Page 6 of When Stars Fall

“Maybe they deserve to be reignited.” A cocky, playful smile bursts onto his face.

This time when I switch off the TV, I do it with finality. We wouldn’t have needed to be reignited if the jackass chose me instead of an 8 ball.

Emotions dash through me, hard to identify. Anger, for sure. Fear. But under those is one I don’t want to consider because it feels a lot like hope. What could I hope for? He’s lying. Wyatt lies. He’s not sober. Drugs have been part of his life for as long as he can remember. His constant companions were his prescription pill bottle stuffed with whatever he could get his hands on and a water bottle of codeine, soda, and hard candy mixed together. Lean was his drink of choice.

One of the first memories he told me about was sitting beside his dad and being offered a glass of lean. Those first sips tipped Wyatt and his younger sister, Anna, into a spiral of addiction. Neither of them ever had any desire to climb out. They blamed their parents for their troubles, and I never doubted they were a huge factor in Wyatt and Anna’s issues. According to Wyatt, his parents were always desperate for their next fix, and they didn’t mind who paid for it or what it cost. But any suggestion of Wyatt or Anna seeking help was met with resistance. They were content to wallow in their dysfunctions. To think Wyatt ditched it all two years ago is impossible for me.

I pray my manager is mobilizing my PR staff, otherwise this stunt could spin out of control. It took years for the swirl surrounding our breakup to die enough for me to be able to spend time in Los Angeles. Any trips there were carefully coordinated to avoid paparazzi. Those damn team T-shirts were everywhere, breaking my heart, mocking my choice.

In a daze, I wander the narrow hall to my bedroom at the rear of my home. Although I can afford a lavish house, I have a small three-bedroom bungalow on an oceanfront lot. Nothing fancy, but it suits my needs. When I have to, I put on the glitz and glamor, but for the most part, I’m hidden away here in Hamilton, Bermuda. The frantic pace of Los Angeles is kept at bay by careful scheduling and an adherence to privacy above all else. The Hollywood pomp and circumstance were never for me; just the right place and people. Wyatt never understood that.

My security intercom buzzes, and I answer the nearest receiver. “Headed to bed, Freddie. What’s up?”

“Uh, Ellie, there’s a man here who wants to see you.”

“It’s late. I have jet lag. No one who knows me would come this late.”

I’ve made sure my house is hard to find. Entrances and exits are concealed by overgrown bushes and shrubs. The property is gated and not listed on any documents that are easy to access. Cab drivers and sightseeing tours get a hefty donation at the end of their high season if they haven’t used my name or property to advertise their businesses. Extreme privacy has been my companion since I left Wyatt and Los Angeles behind.

“It’s Mr. Wyatt Burgess, and he says he isn’t leaving until you agree to speak to him.”

Ice freezes in my veins and then fire chases it out. Turns out I don’t need to levitate off the island to commit murder tonight. “Oh, Freddie. I have a thing or two to say to Mr. Burgess. You can deliver him to the door.”

“Yes, ma’am.” A grin is evident in his voice. He must have watchedThe Jackson Billows Showtoo. With the show taped in the late morning, Wyatt had lots of opportunities to hop on a two-hour flight here. Never occurred to me he would.

I check my appearance in the kitchen mirror and then scold myself. I’ll open the door only to tell him to go to hell. Using national television to declare his undying love after ten years and a series of bad choices and then expecting me to take him back?! I don’t think so. Not happening.

At the side entrance where expected guests are delivered, I swing the door wide.

Immediately, I realize my mistake. He’s taller than I remembered, which seems ridiculous. That’s not all, though. His dark hair is a little darker, and his blue-green eyes more electric. Without the barrier of the screen, everything jumps at me at once.

My heart does one loud, crushing thump and falls to pieces.

Ten years, gone in a heartbeat.

Chapter Four

Ellie

Thirteen Years Ago

Therat-a-tat-taton my trailer door stops me in my tracks, and I grin. Isaac knocks the same way every time. It’s late, but filming just wrapped for the day. Isaac must have been in one of the final shots.

“Come in.” No matter the time, I’d answer for him. I drop my phone into my purse and check the rest of the trailer for anything I’ll need overnight.

When Isaac enters, he shoves his hands into his pockets. His grin splits his face. “Hey, Ellie. We’re heading out to Club Cobra tonight. You in?” His almost-too-white teeth glow next to his brown skin.

One of the most notorious clubs in LA. I’ve never been, but if the tabloids can be believed, anyone who’s even remotely famous parties there. From the studio, it’ll take at least an hour to get to it. LA traffic is horrendous. “What’s your call time tomorrow?”

“Six.”

“At night?” I throw the last couple of things in my bag. A late night is a bad idea for me; I’m on set at eight in the morning.

“Nope. In the morning. You in, Short Stuff, or what?”

He was a child star and can ride on his name recognition. Isaac Sharma is beautiful and rich, and he has a wicked sense of humor. Everyone loves him.

This movie is my big break. Screwing up isn’t an option. I bite the tip of a manicured nail.

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