Home Matters (A Ripple Effect Romance Novella, Book 1) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  The Ripple Effect Romance Series

  Other Works by Julie N. Ford

  For my sister Loree

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About Julie N. Ford

  Coming Next

  Silver Linings, Chapter One

  Copyright © 2014 Julie N. Ford

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, whether by graphic, visual, electronic, film, microfilm, tape recording, or any other means, without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles.

  Ebook Edition

  Published by HEA Publishing

  The Ripple Effect Romance Series

  Like a pebble tossed into calm water,

  a simple act can ripple outward

  and have a far-reaching effect on those we meet,

  perhaps setting a life on a different course—

  one filled with excitement, adventure, and sometimes even love.

  Other Works by Julie N. Ford

  Count Down to Love (2011 Whitney Award Finalist)

  Replacing Gentry

  No Holly for Christmas

  For my sister, Loree

  Olivia rubbed a chill from her shoulders. Overhead, a silver ribbon fluttered incessantly from the vent. Baron Broadcasting must have its air conditioning piped in from Antarctica, she mused. Her eyes traveled across the patterned carpet to where a woman sat perched behind a stainless steel reception desk, leafing through the pages of a gossip magazine, no doubt perusing stories ranging from tragic break-ups to weight gain to a fall from grace. Infamy: the ugly flipside of fame, invariably accompanied by a return to obscurity.

  A fate Olivia herself would soon be all too familiar with.

  Above the receptionist, centered across a vast expanse of windows, the silhouette of a triplane, complete with a machine-gunned fuselage, loomed over the reception area, casting an ominous shadow against the far wall. From a cloudless sky, California sunlight beat against the glass. And despite the fabricated nip in the air, Olivia had the sensation she was wilting, curling inch by inch, a paper doll discarded onto the hearth of a roaring fire.

  Combating the urge to fidget, to coil a precisely straightened strand of otherwise natural curl around her finger, Olivia stacked her hands securely in her lap. Today it was imperative that her hair—well, every part of her for that matter—appeared absolutely perfect, and so she couldn’t risk even one nervous twirl. Still, her fingers twitched, itching for a distraction, an outlet for the release of nervous energy. Her gaze fluttered to her purse. For times such as this or when the impulse to recreate a moment in time would strike her, she carried a pocket-sketchpad. A quick doodle might relax her. Only she resisted. She needed to remain focused.

  “How much longer?” she wanted so badly to ask but didn’t dare. She couldn’t afford to appear anxious or unprofessional.

  Then, as if on cue, the receptionist’s hand paused mid-page flip. She lifted her fingers to the headset horseshoeing her cropped hair. An instant later, she looked to Olivia. “It’ll be about another fifteen minutes, Miss Pembroke.” She pinched an inch of air between her thumb and forefinger. “They’re having a tiny, little issue with the camera.”

  Camera, Olivia repeated in her head, the voice of her agent trailing along behind. “The studio doesn’t want to waste time with an audition. They’re going straight to screen test.” In other words, they were in a hurry to fill this role. The studio’s haste being Olivia’s best chance for salvation.

  You see, after years of living in LA on not much more than minimum wage, her credit had long since surpassed the maximum limit. She was two months behind on her rent and facing eviction. Her mother and daddy had already loaned her the better part of their retirement savings. Then, a few days ago, she’d been “let go” from the Rodeo Drive boutique where she worked while awaiting her Big Break—fired when the gown a studio executive, Ms. Hightower, had special ordered to wear on New Year’s Eve hadn’t been delivered in time. Though Olivia had nothing to do with the tailor’s courier being held at gunpoint somewhere in West Hollywood, she was held responsible, the cost of the missing gown docked from her exit-pay. Setting aside the two hundred dollars she needed for gas in order to crawl back to Tennessee with her tail between her legs, she was completely broke.

  But then, as if the sky had rolled back, exposing a herald of angels, a miracle unfolded right before Olivia’s eyes. Ms. Hightower had caught up to her in the parking lot. “Tell you what I’m going to do, Olivia,” the executive had said. “Since I’ve had a nasty bout of bad karma myself lately, I’ll cut you some slack. And just to prove to the universe that I deserve a break as well, I’m going to set you up with an opportunity every two-bit actress in this town would trade her double-D implants to have.” She gave Olivia a grave look. “And don’t you dare disappoint me… again.”

  The Opportunity to which Ms. Hightower had referred just so happened to be an exclusive audition, a chance to slip immediately into the recent, and quite unexpected, vacancy left by actress Nicole Henshaw as cohost of the network’s most watched reality show, Home Matters. Rumor had it Ms. Henshaw had left the show to “work” on her “strained” marriage to mega action star Ethan Henshaw.

  And so here Olivia was, on the verge of her Big Break at last. If she could land this role there would be no more embarrassing bit parts on silly commercials, or playing a random face in the crowd. She’d no longer have to endure the patronizing looks of people with no regard for the insurmountable time, work and persistence needed to break into show business when her one precious line got cut, trampled underfoot on the editing room floor. No, this was the opportunity destined to change her life and her career forever. She could feel the transformation reaching out to her, her fingers stretching back in return. Proof positive she was worthy of living her dreams. Only another inch, a mere whisper, and she would grab hold and never let go.

