What I Did for Love (Wynette, Texas #5)(97)

“The Tuesday after our wedding party, as you very well know.”

“Really? Only a week and a half away…” They’d gone into preproduction immediately because Hank Peters had a commitment to direct another film in November, and they didn’t want to lose him. She let the sheet slip below one breast, a wasted effort as it turned out, since he was already heading into his closet for the jeans and T-shirt that had become his producer’s work uniform. “And I’m still first up, right?”

“Will you relax? I promised you the first audition, and you’ll get it. But I swear to God, if you pin your hopes on this…”

“Hard to do with you telling me how unworthy I am.”

He popped his head out. “Don’t exaggerate. You’re a terrific actress and a gifted comic, and you know it.”

“But not gifted enough to play Helene?” She experimented with a smirk. “Remember this moment, Bramwell Shepard, because I’m going to make you eat those words.”

She wished she could be as confident as she sounded. She’d read the script twice more and begun creating a character log filled with ideas about Helene’s backstory and physical mannerisms. But she only had ten days before the audition, and this would be the most complex character she’d ever taken on. She had a lot more work to do before she’d be ready, and she kept losing her focus.

His gaze dipped to her breast. She’d had to force herself not to give in to the urge to shop for the sexiest nighties she could find. Instead, she’d stuck with her normal sleepwear, but her plain white cami and black boxers printed with pirate skulls now lay crumpled on the floor by the bed. She deliberately pulled the sheet up to her chin. “Don’t forget we have our last meeting with Poppy at nine.”

He groaned and headed back into the closet. “No way am I sitting through any more meetings about floral arrangements and Jordan almonds stamped with the family crest. What the hell is a Jordan almond anyway?”

“An almond that tastes like soap.” The general uneasiness that had been plaguing her since she realized that Bram now had everything he wanted propelled her out of bed. “The Skip and Scooter wedding extravaganza was your idea, and it’s only eight days away. You’re not dodging that meeting.”

“I’ll give you a hundred bucks and another back rub if you let me skip it.”

“I don’t need a hundred bucks. As for your back rubs…Study an anatomy book, pal, because what you’ve been rubbing isn’t my back.”

“And aren’t you glad?”

She had to admit she was.

He ended up staying for the meeting.



Poppy Patterson’s heavy perfume, exaggerated speech, and clattering charm bracelets drove them both crazy, but she was an imaginative and efficient party planner. She understood that the paparazzi’s helicopters would make it impossible to hold an outdoor celebration, and she’d come up with the perfect indoor venue—the magnificent 1920s Eldridge Mansion built in the same English manor house style as the Scofield mansion. With its luxuriously appointed ballroom, it could comfortably hold their two hundred guests, all of whom had been instructed to wear a costume inspired by the show.

Aaron and Chaz joined in as they sat around Bram’s dining room table to go over the final arrangements. They started with the decorations and ended with the food. Everything on the menu played a part in an episode of Skip and Scooter, beginning with the hors d’oeuvres: mini deep-dish pizzas; tiny, heart-shaped peanut butter sandwiches; and bite-size Chicago hot dogs—no ketchup.

The meal was more formal, and Chaz began reading the menu aloud. “Rocket and Parmesan salad, episode forty-one, ‘Scooter Meets the Mayor.’ Rum-glazed lobster tails with mango, episode two, ‘Nice Horsey.’ Black pepper–seared beef tenderloin, episode sixty-three, ‘Skip’s Lost Weekend.’”

“Rocket?” Bram yawned. “Sounds flammable.”

“It’s arugula,” Chaz replied. “You like it.” She eyed Poppy, who was dressed in a champagne knit St. John suit with goggle-size designer sunglasses pushed on top of her brunette socialite’s bob. “I’m glad you got rid of that foie gras mousse crap.”

From the beginning Poppy had let it be known she resented dealing with a currently purple-haired twenty-year-old who wasn’t a rock star. “It was mentioned in episode twenty-eight, ‘The Scofield Curse.’”

“When Scooter fed it to the dog.”

Bram’s eyes glazed over as the discussion went on. The past few weeks had been odd. Bram left for the studio early in the morning and didn’t return until late. She missed him in a way she couldn’t exactly define…just that life seemed flatter without their verbal sparring. Even their nightly sexual romps didn’t quite compensate. Their lovemaking was fun and exciting, but something was missing.

Of course, something was missing. Trust. Respect. Love. A future.

Except…She’d developed a grudging respect for him. She didn’t know another man who’d have taken Chaz in, and she loved the way he’d find the homeliest woman in the crowd and eye-smolder her until she felt like a supermodel. He’d also acquired a surprisingly strong work ethic. But fundamentally, Bram had always been out for himself, and that would never change.

Eventually, Poppy packed up her python bag, releasing a great puff of perfume. “I have a small surprise planned for the evening,” she announced. “Just so you know. One of the special touches I’ve made my trademark. You’ll love it.”