Overexertion. Dehydration.” Almost too quiet to hear, Ike added, “That’s the polite way to put it.” He looked past Reagan to Brody and winked. “You’re not the only ladies’ man, hotshot.”
Brody bit his lip to keep from smiling.
“What are you talking about?” Reagan backed out of Ike’s arms.
“I had a lady friend over and things got?—”
“Oh my God.” She sprang away from the bed as if it’d caught fire. She shot Brody an incredulous look, probably because he’d lost his ability to contain his laughter. “You mean, you were…? Don’t tell me.”
“I’m only human.” Ike shrugged. “I’m fine. They said I can go home after one more hour of observation. Just to make sure I don’t reinjure myself. Without Dottie Danders here, I don’t see how that’s possible.”
Brody laughed again, earning a spicy glare from Reagan before she turned it on her grandfather.
“You have to be more careful. I thought you were dead.”
Brody would rather see her angry than with that lost, forlorn expression on her face. He never ever wanted to witness such despair again. It’d nearly killed him that he couldn’t make everything okay.
“Me too, but what a way to go.” Ike released a dry chuckle which incensed Reagan more.
“I’ll take you home when you’re released. I mean…” Her eyes jerked to Brody. “If you don’t mind waiting?”
“You have to ask?” What kind of an asshole did she take him for? “Of course I’ll wait with you.”
Her lips flinched into a smile of gratitude.
It took two hours for the hospital staff to release Ike. Brody was typically a night owl, but today had wiped him out. After yardwork and drinks with Dante, he’d been happy to go to bed at nine. He wasn’t sure what that said about his wild side. Sort of threw him off to notice that a domestic existence paired with an earlier-than-usual bedtime wasn’t as unpleasant as he’d formerly believed. Was he getting old?
Then again, one look at Ike proved that “old” was a state of mind.
Once Reagan’s grandfather was back at his own house and she’d made sure he had everything he needed, she turned to Brody. “I can’t go to New York in the morning.”
“Why the hell not?” came Ike’s reply.
“You’re not supposed to be listening,” she snapped. Ike was sitting in his armchair, television on. He’d claimed to be wide awake from the evening’s activities.
“What’s in New York?” he asked.
“Nothing she can’t miss,” Brody interjected. No way was she obligated to travel with him when she wanted to be here with her grandfather. “Charity event my cousin is throwing.”
“That sounds fancy.” Ike’s eyebrows rose. “Formal attire?”
“Ike.” Her tone was a warning.
“Do you have a formal dress?”
“I bought her one,” Brody said, unable to keep from fanning the flames. He wouldn’t obligate her to attend, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want her to come with him.
“You have to go.” Ike shrugged like the topic was closed.
“I’m not leaving you. What if?—”
The doorbell rang and everyone looked at the door.
“There’s Dottie now.” Ike moved to put his recliner down.
Brody stayed him with a hand. “I’ll get it.” He opened the front door to find a coiffed woman standing there, likely younger than Ike. Her white wavy hair was styled, and she wore a pair of wide-legged cropped jeans and a pink floral blouse. Class from head to toe.
“When I left him, he was fine, I swear.” She clutched the handles of her purse with white knuckles, her eyes widening when she saw Ike. “I can’t believe you didn’t call me!”
“I’m fine,” he said. His new mantra.
“He’s stubborn.” Dottie pointed at him accusingly.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” Reagan said, droll.
Dottie noticed Brody and did a double take. “Hey. You’re that writer. The wealthy one.”
“Brody Crane,” he introduced himself.
“That’s it! Oh my word, how exciting! Brody Crane in the flesh.”
“I’m over here, if you still care,” Ike muttered.
“Oh, stop it.” She waved him off. “I’m not going to run off with this one. He’s too young for me.” Her attention turned to Reagan next. “You must be Ike’s granddaughter. He speaks of you often. I have wanted to meet you for weeks.”
“Weeks?” Reagan sent an accusing glare at her grandfather, who started whistling. “He didn’t mention you.”
“By my request,” Dottie stated, unfazed. “I know you are protective of him. And your grandmother sounded like an amazing woman.”
“She was,” Reagan said, her tone softening.
“I am planning on staying with him for a few days.”
“You are?” Ike asked.
“Did you think you could text me that I nearly killed you and I’d simply wish you good luck?”
Brody snorted.
“Anyway. Would you mind bringing my suitcase inside, Brody?”
“Yes, ma’am.” It was official. He liked Dottie Danders.
“I know you have to work and don’t have time for this old codger,” Dottie was saying to Reagan when Brody returned with the suitcase.
“She’s traveling in the morning, and I’ve already taken up most of her night,” Ike said as he shuffled over to Dottie. “And don’t tell me I’m not allowed to walk. The hospital said I was fine. And to hydrate next time.” He winked at Dottie, who blushed.
