Love unscripted, p.1
Love Unscripted, page 1
Cover image: Celebrities Posing for Paparazzi on Red Carpet © Paul Bradbury, courtesy of istock.com.
Cover design copyright © 2018 by Covenant Communications, Inc.
Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.
American Fork, Utah
Copyright © 2018 by Tiffany Odekirk
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect
the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.
ISBN 978-1-52440-788-9
For Kevin,
who always has the perfect line
Acknowledgments
Without a doubt, I would not have written this novel without the love, support, and guidance of many talented people who so generously shared their time and expertise.
I’d like to thank Ellisa Barr, who has read every. single. draft. of this novel and helped me make it the best it could be. This book would not have come to life without your daily encouragement and thoughtful feedback.
I’d also like to thank my critique group: Melanie Jacobson, Brittany Larsen, Aubrey Hartman, Jen White, and Teri Christopherson, as well as my beta readers: Jolene Perry, Natalee Cooper, Wendy Jessen, Leah Garriott, Kaylee Baldwin, and Jenny Proctor. This book found “happily ever after” because of each of your insights and attention to detail.
Thank you to Mom, who played the part of counselor when writing was difficult. Dad, my biggest cheerleader. And GG, for our talks and attending writing conferences with me to watch the baby.
And thank you to my publishing family at Covenant. Sam, you are an incredible editor, and I am blessed to work with you. Toree, thank you for another stunning cover. I’m also grateful to everyone who works behind the scenes.
I’d also like to thank my children: Lexi, Jax, Xaley, and Brex. Having a writer for a mommy can’t be easy, but you’ve been patient and encouraging. I love you. And my husband, Kevin. This is the second book I’ve dedicated to you, and it’s not an accident. You’ve sacrificed more than anyone to make my dream a reality. I’m grateful for you and to you.
Finally, I’m thankful to my Heavenly Father, who has given me these stories and the words to write them.
“Upon the stage of a theater can be represented in character, evil and its consequences, good and its happy results and rewards; the weakness and the follies of man, the magnanimity of virtue and the greatness of truth. The stage can . . . [impress] upon the minds of a community an enlightened sense of a virtuous life, also a proper horror of the enormity of sin and a just dread of its consequences. The path of sin with its thorns and pitfalls, its gins and snares can be revealed, and how to shun it.”
—Brigham Young (Discourses of Brigham Young, 243)
Chapter One
Evie
Evie: You’ll never guess who’s guest lecturing in my film class today.
Emmy: Hint?
Evie: We had a poster of him hanging on our wall in junior high.
I once read movie stars are considered attractive because their faces are symmetrical. I’m not sure whether that’s true, but as Ridge Dashly stands at the podium in the lecture hall and I look at his hazel eyes, his strong jaw, and full lips, it seems like it could be.
But he’s shorter than I thought he would be. Not to say he’s short, just shorter. In all my teenage dreams, I imagined him to be at least six foot four. I can’t help being slightly disappointed. Which isn’t fair of me. He didn’t choose his height any more than I chose . . . well, a lot of things.
Ridge gives a thirty-minute speech on the art of acting, then relaxes into a chair opposite the professor—a fifty-something-year-old man who appears to be fighting the aging process with an unhealthy dose of Botox, skinny jeans, and an ill-advised orange bow tie. The remainder of class is open for questions. Predictably, almost every female hand in the room shoots up. Professor Bow tie calls on a girl in the first row, and she asks what the difference is between kisses on-screen and kisses offscreen—because of course she does.
“That’s a great question.” Ridge smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. In fact, he looks a little bored. “When people kiss offscreen, they don’t typically do it under hot lights or in front of a huge crew.”
Every girl around me giggles. I don’t. Maybe I’m broken.
I check my phone for missed calls. Still nothing. I set it facedown on the desk with a heavy breath. I hadn’t expected anything, but today of all days, I’d hoped.
“On-screen kisses are scripted,” Ridge continues. “Actors and actresses have to stand a particular way, tilt their heads just right, and hold the kiss for a specific amount of time . . .”
He has a nice voice, deep and smooth, but he sounds like he’s scripted right now—reading a line that has gone through one too many edits to feel genuine. I’d bet anything his perfectly scripted soundbite-of-an-answer is 280 characters or fewer and could be turned into a tweet.
I wonder if I’d get an honest reaction out of him if I raised my hand and asked to measure the symmetry of his facial features to test the validity of the theory.
The next several questions are about his movie that premieres on Thanksgiving. He’s in the middle of an answer when my phone vibrates on the too-small-to-be-useful fold-over desk. Hope swells inside me as I race to grab my phone, but it isn’t Q. Just another text from my twin, Emmy.
Emmy: Ridge Dashly?! If that isn’t the best first day of school ever, I don’t know what is. Glad you transferred to UCAL yet?
Finding a response that is both honest and doesn’t add to Emmy’s burden is harder than it should be, so I type out a nonanswer and hope she doesn’t call me on it.
Evie: Does Ridge Dashly have half a dozen MTV Awards?
The answer is yes. Many of them for Best Kiss.
Emmy: Wish I was there!
