Page 23 of When Stars Fall

“No.” I flush and glance at Haven, who is following this conversation. “When he started talking about certain people and things, I switched it off.”

“Before you see him tomorrow, you should watch it. I’m not sure how you’ll react.” She picks at the blanket on Haven’s bed.

“Was it—did he talk more about Isaac?” My sister will understand that’s not something I can watch.

“No. It was about you and him. Mostly about him. But you should watch it. Really. People will assume you know.”

“Can I watch it?” Haven asks when the room grows quiet.

“No,” Nikki and I say in unison.

Her YouTube searches will need some heavy restrictions with the two of us thrown into the public eye again.

“Tomorrow,” I say. “I’ll watch it tomorrow before I pick him up.”

I don’t answer Wyatt’s question. We’re spending time together so I can determine if he is capable of being involved with his daughter. We aren’t getting back together. To encourage any more closeness would be wrong.

Chapter Ten

Wyatt

Thirteen Years Ago

From the set ofLove Letters from Spain, I flew to England to prep for my chef biopic about Gordon Lampton. He’s a cool guy, but learning to cook and mastering a British accent was time-consuming. After arriving from London last night, I’m enjoying some time with two of my favorite people. Anna is coming for dinner later, assuming Isaac and Ellie have found me a suitable cooking challenge to show off my abilities. They’ve been scheming at the computer for a while now, and I have no idea what they’ve picked.

Isaac snatches the paper off the printer and brings it to me at the island, where I’m working on my knife skills with a slew of vegetables strewn around me.

“I’m not even sure I like haggis,” he says.

“Not exactly your mom’s curry.” I scan the ingredients over his shoulder.

As first-generation immigrants, Isaac’s parents moved to America as kids. Other than passing on their love of Indian cuisine, speaking Hindi at extended family gatherings, and sharing with him their incomprehensible obsession with cricket, they haven’t encouraged their son to delve too deeply into his Indian heritage. A strange dichotomy for him, to be American and to have other people often treat him asother. Bugs the shit out of me to see it, and I’m not the one it’s happening to.

“The day you can cook better than my mom is the day I marry you,” Isaac says.

“Generally, I don’t swing that way. Unless you’re paying me. Then I can swing any way you want.” I grab my phone and text my driver, Kyle, the shopping list. Then I message Gordon a plea for discreet help. Haggis can’t be that hard. Ellie and Isaac won’t get the best of me with their menu request.

“Beer?” I get one out of the fridge and tilt the bottle toward him. Sober cooking isn’t much fun.

“Nah, I took an oxy. It’ll kick in soon.”

“Ellie!” I yell. Sometimes my huge house isn’t so great. She peers at me over the couch. “Beer?”

“Yes, please!” she calls.

“Did she just say please?” Isaac slides his phone onto the island.

“She did indeed.” I grab her a beer, pop off the top, and walk it over. When I pass it to her, I kiss her forehead. A swell of protectiveness rushes over me. Nothing I wouldn’t do for her.

When I return to the kitchen, Isaac says, “I can’t believe she thanked you for getting her drunk.”

“I kinda like it.” One of the best things about Ellie is her easygoing nature. She’s the opposite of my sister, who blows into the house like a thundercloud. Not that I blame her. She was stuck with my parents longer than me. Thinking of her reminds me of the low-level tension vibrating off Isaac since he arrived this afternoon. “What’s up, man? You’ve been kinda weird today. How’d the pilot go the other week? You never texted me back.”

“It was whatever. My agent said they’re not sure how well I’ll test with audiences.”

“Say the word, and I’ll make some calls. If we form our own production company, we can do whatever the fuck we want. I’m starting to think that’s the way to go if these fuckwits won’t let you in the door anymore.”

“We’re twenty-five, and we’re both disorganized as shit. Who’s going to run it? My parents?”

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