* *
Noah Cross had learned fairly early in his career how to tune out the meaningless chatter that came with the job but still pay just enough attention to assure whoever was talking that he was listening to them. The skill had served him well on movie sets across the world, in press junkets and at awards ceremonies.
Until he’d met Melissa Sommers.
The whole flight from LA he’d been trying to read a new script his agent, Tessa, had sent him, to ‘keep you too busy at this damn wedding to get into any trouble’, as she’d put it. Normally, he’d have tossed the script in his suitcase, relaxed with a drink on the flight and looked forward to seducing a bridesmaid or two, just to keep in practice. But this script was from a writer he admired, one he’d dreamt of working with for too long now—Queenie Walters. Her films were renowned for being deep, thought-provoking, meaningful—and for winning every award going. Basically, the opposite of the sort of films he’d been making for the last seven years.
The sort of films that had led to Riley Black asking him to be his best man somewhere in the middle of nowhere, England, in minus temperatures in December.
Maybe it was time to start making a new sort of film.
So, back to the script.
It was good, that much he could tell, even from one cursory reading with Melissa chattering in his ear and Riley chiming in every few minutes or so. He could even tell it through the champagne he’d drunk to make the journey just a little more bearable.
He wanted to make this film. More than that, he wanted to star in this film.
He knew that the leading role wasn’t the one his agent had suggested him for—that would be the light relief, the comic best friend. It was his own fault. He’d told Tessa he wanted to do something different, something other than action blockbusters and superhero movies. And she’d taken the not absurd mental leap and assumed he wanted comedy. She’d sent him a raft of terrible slapstick-without-humour typescripts to start with, until he’d asked for something a little...better.
Then she’d sent him Eight Days After and he’d known she understood at last.
Well, almost. She still saw him as the supporting actor.
He needed to convince her—and the director—that he was Best Actor material.
‘And then she suggested that maybe I didn’t need to have a veil at all!’ Melissa crowed with laughter, regaling them all with yet another tale about her wedding planner, apparently oblivious to the fact that her fiancé had already heard it, the driver of the car didn’t care and Noah was working very hard on not listening. ‘Not have a veil! Can you imagine?’
‘I heard that Rochelle Twist didn’t have a veil at her wedding,’ Noah said from the front seat, not looking up from his script.
‘She didn’t?’ Melissa’s eyes widened with alarm and Noah knew for certain that she would walk down the aisle without the veil on New Year’s Eve. Well, unless she checked the Internet for photographic proof and realised that Noah was making it up to mess with her. As if he had any idea at all what A-list actresses wore on their wedding days.
It was still weird to think that he was up there on their invitation lists. The fact that Riley had asked him to be best man after just three films said a lot. Noah liked the guy well enough, but he wouldn’t call him a best friend. They’d been out and got drunk a few times, played some poker. And Noah had spent one very long night listening to Riley weigh up the pros and cons of asking Melissa to marry him—the main pros apparently being ‘it’d be great for my image’ and ‘she really wants to’. But that was about it. Did that qualify him for best man status? Apparently, in Melissa and Riley’s eyes, it did.
Seven years ago, it wouldn’t have done. Granted, seven years ago Melissa and Riley had probably been teenagers, but still. Back then, Noah had been a nobody, desperate for his big break but secretly afraid it was never going to come—the same as everyone else in town. He’d been living with his best friend Sally, sharing stories of awful auditions, commiserating over rejections with a bottle of cheap wine and trying to pretend that he wasn’t crazy about her. Seven years ago, he’d been looking at a future of giving up, going home and admitting to his family that he’d failed, just like they’d said he would.
Then that fabled big break had come—the same day that everything else had been taken away from him.
Noah shook his head, trying to send the memories scattering. He didn’t need them today—or any day, for that matter. Life was about the here and now, not the past.
And right now he was about to spend five days in some fancy hotel with a selection of the most beautiful women in the world. Surely he’d be able to find some way to pass the time.
The car turned off the main road onto a long sweeping driveway and past a pale sage-green sign with grey lettering, proclaiming the entrance to Morwen Hall. They were there.
Shoving the script back in his hand luggage, Noah peered out of the front windscreen, looking for the Hall itself. He hoped it was as nice as Melissa insisted it would be. He needed a break, a chance to unwind—preferably with company. It had been a long eighteen months making back to back films, plus the promotional efforts. Five days in the middle of nowhere didn’t sound all that bad, really. Even if he did have to spend them with Melissa.
The car broke through the last of the trees surrounding the hotel and Morwen Hall loomed into view—all grey stone and huge windows, reflecting the weak winter sun. It looked like something out of a bad Gothic movie, with its turrets and arched windows, and Noah couldn’t help but smile at the sight of it. Ostentatious, over the top and not quite the romantic vibe she thought she was going for. It suited Melissa perfectly.
‘Isn’t it gorgeous? It’s just as I remember it,’ Melissa squealed, and Noah recalled that Morwen Hall wasn’t just a venue for her. She’d lived there, or worked there, or something of the sort when she was younger.
Noah looked at the building again and wondered what spending significant time in such a dramatic place would do to a person. Then he looked at Melissa again. Question answered.
‘Look, honey, Laurel’s come out to meet us,’ Riley said and Melissa’s face soured.
Noah looked to where Riley was pointing and saw two women standing on the steps outside the huge Gothic front door, a wooden creation with twisty ironworks over the top. He couldn’t make out their features through the tinted glass, but presumably one of them was the hyper-efficient wedding planner, Laurel, who’d been sending Noah updates and asking him questions for the last six months.
He made a mental note to stay out of her way as much as possible for the next five days. Efficiency grew tiring quickly, he’d found.
The driver opened Melissa’s door and the bride swept out. Noah opened his own door and followed, wishing he’d brought his sunglasses as he lost the protection of tinted glass and squinted into the winter sun, looking up at the Hall.
Yep, still just as Gothic.
But the women standing on the steps... The tinted glass definitely hadn’t done them justice.
One was a petite brunette, all curves and smiles and bounce as she came down the steps to welcome Melissa with a hug. He hoped that was Laurel, who he’d vowed to avoid. Because the other...
The other stayed standing on the steps, her smile fixed and her hands clasped in front of her. She looked uncomfortable, as if she’d rather be anywhere else in the world. As if she was trying to fade into the background—something Noah wasn’t used to seeing in the circles he hung out in these days.
She’d never manage it, though. She had to be nearly six foot in her sensible black heels, almost as tall as he was, and her pale features were topped with a cloud of blazing red hair, pinned tightly back to reveal the classical beauty of her features. He couldn’t see the colour of her eyes from this distance, but he wanted to. He wanted to know if they were as striking as the rest of her.
Then