Page 5 of Falling for Grace

“I’m good. And what about you Mr. Hollywood? I’m going to need you to sign something so I can eBay it when you win your first Oscar.” I pass him a salmon slice and, picking up another piece, lay it down on the board in front of me.

“Yeah. It’s getting busy. I changed agents recently, which has made a huge difference. I’ve even got a personal assistant to help. It’s surreal and it’s finally happening.”

I look up at him and he grins. There’s always a littleWhat ifthought that pops into my head, but I am so unbelievably proud of him. It gives me the warm and fuzzies knowing how much this means to him. Growing up Brandon was always obsessed with anything to do with the movies, from the age of 5 he had declared that he was going to be an actor, and that’s what his life became, making that dream a reality. As he matured his love of the craft had grown, and he loved to explore the characters, what drove them, why they made the choices they did. We would sit and discuss films for hours. Brandon loved to escape into the world of films, where you could be anything or anyone. There was a freedom that had always appealed to him.

“I’m still taking responsibility, FYI. If it weren’t forThe Last Walk, you would never have fallen in love with acting.” He drops the spoon in the bowl with a groan.

“Oh, God. I forgot about that.”

“Forgot about it!” I exclaim laughing. “That was your acting debut. Actually, I don’t need the autograph—now that would get some money.”The Last Walkwas our attempt at a movie. All the kids we grew up with created a gritty—okay, gritty was pushing it—a highly predictable, cheesy thriller in which one of Brandon's friends from school played a serial killer and killed one of the neighbours.

“You wouldn’t dare.”

I look at him seriously. His hand moves quickly, as he grabs my waist and tickles me above my hip in the spot that always drives me crazy. I squirm and squeal, batting him off. “Stop. Stop. You’re getting salmon goop on me,” I wheeze, bending forward laughing.

“Nope you wouldn’t. Besides, you would have to show people your acting.”

It was my turn to groan. Whereas Brandon was a natural, I was not.

“I wonder whether Mum has that tape. Mu–”

“Don’t you even dare.” I shove my hand over his mouth and turn around to Sue, who is watching us and smiling. I turn back to Brandon. His green eyes shine with laughter; I widen mine, communicating my warning. The air between us shifts as my brain catches up to the fact that part of me is touching his lips. I drop my hand and focus on the salmon.

“So, you got the promotion?”

“Wait, how on earth did you know about that?” I take another strip of smoked salmon out of the packet, dolloping on the cream cheese and dill mix spreading it across the fish. Brandon then takes it, rolls it up and chops it into bite-sized pieces. We have our own little production line going.

“Through the grapevine, Grace. Come on, you know how these things work. Your mum tells my mum, and Mum tells me.”

“Not your brother?” I ask, surprised that old big mouth outside hadn’t blurted all about my private life, knowing full well it winds me up something rotten.

“God, no.” He is giving me a funny look. “Danny?”

“You got another brother I don’t know about?”

His mouth turns up at the corners, but not one of his full Hollywood smiles. “Danny doesn’t tell me anything. If I want to know about you, he tells me to pick up the phone and ask you myself. But I know where that’s going to get me.”

I tense, stopping my salmon preparation. The hurt is clear in his tone, which makes my heart ache.

“Your voicemail, every single time, Grace.”

I am so very aware that his mum can hear us. She is standing by the sink watching the exchange.

“I’m just going to take Ted a top-up,” she says, excusing herself. We all know Ted does not need another top-up; she’s giving us some space.

My relationship with Brandon is…complicated.

As soon as she leaves the room, I put some much-needed distance between us and head to the sink to wash my hands. Turning on the tap and squirting soap, I rub my hands harshly to get the salmon off them.

“Not every single time, I think I answered–”

“That one time when you were pissed and couldn’t see my international number. So, tell me Grace, why do I have a relationship with your voicemail and not you? When was the last time you returned my calls?”

I watch helplessly as he stalks toward me. I step out of the way and grab a tea towel. “Isn’t it easier this way?”

“For who, exactly?” His green eyes darken and I can tell immediately he’s pissed. “I see you at family events once, maybe twice a year, and then you ignore me. We used to talk every week, Grace, every week. So why?”

I stare at him.

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