Page 1 of Every Star that Shines

CHAPTER ONE

Delanie Fletcher had to be the happiest woman in Vancouver. Her cheeks ached from smiling so much.

It’s finally happening. Took a little longer than I hoped it would. Okay, a lot longer. But that’s in the past now. And tonight, I’m going to enjoy my success.

She stretched her champagne flute across the steakhouse booth toward her friends’ raised glasses.

“To dreams coming true,” said Desmond Sun. The Korean-Canadian film editor grinned at Delanie from across the table, the bling on his bright pink rhinestone cowboy outfit glittering with every movement.

“Word,” said Delanie’s other best friend, Marie Daramola, from her seat near the wall next to Desmond, her large gold hoop earrings swinging against her curved jaw beneath her afro. As per usual, Marie exuded polished glam, her upslanted amber eyes accented with perfectly done golden eyeshadow and dramatic glittering teal eyeliner, and the body-conscious striped scoop-neck tee and jeans she wore drawing the eye of every guy in the room—and a few girls. Marie took the glances of both genders with an equal nonchalance that Delanie envied. Delanie’s own glittering black tank and skinny jeans may be drawing eyes, too, but that only made her self-conscious.

“Thanks, you two,” she said, tucking a long lock of golden hair behind her ear. Her face warm, she touched her glass to the other two, the satisfying clinks audible even above the din of the busy restaurant. After taking a sip, she said, “It still feels more like a dream than reality, though. I don’t know if it will truly sink in until I’m on set.”

The effervescent liquid bubbling in her belly buoyed her almost as much as that afternoon’s news—the show she had landed a main role in, a cowboy romance called Trueheart, had been approved for production, and she’d been offered a three-season contract as the female lead’s best friend. It was the kind of job security every actor dreamed of. The kind that could launch her career.

“About bloody time you got your break, I say.” Marie snagged a piece of garlic toast from the complimentary basket in the middle of the table and tore off a piece. “I can’t believe it took a decade for the idiots in this town to see what they were missing out on. At least your loser producer boyfriend has that much going for him.” She placed the bread chunk in her mouth.

Delanie’s smile faltered. Marie made no bones of her dislike for Josh, but when it came to Delanie’s career, she’d been a true believer since they met at film school. With Marie, what you saw was what you got. It was one of the things Delanie loved about her. Most of the time.

“Thanks, Marie.” She chose to ignore the barb—a well-established habit by now. As a costume designer, Marie didn’t have to worry about the things she said to others quite the same way Delanie did. Her frankness was part of her charm.

Marie swallowed. “My turn.” She raised her glass again. “To Delanie Fletcher, Canada’s rising star.”

“Hear, hear.” Desmond clinked his flute with theirs, then downed the remaining liquid in a single swig before slamming the glass down next to his half-finished Caesar. He blinked away the carbonation, the far-too-curled brim of his white straw cowboy hat shivering back and forth as he shook his head.

“Easy, there, cowboy.” Delanie laughed and put out a cautioning hand. “You don’t want it to come out your nose and ruin that shirt.”

She wrinkled her nose at Desmond’s outfit doubtfully, questioning whether that might not be better. To honour Delanie’s new role in a western, Marie had chosen the steakhouse as the celebration venue—and Desmond had worn a fringed western shirt and matching pants with enough oversized rhinestone studs to blind a cow into submission. If anything, the clothes made the editor look less cowboy-like than usual, which was saying something, given his normally fashion-forward aesthetic. Good thing there weren’t a lot of cows in Vancouver.

“Says you,” he said. “That’s my best party trick. Totally works on the ladies.” He wiped away the moisture at the corner of his eyes, then gave a small belch and hit his chest with his fist.

Marie smirked and placed her elbow on the table, supporting her head on her bent wrist. “Not in my experience. Is that something guys find appealing?”

Desmond looked thoughtful. “Maybe if you did it. Why don’t you give it a shot? Here, let me top you up.”

He snatched the champagne bottle and moved it toward her glass to follow through on his threat, but Marie gave him a playful shove in the arm. Resisting her shenanigans, he managed to refill her glass halfway before she yanked it out of reach and a stream of golden bubbles splashed on the table.

“Hey, that’s my victory champagne you’re wasting.” Delanie scrambled for some napkins to toss on the mess.

Marie rolled her eyes. With an exasperated sigh, she set her glass down—out of Desmond’s reach—and helped Delanie clean up. Desmond grinned and emptied the remaining champagne into his and Delanie’s flutes, then took another generous swallow. Turning around, he beckoned at the server, who had paused across the room to survey her section. Picking up his Caesar, he pointed at his cocktail and made a circular motion toward Delanie and Marie to indicate a request for another round, and the woman gave a nod before picking up a tray and bustling over to the bar.

Marie tossed the sodden napkins onto the outside edge of the table for the server to collect when she came, then turned to Delanie. “So, girl, now that you’re going to be rich and famous, are we still going to be able to do monthly games nights? Does Desmond need to quit his job to be your bodyguard? He’s got that yellow belt in Taekwondo . . .”

Desmond, who’d been taking a sip of his cocktail, snorted and choked. When he recovered, he said, “It was only a yellow stripe belt, remember?”

Delanie polished off her margarita and placed the empty glass at the end of the table. “What’s the difference?”

“About three months of training and a lot more gluttony for punishment.” Desmond smirked at Marie. “Can you really see me as a bodyguard?”

“Absolutely. You’d be like a less broody Korean Kevin Costner.” She gave his outfit a wry look. “But you might have to wear more black, less bubblegum pink.”

He frowned down at his shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Nothing.” Marie laughed. “If you’re a rodeo clown.”

“Marie,” Delanie chided.

Marie rolled her eyes, and Delanie chuckled despite herself. She turned to Desmond.

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