Busting Loose (21 page)

She blinked, as if shocked. “No, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make it sound like an emergency. I just had no time to explain before things . . . got away from me.” Her nose scrunched up and she looked annoyed, like even she wasn't sure how it had happened.

Milton nudged in through the cracked door and trotted over for affection from Morgan. He held a ball too big for his mouth, which made him look like a vacuum that had sucked up a balloon.

Bea ran a hand over her hair, smoothing it back down. “On a positive note, it looks like Nancy jumped right in. I might not need the full two weeks to train her after all.”

Probably not. But he wasn't about to tell her that. “She mentioned she looked at the notes you wrote out about the website, and knew she couldn't do it.”
So see? You need to stay. This place needs you.

Bea shook her head. “I was afraid of that. The good thing is I can keep working on that for a while, as long as I have photos of the new animals. Eventually we can figure out how to handle it.”

I want you. Stay.
“Sounds good,” he choked out, then looked back to his computer.

“Okay then. I'll just . . . go check in with Nancy and start making phone calls.” She stood slowly, like she was debating saying something.

Or like she was waiting for him to speak.

She nodded. “Have a good afternoon.”

“You, too.”

He watched her leave the office, her dog walking ever patiently behind, and knew he was going to lose her.

 

Somehow, when Bea had thought of Nancy taking over her receptionist position, she'd thought she would have more free time. Time to do things like leisurely set up the last bits of the shelter website. Time to research new apartments in LA. Time to pack.

Instead, she took on a new project. Making the shelter into an individual entity, and then she'd added the equine shelter to the mix. Because she just couldn't leave things the way they were.

Now she sat, in the shelter's back supply area with her laptop, fiddling with the website in one screen while she had a blog with coding tutorials open on her phone. Her shoes were off, her feet were draped over an old box, and her outfit was basically ruined thanks to that morning's excursion around the ranch with Jefferson, whom she'd left in the capable hands of Red and her brother when she finally convinced him she had to get to work.

And why was that so . . . comforting? Fifteen dogs breathing and rolling around over each other, her own dog napping beneath her, and her clothes a mess, all while working on nerd-alert website coding. And all she wanted to do was finish the coding, close up shop, go home and naked-snuggle into Morgan's king-sized bed.

What the hell was happening to her?

The door opened, and instead of the expected Jaycee, Bea saw Peyton walk through. “Bea?”

“Back here.” She held up a hand but didn't get up. Too much stuff on her lap to move that suddenly. And she was almost . . .

“Bea, we need to—”

“Shh.” Bea held up a finger, typed in a few letters, closed the code, and hit
Publish.
“Time to start asking the blessed baby Jesus for favors.”

“Favors for what?” Peyton tilted her head around until she could see the screen. When Bea refreshed, the shelter's website popped up, exactly as she'd imagined it. “Oh, that looks good. Has it always looked like that?”

“Hell no, it has not.” Bea snapped the laptop closed and stretched her fingers. “I'd get up and do a victory dance, but I think my legs have cramped this way.”

“Hold on the victory dance.” Peyton straightened and walked away to a cage holding two littermates still waiting for homes. The fuzzy black-and-tan mutts rolled and played with each other like, well, puppies. “So you talked to Jefferson Montague this morning.”

“I did. He asked specifically for me. To head off the Spanish Inquisition, we chatted about the ranch. I showed him a few places, I talked a bit about you and Trace, and then I said I had to go. I left him with Red, and I don't know what happened after that.”

“What did you say to him?”

Bea threw up her hands. “I just told you. Stuff about the ranch.”

“But what, exactly, did you say?” Peyton pressed. “Think, Bea.”

“I'm not an idiot. Don't treat me like an idiot,” Bea said through clenched teeth. “I answered questions. I talked about Trace's rodeo career and how you stuck with the ranch even when things got tough. I talked about how after Mama died, you dragged us both back and neither of us was ready to come home. But it was the best thing for all of us. And I told him about my damn decorating plans. I just kept talking because he kept listening. I don't know!”

Her sister just watched her. “Do you have any idea who Jefferson Montague is?”

Bea shrugged. “A nice older guy who I met a month ago?”

“He's a huge name in the horse world. Huge. Bigger than big. His name is synonymous with winners.”

Bea's mind whirled. The guy was the Bill Gates of horses, and she'd sat there talking about finding western artwork to hang on the walls and what it was like on the set of
The Tantalizing and the Tempting
.

“Oh God.” Her head dropped to her knees. “How bad did I screw up?”

Peyton said nothing.

“Okay, that really helps.” Bea wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. “You're making me think we lost the farm.”

“We saved it,” Peyton said quietly.

Bea shook her head. “What?”

Peyton ran a hand over another cage, scratched behind the ears of a lonesome golden retriever with a limp.

“What?”
she asked again.

“He said he wanted to find a family-run business.”

“That's not hard to find. Several are.”

“One that wasn't too big for its britches. Whose owners admitted their mistakes. A place that wasn't perfect. He wanted to invest in a family, not a name.”