  But with hope also came that relentless monster of self-doubt. It slipped its gnarled fingers around her neck and gave her spray-tanned flesh a tight squeeze. She knew it was caustic to focus on her failures at a time like this and insane to feel old at twenty-seven. While the rest of the world claimed forty as the new thirty, in Hollywood, thirty might as well have been the new fifty, especially for an actor still trying to wedge her foot in the door. But try as she might, she couldn’t hold her negative thoughts at bay. The bulk of her personal failures, the times she’d fallen shy of the spotlight, along with her ever-advancing age, all cascaded atop her like tiny pebbles of defeat, threatening to crush her in seconds, to unravel her carefully polished veneer.

  Pulling at the collar of her blouse, Olivia struggled to hold back the pesky demons of her past. But the relentless sunlight, coupled with the gloom clouding her thoughts, continued to poke at her like a persistent drippy faucet. Her palms started to sweat, her heart to race. Then her stomached twisted, wringing its contents against gravity and up into her chest.

  Springing to her feet, Olivia hitched her purse strap onto
her shoulder, and managed a quick, “I need a minute,” to the receptionist, before making a beeline around the corner, straight for the restroom.

  Immediately upon shouldering the door open, she tripped over a yellow Wet Floor sign, but caught herself on a maintenance cart sitting abandoned smack in the middle of the room. The cart began to roll, throwing a few items clacking to the floor, and taking Olivia along for the ride. Moments later, the ringing sound of metal against porcelain brought them both to a screeching halt against the far wall.

  One hand covering her mouth, she released her grip on the cart and staggered over the space separating her from the closest stall. Palming the metal door open, she saw—then smelled—that the toilet was plugged. Her stomach heaved again. She backed away and flung herself into the next stall. She was met with a sight of equal repugnance. Not wanting to chance another nasty toilet bowl, she turned to the row of sinks lining the far wall.

  Her hands gripping the cool marble of the counter top, she leaned forward and retched. She wasn’t surprised when nothing came up because nothing was precisely what she’d had to eat and drink today. And not just because she couldn’t risk even the slightest possibility of bloating, but because she’d spent her gas money on a pair of Mark Jacob’s pumps to wear, leaving not even a few dollars for a small, fat-free latte.

  Her stomach lurched again.

  A foul taste burned her throat.

  She squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed back before sucking in a few deliberate breaths. “Get a grip, Olivia,” she muttered to herself. “This is your last chance. Don’t blow it.”

  Turning on the faucet, she brought a palm full to her lips and sipped. The cool water trickled down her raw throat, hitting her belly like a fist full of marbles. She took another slow breath, then lifted her head and allowed her eyes to slide open.

  But as her eyelids folded up, one of her contact lenses caught, shifting out of place. “Perfect,” she said, leaning into the mirror for a closer look. Sure enough, through the haze of her partially blurred vision, she could see that her left eye was a rich shade of emerald green, the right a muddled gray-greenish brown.

  Careful not to smudge her makeup, she lifted her lashes with one hand and pinched the rogue contact with the other. “Gotcha,” she was saying when her cell phone trilled from inside her purse. Stupid, stupid, she scolded herself for not remembering to turn it off while she’d been waiting, and as she pulled it out, she consulted the display.

  “Hello, Momma,” she answered, setting the phone on the counter so she’d have two free hands to replace her contact.

  “How’s my little superstar?” she gushed as only a Southern mother could.

  Olivia replaced her contact then stood back, blinking it into place. Puking her nerves out, she responded in her head. She knew better than to say as much to her mother. The woman was wound tighter than a two-dollar watch and chronically prone to overreaction.

  Thankfully, Olivia’s father spoke next. “Mornin’, Peach,” he said in that steady way of his.

  A quiet sigh lifted the tension crushing Olivia’s chest. Her frantic heart slowed to an even pace. Two words from her father, and she was back on solid ground.

  “Hey, Daddy.”

  “Well, did you get it?” Her mother surged back in. “Are you the new cohost of Home Matters?”

  Olivia rolled her eyes. “No, Momma.” She uncapped her lip-gloss and gave her smudged lips a refresher coat. “I’m still waiting for my screen test.”

  “Peach, do you think it’s a good idea for you to try out for a show where you have to use power tools?” her father gently asked. “I don’t mean to be critical, but the last time you tempted fate with a pair kitchen shears, you spent a whole day in the emergency room.”

  “Stan, you worry too much. That’s why they call it acting,” her mother dismissed. “Right, Sweetheart? Oh, just wait until I tell everyone down at the church. They all think their girls are so special just because they’re married and poppin’ out babies. The look on their faces is gonna be priceless when I…” she continued to gush, a faucet of expectation left wide open.