“We’ll be more careful in the future. Thinks he’s Superman,” she said with a huff.
Reagan paled while Brody swallowed another laugh. Seriously. How fucking adorable were these two?
“At least get some sleep,” Brody said to Reagan. “You can decide in the morning if you’re going or not.”
“He’s in good hands,” Dottie promised Reagan.
“The best hands,” Ike lilted. He palmed Reagan’s shoulder. “Your job is not to make sure I don’t die, darlin’. Your job is to live life to the fullest. A charity ball in New York with a gentleman is exactly where you should be tomorrow night. You can call me on the videophone for proof of life.”
“I’ll text you updates,” Dottie promised. “But not too many. I agree with Ike. You should enjoy yourself. A ball, really?”
“An event,” Reagan corrected, appearing bemused by Dottie.
Brody could see why. The other woman was instantly likable. Good vibes emanated off her tall frame. “I’ve arranged a private jet. She can sleep in as long as she needs to.”
Dottie gasped. “The stuff of fairy tales!”
Brody didn’t know about the fairy tale part but wouldn’t deny that Reagan was owed some of the good stuff. From what he’d witnessed she mostly kept her head down and worked.
When Reagan was comfortable with leaving Ike and Dottie alone—as comfortable as she could be given the circumstances—Brody wasted no time maneuvering her toward his unmade bed. The sheets were thrown back from when they’d clambered out of it nearly four hours ago.
“I thought I was tired earlier. I’m exhausted.” She turned to leave his room. “I should crash in my own bed.”
“Disagree.” He physically turned her around. “Bed. Now.”
She yawned and sat on the mattress, her eyelids growing visibly heavier by the second. He took off her shoes, removed her jeans. When she pulled her bra out from under her shirt, he took that too.
“I hope you know it’s taking a feat of superhuman strength not to peel that shirt up and kiss your perfect nipples.”
“I’ll be asleep before you can,” Reagan mumbled, tucking a pillow under her head. “I can’t believe this. My own grandfather.”
“Life goals. May we be so lucky to have great sex at that age.”
Eyes shut, she wrinkled her nose. “Ew.”
He kissed her. “I caught a second wind. I’m going to write.”
“’Kay.”
“Will the screen bother you if I sit in bed?” Writing in bed was typically reserved for hotel rooms, but he didn’t want to leave her. Even the living room or kitchen was too far away.
“Nope.” It was the last word she said before she drifted off.
He fetched his laptop and a fresh bottle of water and propped himself up in bed to write. Tonight, the words flowed, not so much to him but through him.
Home, he wrote, is more than the structure in which we live. More than the bedroom where we sleep. We can find home in any state or country, wherever we are surrounded by the people we love.
He paused to take in a sleeping Reagan. Her long lashes shadowing her cheeks, her lips slightly parted as she breathed deeply. Had he found home even though he hadn’t been searching for it?
He frowned at the blinking cursor on the page and tried to decide if he wanted to admit that to the screen. Without typing another word, he closed his laptop, set it aside, and curled in next to Reagan to sleep.
Reagan hadn’t woken up next to someone in bed in a while. This morning, her eyelashes had fluttered open to the tantalizing scent of coffee. She’d been disoriented for a second before remembering her grandfather’s visit to the hospital last night. “Did I sleep too late?”
“You have plenty of time,” Brody had reassured her. “Thought this might help.”
She’d called her grandfather while sipping her coffee and counting her blessings. There were so many to be grateful for. Ike was healthy—a lot healthier than she’d previously believed. She had slept like a baby in Brody Crane’s bed. And she’d been nursing a hot cup of coffee from that bed before boarding a private flight.
Incredible.
Now she was in the backseat of a dark SUV with a driver named Bruce. Brody’s driver. They’d eaten at a delicious French bistro on the Upper East Side and were on their way back to Brody’s penthouse, which she’d seen briefly before they’d left for lunch.
Brody gave his request to the driver, a location ending in the word “Studio,” and Reagan felt her eyebrows lift. “I thought we were going back to your place.”
“We’re making a pitstop to the set of Loving and Living ,” he answered. “I promise I’ll have you back in case you need a nap before we go to the event. But for now, we have to drop in on Keaton Killdeer.”
“Your mom?” Of course, she knew Keaton Killdeer was his mom, but the words had burst forth from her lips on their own. She was meeting Brody Crane’s mom? She wasn’t sure how to feel about that.
“She found out I was in town. Somehow ,” he said with emphasis as he threw a glance to their driver. “I wonder how that happened, Bruce .”
“Hey, she pays me too, kid,” Bruce answered in a thick Brooklyn accent.
“She can’t leave the studio,” Brody told Reagan. “If I don’t go to her, she will send armed men in an unmarked van to kidnap me. Unless she’s already paid Bruce to do it.”
The driver laughed, his crinkle-eyed smile evident in the rearview mirror.