“Which is . . . good?”

“Apparently. He bought two horses today, and wanted to bring three more for training. And he's already talking about stud fees and breeding rights.” Peyton shoved her hands in her pockets. “This is the break people in our business die for.”

Our business? “You mean your.”

“Our.” Peyton's mouth quirked. “I figure you reeled him in, even if you didn't mean to. He went on and on how it was nice to just spend time with someone at an event without being bombarded with a sales pitch or impressive stats. That you bragged on your brother because you were proud of him.” She grinned. “And that you said nice things about me, too.”

“I must have been drunk,” Bea said darkly. “Don't get a big head.”

“Not gonna. But it helped. He clearly was . . . charmed by you.” Peyton tilted her head. “Maybe your whole acting career isn't as worthless as I thought to begin with.”

Bea held a hand over her heart. “With compliments like that, how can I leave?”

Peyton took a step back and looked at the two now-napping puppies in the first cage. “I figure you will anyway. Right? That was your goal all along. Now we've got money coming in, and I can buy you out of your portion. Not right away, but soon enough.”

The idea appealed, even as she started to deny it. Leave with enough money to relax and not worry about taking awful bit parts in D-list slasher movies or commercials where she scooped cat litter to pay the rent? It would be a cushion to give her enough time to get her through new auditions. Get her face back in front of the people she needed to impress. To remind her agent she was still alive and wanted to work again.

Because it was all about the work. It was all about the fame. It was all about doing what she'd been aiming for her whole life. She needed it.

Like a hole in the head.

Peyton took in her silence, then nodded. “Whenever you need help packing, just let me know.”

And then she was gone.

Bea opened her mouth to yell after her sister, but stopped. Why? Peyton hadn't exactly asked her to stay. In fact, she'd offered to help send her off. So why would it matter? Why would she care?

Who would care when she was gone?

L
ater that night, Bea sat down at her laptop in her own kitchenette and sent an e-mail to her agent. The one saying she was ready to chat, if he was ready to take her calls. And yes, apologizing for having gone MIA for months. But really, what the hell else was she supposed to do? Give him weekly updates on her time as a small town vet clinic secretary?

Her screen beeped, and she saw Keeley was calling in on FaceTime. She hesitated, hated herself for the impulse to decline the call, then clicked to accept.

“Hey, girl.” Keeley's bright smile melted immediately. “Oh my God, what's wrong?”

“Why would you ask that?”

Keeley pointed at her screen. “You look like someone just shot your dog.”

“No, he's fine.” Bea scooped Milton up and showed him off to the camera. “See? He's got allergies though, poor thing. Scratches all the time. I might need to take him in to see a specialist, because his meds aren't working properly. And I'm concerned about this limp he has, but only sometimes. If he hops down from the couch, he doesn't use his back right leg for a few steps. I thought he was faking it at first for attention, but then I caught him doing it when I wasn't even facing him, like he didn't think I would notice. So then I—”

“Bea, oh my Lord. Put on the brakes!” Her friend covered her ears, but she was smiling. “It's a dog, not a human baby.”

“Shh.” Bea covered the floppy ear not pressed into her shoulder. “He can hear you.”

“Sorry, Milton. You know you're adorable. But really, stop giving your mother so much trouble. She can't handle the stress. You'll give her an ulcer.”

Annoyance tugged at her gut, but she tamped it down. “So what's going on with you?”

“Big news.” Keeley beamed. “I'm getting pregnant!”

“Wow.” Knowing immediately what that meant, she applauded. “So who is the lucky father?”

“The writers aren't sure yet, but you know what that means.”

“Popularity-with-viewers boost,” they both said at once.

“I had a small chat with one of the writers, and he agreed. But I had to be sneaky, because I think they were ready to give Marcella an adopted baby from, like, Malaysia or something, so I had to act fast. Too many babies spoil the season, right?”

Bea smiled, happy for her friend. And instantly realized, she wasn't one bit jealous. Not at all jealous of having to claw and scheme her way into the best storylines and fight to maintain viewer popularity. She'd sucked at it. Had never gotten the hang of approaching the right people at the right time. Likely, that's why she'd been killed off.

“And remember when I was talking about that TV movie, in that e-mail I sent you?”

Bea nodded and rotated Milton to drape over her lap. His head lolled and his eyes closed in complete relaxation while she scratched beneath his underbite.
Pet me, minion. It's the only reason you exist.

“They're changing it up. It's not a movie—they're doing an entire pilot season. And you would be fantastic for it. Seriously, I showed your headshot to the director, and he agreed. I would have considered jumping ship if I hadn't scored the pregnancy. Things were slowing down for me. But now I think it's a great opportunity for you. Seriously, it's a silver platter ready for you.”

Bea drew circles around one of Milton's ears.

“Bea? Can you hear me?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“So? When are you coming back?” Keeley pressed. “You need to jump on this. I can't keep mentioning my invisible friend forever. He's going to start thinking I'm lying about you just going home for a visit with family.”