Evie: Me too. I miss you.
So much has changed in the past two years. Because of our car accident, Emmy can no longer dance on pointe. The thought makes me sad, but I find some comfort knowing she’s happily married. Rhys is a good man, and he loves my sister more than anything. They’re happy, and I’m happy for them. I just wish I’d made better decisions and could be happy like them.
Another student is selected to ask a question. “Why did you decide to become an actor?”
“Acting is the first thing I remember wanting to do in life . . .”
I tug at the frayed hole in the knee of my jeans, and as if Emmy could sense my sadness all the way from Utah, another text appears. Hey, girl. Don’t be sad.
A GIF of Ridge in a pair of board shorts—shirtless—fills my screen. Deep gaze, head tilt, smirk. Deep gaze, head tilt, smirk.
Momentarily hypnotized, I stare at the repeating image and finally snap out of it with a small laugh. A few people turn, and I sink low in my seat.
Emmy: Did you laugh?
Evie: Right in the middle of class. People stared. Thanks for that.
Emmy: As long as you’re smiling, mission accomplished.
Applause fills the theater. I look up to see Ridge wave as his bodyguard escorts him offstage. The second they slip outside, the theater auditorium deflates and everyone stands. We shuffle down the long rows toward the exit, and I review my class schedule on my phone. Economics is next. I groan.
Since dropping dance before my sophomore year at BYU, I haven’t declared a new major. Mom and Dad want me to study political science and eventually go to law school so I can become a lawyer like Dad. Emmy thinks I should reconsider dance. I have no clue what I want to study though. I feel lost. Moving home was supposed to be my fresh start, but the California coast feels as desolate as the Utah valley.
I’d hoped moving away from Provo would help me heal, but it hasn’t. Pain doesn’t have a zip code. I gave myself one year to wallow, promising myself that on my one-year divorce mark I’d move on, but that day is today, and I’m no closer to moving on than I was a year ago. I was naive to put an expiration date on a loss as pain-filled as divorce.
I exit the cinematic arts building, and hot air slams into me. There’s a slight breeze, but the humid ocean air does as little as the palm trees flanking the building to ease the misery of the scorching end-of-summer sun.
People behind me run and shout and push, and even though I don’t see Ridge, I know it’s him they’re chasing. Just as I reach the brick-lined walkway, the crowd pushes me hard from behind, and I trip. My hands shoot forward to break my fall, and my phone flies from my grip as I stumble to the ground.
The mob thins as quickly as it formed. I spot my phone lying facedown in the middle of the walkway and reach to pick it up. The screen is cracked—a deep scar running the length of the glass. Frustrated, I shove it into my bag, and as I stand, my knee stings. Through the hole in the denim, I see blood.
Hoping my phone still works, I press the home button. Thankfully, the screen illuminates. I sigh in relief, but the feeling quickly fades when the time flashes on the screen, and I realize I have only fifteen minutes to get to my next class and it’s all the way across campus.
I speed-limp to the nearest women’s restroom—in the only building on campus that appears to have dodged renovation—and hobble inside to clean my knee. Despite its 1970s avocado-tiled counter and beige stalls, the restroom is clean and smells of bleach.
I wave my hand in front of the automatic paper-towel dispenser but can’t get it to work, so I wet some toilet paper. I gently clean my scrape, wincing against the pain, and then press it firmly. Worst. Day. Ever. When I’m sure the bleeding has stopped, I walk back into the stall to flush the toilet paper.
The restroom door flies open and hits the wall with a reverberating thwack. I flinch and then peek around the stall door. A man hurries inside with his head down, swears under his breath, and kicks the door shut again. Slamming his back against the door, he braces himself against it and draws in a long breath and slowly releases.
I wait for him to move, but he just stands there, staring at the floor. Feeling guilty for witnessing what he obviously thinks is a private moment, I consider flushing the toilet or clearing my throat to make my presence known, but then he looks up and our eyes meet. I suck in a quiet breath.
It’s Ridge Dashly.
Panic straightens his spine, and he whirls around as if to make a quick escape. Before he can even grab the handle, the door swings open, nearly hitting him, and he takes a step back, hiding behind it.
A girl with more cleavage than clothes stands in the threshold, eyes searching the small bathroom. “Did Ridge Dashly come in here?” she asks breathlessly.
“No,” I say too quickly.
The girl’s eyes narrow, and Ridge shifts farther behind the door, pressing his eyes closed—the way my niece and nephew do when they’re pretending to be invisible.
“Trust me,” I try again, knowing I’m the only barrier between Ridge and his overzealous fan. “He isn’t here. I checked all the stalls. Maybe he ran into the cinematic arts building next door?”
The girl doesn’t look convinced, but she leaves the restroom anyway.
As soon as the door falls closed, Ridge locks it with a trembling hand. When he turns to face me, his panic has vanished and he wears an easy smile. “Come here often?” he jokes, but the slight waver in his voice belies his confidence.
Having seen enough girls freak out over my older brother Jase when he became UCAL’s first-string quarterback, I know I need to keep my cool if I don’t want to look like a moron. “Do you come here often?” Maybe not the suavest answer, but considering I’m standing this close to Ridge Dashly, I’m just glad it made sense.
