Harlequin Desire January 2021--Box Set 1 of 2 by Maisey Yates (inspirational books .TXT) 📗

best known for his role in Thunder. The character had served him well and made him rich, but now he couldn’t shake him. Not that there would be any more Thunder movies. The third had bombed so badly at the box office there was no talk of a fourth installment. One day they’d reboot the franchise with another, younger actor and he’d be forgotten.

Rosie linked her arm through his, and they walked down the path to the side gate. “I’m in no position to give you life advice.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Julian replied.

Rosie was a practical-minded woman. In England, she’d run a playgroup in her home, but she’d found that looking after of the kids of the Hollywood elite was more financially rewarding. “They think I’m Mary bloody Poppins,” she’d confided one night. She planned to retire in five years once she had enough saved away to buy a cottage in her hometown. Her life was in order. By comparison, his life was a mess.

“All this free time is not good for you. Get back to work.”

“It’s not that simple.” Julian’s agent wasn’t returning his calls.

“It is, actually. You’re too smart and talented to waste your time.”

They’d reached the end of the path, and Julian felt a wave of relief. He recognized the truth when he heard it, and the truth wasn’t something he was equipped to deal with right now. He was running from an actual fire—no time to run from existential ones, too.

He faced Rosie and rested his chin on the top of her head. “Tanks.”

She pushed him away and called him a softie. Julian marched home and blamed his stinging eyes on the smoke that thickened the air. He loaded his bags in the trunk of his car and went back inside the house for one last thing. From a bottom dresser drawer, he pulled out a dog-eared copy of a screenplay well into its ninth revision. Midnight Sun. He flipped it open, thumbed through it, shook his head, then tucked it under his arm.

While he locked up the house, Julian got his assistant, Katia, on the phone. “Hey, Kat. Heading to Miami in the morning. Could you charter a plane and book a suite at Sand Castle?”

“Only if I can bum a ride. I’m heading to Boca for the holiday.”

Oh, right. Independence Day. “I’ll be there for a bit longer, but I’d welcome the company on the flight out.”

“How much longer?” she asked.

She needed this information to book the hotel, only he couldn’t give her exact dates. “A month or so.”

“You’re not retiring to Florida, are you?”

“No. The opposite.”

She let out a grumpy sound. “Okay. Fine.”

His next call was to an independent film producer who had once expressed interest in his project. When Julian had finally backed out of his garage, he didn’t get far. A police checkpoint at the foot of the Hills slowed the flow of traffic, but he felt as if he were going places.

* * *

Julian grabbed his phone and played a few rounds of the sort of game that would have solidified his reputation as a warmonger. He lost the final round, slipped off his headphones and listened for sounds of the woman locked away in the adjoining room. Ms. Taylor. She claimed to be a writer. Time to find out. He typed “female author Taylor” in a search engine and filtered the results by image. He swiped through dozens of photos of Taylors, including Taylor Swift, but there was only one professional headshot of a dark-skinned, brown-eyed beauty.

In the photograph, she looked straight at the camera with a measured smile. She wore red lipstick and her black hair fell straight and loose, framing her face. The caption read: Nina Taylor, memoirist, NYT Review of Books.

I’m only really qualified to write about myself. He recalled her words. They hadn’t made sense at the time. They did now. Julian reached for a second pillow and wedged it under his head. He was about to jump down the internet rabbit hole and might as well get comfortable.

One hour later, he’d read several reviews of her memoir, Backstage Diva, and listened to snippets of podcast interviews. He’d watched a panel discussion on memoir writing on Book TV. She was one of three panelists, but by far the most remarkable. He’d learned the following:

A) Nina Taylor was the daughter of a deceased stage actress celebrated for her Tony-nominated portrayal of Beneatha Younger in a 1999 Broadway revival of A Raisin in the Sun.

B) Nina was a respected artist in her own right with a bestselling memoir and several published magazine articles.

C) Nina was single, lived in New York City and was working on a collection of short stories.

There was only one thing left to do. He purchased Backstage Diva, the audiobook, with one click. Then he adjusted his headphones and hit Play.

CHAPTER FOUR

Nina had dozed off on the couch halfway through the movie. She woke up to the sound of screeching tires, a car chase in full swing. She sat up and massaged a kink in her neck. If the Garden Room was still unavailable, they had better find her something! She had no intention of spending the night on a sleeper sofa while JL Knight slept in luxury. If Sand Castle couldn’t accommodate her, she was leaving. She’d arrange a ride to the airport, hop on any flight and get the heck out of the Sunshine State. Sorry, Mom. I’ll light a candle or burn sage and celebrate your life…at home.

Her room opened to the hallway. Nina slipped out and took the stairs to the courtyard. The front desk clerk had no answers, so she marched to Grace Guzman’s office. When her knock went unanswered, Nina was certain nothing would be resolved tonight. Angry and aimless, she wandered along the cloisters, coming across an enclosed garden. It was small but lush. Mesmerized by the fairy lights creating the illusion of a starry sky, she traveled down a gravel path and somehow missed