“I don't think it's a visit,” Bea said softly.

Keeley blew out a breath, ruffling the hairs falling from her ponytail. “Frankly, no. You all but moved back. It's been a year. You adopted a freaking dog-baby. You got a damn job. A real-people job, like with a weekly paycheck and office rules and stuff.”

“It isn't so bad,” she said with a smile. Her eyes drifted over to the list of suggestions she wanted to pose to Peyton about the M-Star website. Things she'd learned how to do after coding and updating the clinic's site.

“Time to come back to our world. The non-real one. The
fun
one! There's work for you here.”

“But the part isn't mine. We both know that. The director could take one look at me and say no.” She'd experienced it before. Humiliating as it was. “Then I'm back at square one, out there in LA with no job.”

“Maybe,” Keeley agreed with a shrug. “That's our life. Come back anyway. There are a billion parts perfect for you. You're talented and you work hard. And you've got a body to die for.”

Nowhere in there had Keeley mentioned enjoying the work. Having a job she loved. A job she wanted to do, that called to her. And maybe that was the reason she'd struggled to begin with.

“I'll think about it.”

“Don't think. Do. Come home. Nothing is holding you there. Come back.”

She nodded, said her good-byes to her friend, and ended the call. Then she sat with Milton in her lap for another few minutes.

“What do you think, boy? Would you like LA?”

He breathed deeply.

“You might like it. Hell, I bet you'd love it. Maybe we could even get you in some commercials or something. Surely someone will have a part for a slightly neurotic Boston terrier with an underbite and a tendency to limp dramatically.”

She smiled a little at the idea. He'd be an adorable spokesperson for the shelter. Why hadn't she thought of that? He was a success story. Talk about cute print campaign fodder. And he would love the attention and praise.

No, not the point. She could simply suggest Morgan use one of the calmer dogs in a quick ad campaign. After the expansion. Which he had to do, because she'd already put so much work into it.

“He didn't ask me to stay,” she said softly.

Milton, as if sensing her sadness, snuggled into her body a little.

“Maybe he was more fine with the whole casual affair thing than I was. Talk about ironic.” Her head hit the back of the chair. “I don't belong here, do I?”

Of course she didn't. She was raised to be on a sound stage. From the time she was born, she'd been pushed at one thing, and one thing only. Being more than a rancher, more than what she could be in Marshall. Being special.

Pushing back now would be counterproductive.

Acting was what she knew. She was an actress. Just like her brother was a cowboy, her sister was a cowgirl. And Morgan . . . he was a cowboy's vet. There was no changing what they were.

And that shouldn't have hurt, so deep in her chest, like it did.

 

Morgan was sliding the leftovers he'd taken home from his mother's house into his fridge when he heard the car pull up. He waited a minute, then heard Bea's footsteps outside his front door. He went to open it, and she stood there, illuminated in the porch light. The weak light turned her hair a ghastly orange, and she was wearing simple flats instead of her regular heels.

“I thought you were staying over at your place tonight.”

She shivered in the night air, though it was still almost seventy degrees. “I changed my mind. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, of course.” He opened the screen door and gave her time to walk through, Milton included, before letting it shut again. “Did you eat dinner? I had supper with my parents, but there's leftovers if you—”

Rational thought left his mind as she clamped her mouth against his in a brutal, needy kiss. She pushed until his back hit the refrigerator. Her hands tore at his clothes, and she made a little sound in the back of her throat as if she was a starving woman in front of a plate of food.

He tore his mouth away long enough to ask, “Bea, what—” before she kissed him again. It was clear there would be no rational conversation until she'd had her fill of him. He felt her feet move around him, knew she was kicking her shoes off when he heard the thud of one hit the tile floor.

And as his hands crept around her waist, then dipped lower to cup her perfect ass in her tight jeans, he realized he wasn't ready for rational conversation either. Not when all the blood rushed below his belt and stayed there.

“Bedroom,” he managed when her lips left his to cruise on down to his collarbone.

“Kitchen,” she countered.

Well, hell, why not? He took a good grip of her waist and swung her around and up, letting go when her ass hit the laminate. His hand went to the buttons of her jeans, undoing them as fast as he could. When the waistband loosened, she scooted her butt up one cheek at a time so he could slither them down and off.

Her legs clamped around him, pulling him flush up against her as she scraped her teeth over his neck. God, yes. His hands fumbled a little, struggling without sight or room, to get his own pants unbuttoned enough. But she took over, one small hand reaching between them to pull his cock from his pants and stroke it herself.

He nearly went blind with pleasure. But somehow, some way, Morgan managed to keep it together long enough to pull her legs wider apart, position himself, and thrust into her. There was no time, no fucking time, to wait and let them both adjust. His hips moved to their own rhythm, and he was almost a bystander to the process.

Until his climax shattered around him and all he could do was cup a hand around the back of Bea's head to protect it from the cabinets. And then, everything went black.