Page 35 of Better than Famous

I was happy.

Chapter Fifteen

SUTTON

The next day, the sky beyond the mangrove line was the color of a severe bruise. Heavy, swollen clouds in shades of deep violet and slate gray rolled across the horizon, dragging a curtain of rain behind them. The air conditioning in the cottage hummed a steady drone as it combated the suffocating humidity pressing against the windowpanes. Ben was at the fire station. True to form, he agreed to pick up half a shift to help, but he promised to be home before the storm made landfall. The weather system was dominating the local news loops and my thoughts. The isolation of the cottage usually provided a cocoon of safety. Today, the isolation amplified the silence.

I paced the distance from the kitchen counter to the living room window. My bare feet slapped lightly against the floor. I wore a faded gray shirt belonging to Ben, the hem dropping halfway down my thighs, and a pair of athletic shorts cinched tight with a safety pin. It was comforting. It was also entirely inadequate for a woman who needed to face a storm, but there wasn’t much I could do about that.

I stopped in front of the upright piano. The canvas drop cloth lay folded on the floor where I had carefully placed it. The polished wood of the fallboard caught the dim light. My fingers traced the edge of the keys without pressing down. Ben standing in the shadows occupied a permanent space in my mind. He hadn’t judged the music. He hadn’t analyzed the marketability of the bridge. He had simply listened. He called it real. That single word carried more weight than a shelf full of industry awards. He recognized the person underneath the platinum hair and the media training.

A sharp crunch of gravel outside pierced the quiet.

Adrenaline spiked straight into my bloodstream. The tires belonged to a heavy vehicle moving slowly. Ben drove a loud, rumbling truck, and he always parked with immediate, decisive speed. This vehicle crept along the driveway. I backed away from the window and moved into the short hallway, pressing my spine against the wall near the bathroom door. The engine cut off. A car door opened and closed with a solid, metallic thud. Footsteps crunched on the rocks, moving toward the front porch.

I held my breath. I scanned the space for anything resembling a weapon. A heavy flashlight sat on the kitchen counter. I edged toward the counter.

A bright, rapid knock sounded at the door.

"Sutton!" The voice was feminine, clear, and loud enough to penetrate the thick wood. "It’s Brenna. Open up before I drown out here."

Relief washed the tension from my shoulders. I abandoned the route to the kitchen drawer and crossed the living room. I flipped the deadbolt and pulled the door inward, a smile forming on my lips.

A gust of wind tore into the room, bringing the smell of salt and wet pavement. Brenna Coleridge-Markham stood on the welcome mat. She wore a bright yellow raincoat slick with fresh precipitation. She held a massive, black canvas duffel bag in one hand and a soaking wet umbrella in the other. Her auburn hair was tucked beneath the hood of her jacket, but a few damp strands framed her face.

"Thank God." She stepped over the threshold, bringing the storm’s energy directly into the quiet cottage. "The sky is about to open up and swallow the island whole. I barely made it down that access road."

I pushed the door shut and leaned my weight against it until the latch clicked. "You shouldn’t be driving in this."

"I’m a Coleridge." She dropped the heavy duffel bag onto the floor with a loud thud. "We don’t really do sensible weather choices. It’s a quirk."

Brenna shook out the umbrella and leaned it in the corner. She unbuttoned the yellow raincoat, revealing a pair of dark jeans and a cozy white sweater. She looked me up and down, her green eyes crinkling with amusement.

"My brother is a complete idiot," she announced. She kicked off her rain boots. "He saves lives for a living, but he honestly believes a giant fun-run T-shirt constitutes a functional wardrobe for a woman. You look like a teenager going to a sleepover."

I glanced down at the baggy gray shirt. "It gets the job done."

"Survival gets the job done." Brenna hefted the duffel bag into the living room, dumped it on the sofa, and unzipped the main compartment. "Living requires proper attire. I realized this morning that you probably have absolutely nothing of your own. Your purse and luggage are sitting at the bottom of a canal somewhere. So I did some shopping."

I brought a hand to my mouth, remarkably touched by the gesture.

She reached into the bag and pulled out a stack of folded clothing. She tossed a pair of black leggings onto the couch. "I figured I could guess your size. Keep in mind there are no Prada or Louis Vuitton stores on Dove Key. So you’re gonna have to put up with what the local boutique on Main Street offers. The selection is small, but the quality is actually pretty good."

I stared at the clothes. There were leggings, a soft cream-colored sweater, a pair of denim shorts, several pretty shirts, two functional bras, and a pack of basic cotton underwear. I was completely stunned. "Brenna, you didn’t have to do this."

"Of course I did." She dove back into the bag, producing a sleek, silver tube of high-end moisturizer and a bottle of salon-quality shampoo. "I also raided my own bathroom cabinets. I refuse to let any woman suffer through the tragedy of Ben’s three-in-one shower gel. The man washes his hair, his face, and his truck with the same damn industrial soap. It is a crime against dermatology."

A laugh escaped my throat. The sound was bright and utterly delighted. "He was very proud of the soap."

"He’s a barbarian." She set the bottles on the coffee table. "There is a toothbrush, a decent hairbrush, some basic makeup if you want it, and a pair of clean sneakers. I guessed a size seven."

"Seven and a half."

"Close enough. They’re canvas. They will stretch."

Brenna reached into the very bottom of the duffel bag. She retrieved a dark green glass bottle with a cork closure and held it up like a trophy. "And finally, Cabernet Sauvignon. Because riding out a tropical storm without wine is just masochism."

I examined the pile of items transforming the wooden coffee table into a space of comfort. The simple decency of the gesture overwhelmed me. People in my industry gave gifts with strings attached. A designer dress meant a mandatory red carpet appearance. A basket of expensive skincare meant a sponsored social media post. Brenna brought clothes simply because I was cold and stranded.