Chapter 1

PRESENT DAY, THE MURPHY HOUSEHOLD

Daryl and Tommy had the flu this week, which put us behind schedule.

Between you and me, I’m betting the illness they have is “whiskey” flu. I gave them bonus checks on Thursday. They each called in on Friday.

To make up for lost time, I’m at the job by myself, on a Sunday. When you’re the owner, shit runs uphill not down.

The “job” this time around is at my ex-girlfriend’s parents’ house. My ex and I were over so long ago that it shouldn’t have any sting left, but I’m not sure I ever shook her. Not because I’m pining, but because after we ended, she became famous.

Famous famous.

I’m talking walk-the-red-carpet-who-are-you-wearing-can-I-have-your-autograph famous. How’s that for a kick in the nuts?

The Murphy house is quiet and there are no interruptions distracting me from sawing a hole in the wall where we’re expanding Cheryl’s walk-in closet. Allison’s mom “joked” to her husband (Allison’s dad, Stephen) that he could have the hall closet, but I don’t think she was joking. Stephen shrugged like the nice guy he is and said, “Whatever you want, doll.”

Whatever you want, doll.

Even I think that’s sweet and I’m a guy.

I’m remodeling Cheryl and Stephen Murphy’s bedroom. They’re celebrating their thirty-fifth wedding anniversary in style with an extended trip to Italy. My team and I are taking care of the remodel while they’re gone. Makes it easier for everyone to work in an empty house. We’re knocking out a wall, extending the deck, and expanding the closet into a sizable walk-in. Their house is on the ritzy side of Columbus. A far cry from the brick ranch I grew up in, or the even smaller one I live in now.

Since walking into this house, I’ve been struck with the oddest sense of déjà vu. The memories don’t shout so much as whisper. And being here has triggered more memories than I care to admit. Allison and I broke it off within the first year of her fleeing to California. Long distance relationships are as hard to maintain as they say.

I dropped out of college when my football scholarship money ran dry and then I went back to work for my dad’s construction business. Took me a few years to learn the ropes, but I quickly decided that I didn’t want to erect personality-free new-builds for the rest of my life. I was also tired of working for someone else.

Last year I filled out the paperwork for a business loan, and now I’m the owner-slash-operator of Burke Builders LLC. Remodeling is my favorite part of the job and the one I try to do most. It’s rewarding to take what isn’t working and make it work. Knocking down a wall to widen a living room or adding on a screened-in porch not only changes the physical space but infuses it with new life. It changes the feel of the place, is what I’m trying to say.

I know, I know. I’m a blue-collar poet. I continue sawing, drywall dust blowing around me like a sandstorm.

Sawing done, I tug off my mask and safety glasses and toss them on the floor. The bedroom furniture is crammed into a guest bedroom while we work. During moving that furniture, I couldn’t help peering into the bedroom across the hall. Allison’s bedroom.

It’s not exactly like it was when she lived here, but the bed is one and the same. And while holding the ass end of a bureau I was bracing, using my legs to lift while Tommy backed into the other guest room, my eyes lingered on that double bed and I remembered the things that Allie and I used to do on it.

My phone buzzes with a text from my sister, Julieann. I had a feeling she’d call me today—not that she calls often, but sometimes I have a sense that she will. We’re twins and have that weird superpower of finishing each other’s sentences and reading what’s on the other’s mind by simply sharing a look.

There are only two words on my cellphone’s screen.

Holy shit.

OMG follows.

OMG pops onto the screen again before the phone rings in my hand.

“Hel—”

“Holy shit. Oh my God,” Jules says into my ear, the words bursting from her mouth. She’s out of breath like she’s been running a mile.

“So I gathered from your texts,” I tell her calmly.

“Nina stole an Oscar from Millie Duncan!”

I blink. I understand the words individually, but I’m having trouble with them all together in one sentence. “What?”

Also, let me catch you up: Allison’s internship in California turned into a walk-on role that became permanent for the Emmy Award–winning drama America’s Sweetheart. She changed her name when she went to Tinseltown to Nina Lockhart.

“I know you don’t like to hear news about Nina—er, Allison, but that part isn’t new news. I’d heard about it when it happened last week, but I made Mom and Dad swear they wouldn’t say anything to you in case it was gossip. I didn’t want you to have to deal with it, you know?”

“Jules—” But she’s on a roll and doesn’t stop talking.