“First time, actually.” He laughs humorlessly to himself, and then, as if remembering he has an audience, he clears his throat and addresses me. “Good thing too, or we wouldn’t have met.” Ridge winks, but his movie star “charm” is wasted on me. He may be Ridge Dashly, but I’ve quit men like I quit ballet. Until I reconcile my past and figure out my future, that’s the way it needs to stay. I take a step toward the locked door.
“That’s not a good idea.” Ridge taps his ear and nods toward the door.
Outside, I can hear his fans. I hadn’t even noticed the steady rise in volume of voices. I’m not sure how his fans figured out where he’s hiding, but they have. But still—“I have to get to class.” I’m already late, and if I don’t show, the professor will give away my seat.
“And I have a meeting. But I don’t think the people waiting on the other side of that door will care.” He shrugs like he isn’t the least bit bothered by being stuck here, and I almost forget he was upset enough to kick the door.
“You don’t have to act like you’re okay,” I tell him. We both know I saw his trembling hands.
“I am an actor,” Ridge says, but his smile slips, and he looks more uncomfortable now than he did when he first ran into the restroom.
“Right. Sorry. I meant, can I have your autograph?” I bat my eyelashes so he knows I’m joking.
“Autograph?” His smile returns. “Don’t you mean selfie?” He leans against the counter and crosses his arms over his athletic chest, appraising me. It’s hard not to squirm under his stare. I’m wearing clothes that are more casual than cute, and I can’t remember the last time I applied makeup. His searching gaze is enough to prick my pride, and my old crush makes me want to impress him, but his face gives nothing away. “I didn’t catch your name,” he says finally.
“That’s because I didn’t give it to you.” Ridge Dashly may be the man of my teenage dreams—and deep down inside, fourteen-year-old me is fangirling—but my twenty-four-year-old self is love-dead, and not even Ridge Dashly can fix me.
“Well, I’ll need your name for the autograph.”
“You know I don’t want your autograph, right?”
“You’re probably going to say you didn’t check all the stalls for me too.”
“There are a lot of stalls.” I shrug. “And to be honest, I prefer blonds. Now, if you were that other Mormon-born actor, Ryan Gosling . . .”
Ridge runs a hand over—not through—his perfectly styled brown hair. I press my lips together to keep from laughing.
“Something funny?” he asks.
My gaze flicks to his hair. It’s cut short on the sides, but the top is longer; all of it is confidently combed into place. “You just ran your hand over your hair.”
Ridge’s hand falls to his side, and he hooks his thumb in his dark-washed jeans pocket. “Ryan’s married,” he ignores my observation, “so you’ll have to settle for me. And how do you know I’m LDS?”
I raise my right hand and show him my CTR ring.
He smiles. This one is slightly crooked, like he hasn’t been able to practice away this impromptu imperfection.
“I hope it doesn’t bother you that we claim you as one of us,” I add, aware that he’s been less-active since starring in Sarah’s Song and rising to fame.
He tenses but only slightly and only for a second. “Not at all. I claim it too.”
This surprises me. Ridge doesn’t have the best reputation. He dates. A lot.
“I think you were about to tell me your name.”
I shake my head. “I wasn’t, actually.”
He regards me with a smirk. “Why’s that?”
“Well, for starters, because the second you leave, you’ll forget it.”
“What if I promised you I wouldn’t?”
“You will, but I appreciate the line.”
He rubs two fingers across his lips. “You’re playing with me.”
“I’m not.” At least not on purpose.
“Of course not.”
He understandably doesn’t believe me, so I walk the rest of the way to the door and reach for the lock to prove it to him. “Nice to meet you.”
Ridge pushes off the counter and stands to his full height, and I’m not sure how I thought he was short. “I will give you a thousand dollars not to open that door.”
“Are you kidding?” My hand falls from the handle.
“Two thousand?” He makes a show of reaching for his back pocket.
“Tell me you don’t carry that much money.”
“No.” He laughs. “I’m going to PayPal you.” He holds up his phone. “What’s your name so I can look you up?” Ridge’s gaze settles on me, challenging me to tell him my name.
There are only two problems with this. One, I’m too stubborn to back down from a challenge—a personality trait I inherited from both my parents. And two, I don’t want his money. It bothers me that he even offered it. “Good try,” I say, thinking he’ll back down, but he only waits patiently. I shake my head. “You do not give up, do you?”
“I think the word you’re looking for is persistent.”
“I’m pretty sure I could get at least twice that much from every girl waiting outside,” I joke.
His jaw hardens.
I don’t know what I said wrong. “I don’t want your money,” I tell him. “I just need to get to class.” I feel behind me for the door handle.
“Please.” It’s not Ridge’s plea that stops me but the sincerity of his plea and the way he leans forward like he’s ready to use his body as a human doorstop. That’s when I notice his collar is ripped and a trickle of blood has stained his shirt. My heart squeezes with pity, and I step away from the door. His shoulders relax.
“Is someone coming to get you?” I ask. “A bodyguard or campus security?”
“I really wouldn’t know. I have terrible reception.”