Butterflies fluttered to life low in her stomach. She wasn’t overly familiar with meeting moms. Her own had been absent for years, and Dustin’s mother had passed away before Reagan met him.
“I thought you were a rogue adventurer with no need for parental supervision,” she said, trying to downplay her nerves. She reached for her purse and checked her reflection in the mirror. She looked like a woman who’d been up too late fussing over her grandfather, had boarded a plane groggy from a patchy night’s sleep, and hadn’t slowed down since.
Perfect , she thought with an eye roll.
“She’s not as possessive as she is used to having her demands met. Superstars are like terrorists except they send expensive chocolates on holidays.”
“I know that’s right,” Bruce chimed in. Brody shot Reagan a what-did-I-tell-ya glance.
Her pleasantly full belly was slightly queasy at the prospect of meeting Brody’s mother, and not because she was famous. When Bruce drove onto the studio lot and around to the back doors, Reagan blurted out, “I’m fine waiting here.”
“Not that Bruce isn’t great company, but I thought you’d enjoy a tour of the set. She loves to meet new people.”
Reagan opted not to make a fuss over going inside. To be fair, she wasn’t as curious about the set as she was to meet Keaton Killdeer.
The studio was active, with people buzzing around in headsets dodging set pieces and lighting fixtures. In a strange way, it reminded her of a Home Depot. There was less glitz and glamour behind the scenes than she’d expected.
Brody stopped by the craft cart and offered her a donut, which she declined. He bypassed the snacks as well, leading her by the hand to a line of dressing room doors. As they passed by a woman with a clipboard, she called out, “Hey, Brody!”
“That’s Chuck. She’s been a writer on the show for like, twenty years,” he explained before rapping twice on his mother’s dressing room door. “Ma! It’s me.”
“Come in, darling!”
He twisted the knob and let himself in, dropping Reagan’s hand to palm her back as he closed the door behind them. Keaton sat on a high-backed stool, tissues tucked into her collar protecting her shirt as a makeup artist added the finishing touches to her lips.
“Thank you, Michelina,” Keaton called after the makeup artist, who’d turned to leave. Not before she did a triple take at Brody. Michelina sent an appreciative gaze down his body and back up before snapping her attention over to Reagan.
She couldn’t blame the other woman for staring. He was as stunningly attractive as he’d been the first time Reagan had seen him from Jean’s front window. Not that she’d become used to his hotness, but it had become more familiar to her. She had managed to keep her tongue from lolling out of her mouth in public, anyway.
“Who do we have here?” Keaton asked once Michelina had gone. She plucked the tissues from the collar of a stunning white pencil dress hugging her lithe frame. Her hair was a vibrant shade of red, not a single strand out of place. Brody had his mom to thank for his good looks, at least in part. Reagan hadn’t met Octavius yet. She was suddenly curious what he looked like.
“Reagan Palmer.” She offered her hand.
Keaton regarded it for a beat before offering a limp shake.
“Reagan is my date to the charity thing tonight. She’s also my handywoman, muse, and temporary roommate,” Brody said, easy as you please.
Reagan thought she felt the temperature lower in the room when Keaton’s brow arched. Outwardly, the other woman showed no sign of alarm. “From the Midwestern town where you’re squatting?”
Ah, there was a sign.
“One and the same. Get this—she used to live in the house I bought. I hired her to help with repairs and she ended up staying.”
“Hmm.” Keaton offered a slow blink.
Reagan’s smile was so brittle she swore she felt it crumble at the edges.
“It’s good to see you.” Keaton turned to Brody. “I am going to give you a check for Eli’s charity. Dante called about it, and I promised him I’d send it with you.”
“Can’t you Venmo him?” Brody asked.
“No.” Keaton rose to fetch her purse and pulled out her checkbook. “Is five hundred enough?”
“I’m sure Eli appreciates whatever you can give him,” Brody answered.
“I was going to give a quarter of a million, but then I figured if I’m going to give a quarter, might as well give half.”
“Half a million dollars?” Reagan repeated, her voice hoarse. She’d first assumed “five hundred” referred to single dollars.
“Mm-hmm. Standard giving at this sort of thing.”
“Above standard. Keaton Killdeer isn’t one to be outshined,” Brody muttered.
“It’s impossible to outshine me.” Keaton handed over the check, which Brody folded and stuffed into his jeans pocket as if it were a twenty-dollar bill. “I’d join you if I could. We have a late night here. The crew suffered technical hiccups yesterday morning, which delayed filming. We’re still catching up.”
Another knock came at the door, but it opened before Keaton could ask who it was. A woman breezed in, her eyes on the script in her hands. “Hey, Keat, can we run the lines for the…scene…with…” She blinked from Brody to Reagan. “Oh. Hello.”
“Hey, Lexi,” Brody said with a familiarity that made Reagan’s stomach flip.
“Hiya, BC.”