“Well. Get this. Xavier McCormack just gave a statement and Millie was standing right next to him. Like, supporting him! The accusations they’re making about Nina are—”

“Jules,” I repeat more forcefully. She’s like an active volcano spewing lava and I’m the ill-prepared villager at the bottom of the hill. “Back up. Way up. I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”

Jules takes a deep breath, and blows it out. “Okay. So, you know how I feel about her because of what she did to you.”

“Over ten years ago,” I say, less in Allison’s defense but in my own. I’m not a fragile piece of china. A guy can get his heart decimated and live to tell the tale.

“Since this Oscar thing has blown up on the internet, I didn’t want someone to mention it to you and catch you off guard. I know how well you’ve trained yourself to ignore magazine covers at the checkout lines.”

Like a Jedi, I think. I stare at gum instead in case Allison’s face is splashed across a cover.

“And the news again is…?” I prompt.

“Nina stole an Oscar from Millie Duncan,” Jules says, calmer now. “You know, three-time-Academy-Award winner, Millie Duncan? The original America’s Sweetheart, Millie Duncan? Everyone loves her and now Allison’s become the town pariah since McCormack turned on her.”

That pinch of pain in my chest is general empathy. I’d feel that for anyone.

“Last Saturday night, McCormack and Nina were at her house for a party and Nina swiped one of Millie’s statuettes. There are pictures of Allison via the paparazzi. She was hiding it under a coat the whole time. It’s alarming.”

“I’m alarmed that we’re having this conversation,” I say drily.

“I wanted you to be prepared.”

“For what?”

“Anything!” she exclaims, exasperated. “McCormack gave a statement—”

“Stop saying his name,” I warn between clenched teeth. In the restroom in the hallway, I balance the phone on my shoulder and wash the drywall dust from my arms. The mention of Xavier McCormack makes my neck muscles go tight. I don’t know what Allie, or the rest of the world, sees in that douchebag. Doesn’t the fact that he won his own Oscar only prove he’s a really good liar? The press calls them McNina, which is as stupid as McCormack himself.

“Jax. They broke up.”

I pause, towel in hand, my eyes on my reflection in the mirror. My hair and beard are dotted with dust, making the brown strands appear gray. My face is drawn and white—-partially from the dust and partially from this conversation. I towel off my hair and face and turn from the mirror, cellphone in hand as I repeat what my sister just told me.

“They broke up?”

“Yeah. He said that Nina stole the Oscar in a fit of jealousy and that she boarded a plane this morning for a rehab facility. I don’t even like her and even I felt sorry for her when he disclosed that. It wasn’t his story to tell. Plus, he seems full of shit.”

“Because he is,” I snarl.

I’ve always hated Xavier, and not only because he’s dating my ex. From the second I saw his smug, pretty-boy face in the movie Legends and Bygones, the title that won him that treasured statuette, everything about him rang false.

“She’s better off without him,” I add, walking to the stairs. My stomach interrupts with a mighty roar. I tug my too-long hair out of the elastic holding it back. I’ve let it grow, and as a result it’s in my way a lot. Since I’m doing it to impress no one at all, I’m considering a haircut.

“Thanks for the update. I have to grab something to eat. Call you later?” I ask as I jog down the stairs.

“Yes. But…you’re okay?”

Since I know what she’s really asking, I answer the unspoken question instead. “Jules, I’ve been working in her parents’ house all week long. This isn’t the first time I’ve thought about her.” I know Jules is less concerned about someone chattering to me about what happened and more concerned that I’ll catch a magazine cover or an entertainment blip on TV and lose my shit.

“For a while you wanted her back.”

“Yeah, well, that was a long time ago. It’s not like she’s here, Jules.”

“I know. I just…I worry.”

“You don’t have to.”

She sighs in defeat. She loves to worry about me.

“Okay?”

“Okay,” she mumbles. “I should go. I have a million things to do. Bye, Jax.”

“Later, sis.”

I shove my phone into my back pocket, smiling to myself. Jules, as tough as she acts on the outside, has a gooey, caramel center. Don’t tell her I told you that.

As I pass by the front door, the lock disengages and it opens. I step back, head tilted in curiosity. I can’t imagine Tommy or Daryl showing up voluntarily. The door widens and the subject of mine and Jules’s phone call stands at the threshold. The blood drains from my head to my toes so swiftly, I wobble a little.

Allison Murphy is silhouetted by sunshine. She looks a lot like she did when we were together—petite, her dark hair curling over her shoulders. She’s wearing huge sunglasses, her full mouth open in a stunned gape and her thick eyebrows arched in surprise.

I open my mouth to speak, but it’s my sister’s words that come out.

“Holy shit.”