  Olivia slipped her lip-gloss back into her purse. Then she busied herself with rechecking her hair, straightening her blouse and reasonably short pencil skirt, and trying to keep the undercurrent of what her mother wasn’t saying from pulling her further down. Olivia’s mother had always pushed her daughter to be a star, to reach for more than a house in the suburbs and a seat on the Junior League, but what they never discussed, out loud, was what would become of Olivia if—heaven forbid—fame passed her by. Good thing her mother didn’t know how close they currently were to having that conversation.

  “Emma-Jean,” Olivia’s father finally cut in. “Could you just stop that dadgum chattering long enough to listen to what the girl has to say? She hasn’t even screen tested yet.”

  A gasp hissed through Olivia’s phone, followed by what sounded like her mother’s hand covering the speaker on her end. “Well, I ain’t deaf yet, you know. I heard my child just fine,” her mother’s muffled voice rebuked before regaining full volume through the line again. “Have you at least met that William Blaine?” she asked, squeaking his name. “Heaven above, my baby girl starring right along next to Reality magazine’s Heartthrob of the Year. And he’s single too.” She clapped her hands. “You two would produce some mighty pretty grandbabies.”

  Another of Olivia’s dreams was to be the better half of one of those Hollywood power couples. And William Blaine would fit the bill quite nicely. She’d even been trying out Uni-Names—Oli-iam. Wi-livia. Wi-liv. Cute, right? Never-theless, she and her mother were both getting ahead of themselves. She opened her mouth to say so, but when she felt the presence of another person, she shifted her attention through the mirror’s reflection instead.

  Just inside the doorway, a man dressed in a polo shirt with a Home Matters logo and cargo-type pants stood staring at her. With eyes wide and unblinking, he looked as though he’d seen a ghost or some other unexplainable existence. In his right hand, he held a plunger.

  With a start, Olivia whipped around to face him, her hand pressed against her hammering chest. “What in heaven’s name are you…” she began when the smell of the toilet, the wetness covering the floor, and his workman attire all added up to only one answer.

  “Sweetheart, are you all right?” her mother asked. “Is someone there?”

  Olivia turned back to the mirror. “Yes, Momma, it’s fine,” she said. “It’s just the janitor. This lady’s room is one hot mess, is all.”

  “You sure you’re all right?” her father confirmed.

  Her mother whispered, “Does he look like a rapist?” like lowering her voice would make a difference if he were. “Do I need to have your father call nine-one-one?”

  Olivia glanced through the mirror at the man by the door. Casually leaning against the wall now, the confounded look he’d worn a minute ago had been replaced by a smile as if he didn’t—in the very least—have two toilets in desperate need of his attention. He didn’t appear to be a threat, but the fact that he seemed to find anything about her situation amusing had her mind conjuring some violent images of its own.

  Turning to face him again, she jabbed a fist to her hip. “Don’t you have something better to do than eavesdrop on other people’s conversations?” she asked, her gaze deliberately landing on the plunger he had gripped in his hand.

  His smile wavered, his puzzled eyes following hers down to the plunger. Understanding wiped the confusion from his face, and a different kind of smile, more devious than amused this time, pulled at his lips. “Nope.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Listening to you is far more entertaining than anything else I‘ve got going on right now.”

  Olivia’s mouth dropped open an instant before she snapped it shut again. She slapped him with an exasperated look. “You mean to tell me you’re gonna just stand there, listening in on a private conversation that is, in no way, any of your business?”
/>   He lifted a shoulder. “That’s my plan.”

  The sound of her parents, insisting on knowing what was going on, spilled from the speaker of her phone, but she was no longer concerned with them. This man’s behavior was reprehensible, and she was determined to make sure he knew it.

  “I’ll have to get back to y’all in a bit,” she called out to her folks and hit end without waiting for a response.

  Olivia lifted a perfectly plucked eyebrow and aimed it at the janitor. “Well, it just so happens that Ms. Hightower is a close, personal friend of mine,” she half-lied, full-on threatened. “And you can rest assured she’ll be hearing about this—”

  The door popped open. The receptionist stuck her head in, a question pulling down the corners of her mouth. “Miss Pembroke?” she said, her gaze alternating between Olivia and the janitor. “They’re ready for you.”

  Olivia gathered up her purse and phone, squared her shoulders, and headed for the exit. “You’re very rude,” she observed as she passed.

  The door closed behind her, but not quick enough to block his reply.

  “Break a leg.” He chuckled.

  “Welcome, Miss Pembroke.”

  Olivia squinted against the glaring set lights and focused in on the casting director. To either side of him stood a producer, Ms. Hightower to be exact, and a young woman who was most likely his assistant.

  She sent the trio a demure smile. “Please, call me Olivia,” she said, adding a healthy dollop of self-confidence. Five minutes ago her nerves were attempting to regurgitate the lining of her stomach, but now in front of the camera, as always, she was in complete control. She was, after all, a professional.

  “All right, Olivia. Can you turn to the left?” he asked. Knowing that directors often started a screen test by assessing an actor from every angle, she complied. “Now to the right,” he directed. She turned the other way. “Thanks,” he said sounding pleased. “How tall are you?”