When Love Happens

For Steve

I never planned to fall in love and get married at twenty-one, but when love happens, you go with it.

And we’re still just making it up as we go, aren’t we?

October, Los Angeles

S
EAN
H
ENNESSY POPPED
the top off a bottle of Guinness and beelined for his new sofa. New? He’d bought the damn thing in January hoping to impress the woman who’d become his wife before she’d come for her first—and only one of two—visit.

And the sofa had come in quite handy since it had provided a soft, horizontal surface.

He swigged back a quarter of the
bottle in an effort to
not
think about that—or her. It was just good to be home after the long production in Europe. As if
that
was a better subject to ponder.

The television project, a limited series following American expats as they relocated to Europe, had gone over budget and exceeded the schedule. He was relieved he still had a job, never mind that none of the disasters that had befallen
the production had been within his control. How could he have predicted the flooding that had put the entire production on hiatus for five days? Or the loss of a truckload of equipment after the driver had been T-boned by another truck? Or the horrific stomach bug that had taken down half the crew for the better part of a week? The high point should have been visiting his folks and friends in the
UK for a long weekend, but he hadn’t even been able to do that—something his parents didn’t understand and were still disappointed about.

Taking another long pull from his beer, Sean closed his eyes and put his feet up on the leather ottoman. At least he was home now, back in the City of Angels, with a weekend of relaxation ahead of him.

His cell phone rang over on the kitchen counter. That
had to be Mike. Part of Sean—hell,
most
of him—wanted to ignore the call, but he knew he couldn’t. He ought to be glad his boss wasn’t camped out on his doorstep. He’d e-mailed Sean at least three times in the past twenty-four hours saying they needed to meet
as soon as Sean got back
. Sean was a fool to think he’d get a weekend off given the way things had gone.

Pushing himself up from the couch,
he scuffed over to the counter and picked up the phone. Not Mike, but his mother calling from England.

Sean answered, “Hi, Mum.”

“Sean, are you home now?” she asked.

“Yes, just got in a bit ago.”

Her heavy sigh carried through the phone and made it seem like she was right next to him instead of half a world away. “We were really hoping you’d be able to swing by for a visit before you went
back to LA.”

“I know; I was, too. But Christmas is only a couple of months off, and I’ll be home then.”

“What about your father’s surgery? That’s next month, in case you forgot.”

How could he? Sean subsidized his parents’ medical care, paying for supplemental insurance that allowed Dad to undergo hip replacement surgery at the time and facility of his choice instead of waiting potentially years
for the procedure under the national program. “I haven’t forgotten. If there’s any way I can get home for that, I will. I’ll be there for Christmas for sure—that I can promise.”

He really hoped he didn’t eat those words.

“Oh good.” He heard the smile in her voice and relaxed. Until she spoke again. “It’s a shame you and your wife couldn’t join us for our Scotland jaunt next week. You’ll bring
her for Christmas, though. We can’t wait to meet her.”

Ha, not bloody likely.
His mother was going to be heartbroken when he told her the marriage was a crashing failure.

His gaze strayed to the picture on the table next to the couch. It was of Tori on New Year’s Eve, a tropical flower tucked into her hair. He’d met her at a swanky party in Kuala Lumpur. It was hard to believe how hard and fast
he’d fallen for her; he’d married her just five weeks later.

His phone vibrated, and he pulled it away from his ear to glance at the text on the screen.

Mike:
I just got here; I’m coming up.

Shit.
“Mum, I have to go. Can I call you back in a bit?” He glanced at the clock—he had absolutely no concept of time after traveling the past day. It was late in England. “Or tomorrow?” He got up and buzzed
the door to let Mike in.

“You’re always so busy, but that’s a good thing, I suppose. We’re so proud of you, even though we wish you hadn’t moved so far away.”

Five years ago, he’d taken an internship with a production company in LA. It had been just what he needed to get his foot in the door in the television capital of the world. “Mom, you know I couldn’t pass up that opportunity.”

Another
sigh. “Of course I do. I just hoped you would’ve come home by now.” She laughed, and he knew she wasn’t really upset. She missed him, but she understood why he’d decided to pursue his producing dreams in Hollywood—there was no better place to be in this industry. “Call tomorrow—but in the afternoon, I have my garden club meeting in the morning.” He’d still be sleeping during her morning. In fact,
he hoped he’d be sleeping during her afternoon, too.

“Will do,” he said. “Say hi to Dad.”

“I will, sweetheart. Love you!”

“Love you, too.” He ended the call as a rap sounded on the door.

Sean didn’t bother summoning a smile as he opened the door. Mike wouldn’t have noticed anyway. He pushed inside with a “Hey.” No “welcome home” or “how was your trip?”—just “hey.”

“Hey,” Sean replied. “I
just
got home.”

Mike walked over to the granite-topped bar, nodded toward the beer, and said, “You got another one of those?”

“Sure.” Sean, his nerves on edge, went to the fridge and grabbed another from the six-pack he’d bought on the way home. He popped the cap off and slid it over to Mike. “You couldn’t have just called?”

Mike lifted his bottle. “I was in the neighborhood.”

Like hell.
Sean’s
apartment in West Hollywood was nice enough for a guy starting out in LA, but it was a good half hour from Mike’s house in Brentwood.

“Anyway, I needed to see you in person. The shoot in Europe—”

“Was a disaster.” Sean swallowed. “Are you here to fire me?”

“No.” He took another drink of beer. “Not yet, anyway.”

Sean’s gut clenched. He needed this job, much as he might dislike Dale, the owner
of the company. It was a necessary step to gaining experience and saving enough money to start his own production company. But that was still a long way off.

Mike clanked his bottle down on the counter and pressed his lips together. “Dale doesn’t love what you came back with.”

“It’s rough,” Sean said, trying not to be defensive. They’d done the best they could, given all the problems they’d
encountered. “There’s a lot of footage. I’m sure we’ll come up with something Dale will like.” Dale was a giant prick who didn’t seem to know what he wanted. He changed his mind during projects, demanded impossible results, and never seemed to be satisfied.

“Heh, unlikely, but I’ll let him know. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I have something else I need you to do. I need you to go to Oregon.”

Bollocks.
Sean would rather jump right back on a plane to Europe and the shitfest he’d just left than go to Oregon. But maybe, just maybe, Mike didn’t mean what Sean thought he meant. Portland had a rousing film and television scene. There could be any number of projects in need of his services. “Why?”

Mike readjusted his sunglasses atop his dark blond head. “Dale came up with an idea he’s completely
in love with, and you’re the man to make it happen. He wants a ‘Where Are They Now?’ special about the Archers. Following up on the sextuplets America fell in love with fifteen years ago is a great angle, but since one of them committed suicide, he thinks it’s ratings gold.”

Sean’s stomach dropped into his feet. “I am
not
the man to make this happen, Mike.” In fact, he was about the
last
man
who could make it happen.

Mike leaned his hip against the counter and crossed his arms. “Why not? You’re married to one of the sisters. You have the perfect in.”

Yeah, they were married, but for how long? The last time he’d talked to his wife—via e-mail, of course—she’d mentioned the
D
word. Sean hadn’t responded. He’d hoped they’d find a way to make it work, but after so many months apart,
piss-poor communication, and then her suggestion that they just call it quits, he wasn’t sure he had any fight left in him.

“It’s not been much of a marriage. In fact, we’re probably splitting up.” Hell, they’d been split up since their wedding day. He’d seen her once, visiting her in San Francisco before he’d left for Europe, only to have her shut him out cold.

“If it’s not much of a marriage,
why is her picture on your fridge?” Mike nodded toward a photo of Tori at the wedding chapel in Vegas. God, she was beautiful. Her auburn hair hung to her breasts in gentle waves that she’d painstakingly curled before the ceremony, and her blue-green eyes shone with anticipation. Getting married had been a lark, but they’d both agreed it had felt right. And it had. Until the next morning . . .

“Because I’ve been in Europe the last six months.” Sean pulled the picture down and shoved it in a drawer. “Look, I know you think I can make this show happen with Tori, but I’ve got no advantage there.”

Their marriage had been over before it had even started. Her brother had killed himself the morning after their wedding, and she’d been understandably devastated. Her grief had completely eclipsed
their joy and robbed her of any desire to make their marriage work. Fast forward eight months, and it was time to call it what it was: a mistake.

Mike uncrossed his arms and took another drink of beer. “I’m sorry things aren’t working out with you guys, but Dale won’t give a shit. He’s got a hard-on for this special. You know how he is when he’s got his mind set on something.”

Yeah, he did.
Dale was an utterly immovable object. As well as a massive wanker. “What happens if I don’t deliver?”
When, not if
.

Mike glanced out the window, and when his gaze returned to Sean’s, it held a glimmer of regret. “I’ll have to let you go. As it is, I have to let someone go, and it’s between you and Hollis.”

“Hey, I’ve got seniority,” Sean said. Hollis had been with the company only a little over
a year. “Just let her go. It’s a no-brainer, right?” She was a bundle of ideas and energy, fairly fresh out of school, and absolutely bonkers.

“It is for me—I’d choose you in a heartbeat. She’s a micromanaging nightmare. But it isn’t up to me. You’re both getting projects that are do or die. Whoever delivers first or best gets to keep their job.”

Do or die. No ambiguity there.

He swigged his
beer and then set the bottle on the counter. “So you’ll get your butt up to Oregon tomorrow.”

“I don’t even get the weekend to recover from jet lag?”

“Dale wants a Christmas special. There’s no time to lose.”

Christmas?
It was already the first week of October. That was cutting it way too close. Sean wanted to protest but knew it was futile. “Sure.” If there was sarcasm or frustration in his
voice, he couldn’t help it.

Mike turned and went toward the front door. “I want this locked down as soon as possible. We need to get this sucker into production.”

“Right.” Sean supposed he could live on his savings when he was inevitably fired, but that would only put his dream of starting his own production company off even further, and the money wouldn’t last forever.

And what about his parents?
They lived on a fixed income since Dad had retired early from plumbing due to his arthritis. Sean not only paid for supplemental health care, he sent them money so that they could stay in his childhood home, where his mother had cultivated her pride and joy—a magnificent, award-winning garden. Dad had worked so hard to provide for them, and it was important to Sean that they enjoy their retirement.

“I’ll do my best.” He’d worked his way from intern to production assistant and then to producer when Mike had hired him a couple of years ago. He’d come too far to get knocked down now.

Mike paused when he reached the entryway. “I know you’ll do your best, Sean; you always do. For what it’s worth, I realize the Europe shoot was a total clusterfuck. You took lemons and made lemonade. Watered-down
Kool-Aid lemonade, but still.”

Sean tried not to groan at the backhanded compliment. “Thanks.”

“But this time I need you to deliver champagne. Or the best Oregon pinot. Aren’t they winemakers?”

“They own and operate brewpubs, actually.”

Mike nodded, his eyes reflecting his total disinterest. “That’s right. Well, whatever it is, make this the best thing you’ve ever done. Do whatever you have
to.” He lowered his voice and leaned close. “Seduce her, buy her stuff, romance her—she’s your wife. If I have to lose you and keep Sunny Nutcase, I’ll be pretty pissed.”

Romance her.
Sean’s blood stirred at the thought. He’d missed her like crazy. But the intimacy they had shared seemed like nothing more than a dream now.

“I want daily updates,” Mike said as he stepped outside.

Sean moved
around him and held the doorknob. “It’d be great if you could work on Dale . . . you know, temper his expectations a bit?”

Mike turned after he crossed the threshold, a smile curving his thin lips. “Yeah, I’ll do that.” His chuckle said what Sean already knew: fat chance of that happening. “Talk to you soon.”

Sean closed the door and locked the deadbolt with a flick of his wrist. Going back
to the kitchen, he poured Mike’s half-full beer down the drain, bemoaning the waste of perfectly good Guinness.

Crying over beer was the least of his worries. His livelihood—hell, the entire life he’d built in LA—currently rested on his ability to persuade Tori to work with him on a Christmas special highlighting the family she’d worked so hard to keep him from meeting. In other words, he was
completely buggered.

Ribbon Ridge, Oregon

T
ORI
A
RCHER SIPPED
her Nocktoberfest, Dad’s signature beer for the annual Ribbon Ridge Oktoberfest, which was currently in full swing. She clung to the corner of the huge tent, defensively watching for her “date” or one of her annoying siblings who had forced her to go on this “date.”