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When I read the address again, something flutters in my chest.Holy cow.
They live on Sullivan’s Island.
No doubt in a mansion that would fit my entire house in one of its closets. “Am I really doing this?” I ask gently. Lately, I’m never sure when things are actually happening and when I’m in one of my liquor-soaked dreams. Seeing Declan and Liam again are the only giveaways when I’ve left reality for the moment.
“No going back now,” Kassara says with a gleam in her eyes. “October thirtieth is next week. We have to go shopping!”
Somehow, I wish I was dreaming.
CHAPTERTHREE
When I pull up to the oceanfront mansion, I’m both relieved it seems to be safe and utterly intimidated all at once. Nothing about this is normal. Two weeks ago, I was a simple person living an average—albeit miserable and lonely—life. Now, I’m meeting with a Hollywood producer who’s abig fanof my work, apparently.
Things like this don’t happen to people like me.
I’m trying to be positive about all of this. Truly, I am. I realize this is an opportunity so many authors, most more talented than I am, would kill for. I realize I’m living a dream that, two years ago, I would’ve celebrated. A dream Declan and I fantasized about, a dream we worked so hard for. The problem is, back then, I would’ve had my husband and son to celebrate with me. Declan likely would’ve accompanied me to the meeting.
Now, I’m alone.
I feel the weight of that even more as I step out of the car and walk toward the door. I want to turn around and dart back, run for home and make up some excuse as to why I couldn’t make it.
Food poisoning.
Car trouble.
Bird flu.
Something. Anything.
But I can’t. I won’t.
Darlene Cosgrove would eat this opportunity up, and so will I. I will make my family proud in whatever way they still can be. I will get the dream I still have left. Who knows? Maybe I’ll find happiness again by getting it. That feels impossible, but I’ve learned to never use that word.
I square my shoulders toward the front door, aware I’m likely being watched right now from somewhere inside the house. Then again, maybe not. Not everyone is as bored and paranoid as I am.
For all I know, Owen’s on his weekly video call with Jason Bateman and the entire cast ofFriends, and I’ll be greeted by his housekeeper.
My heels click across the concrete as I make my way up the long walk and stop to take in the sight of the house. I admit, I did a little digging. Turns out Owen Doyle relocated from LA to the Charleston area last year, selling his fourteen-million-dollar home and no doubt upgrading with this one, which is now on the market again for twenty-five million. At twelve thousand square feet, perhaps it's too small for the lavish parties he’s well known for throwing.
The house is breathtaking, though it looks out of place here next to the more traditional beach houses. This one appears as if it’s been brought over from Italy, with sweeping, stone staircases running down either side of the large balcony in the front. It’s the color of sand, with massive windows and peaks everywhere you look.
Before I forget, I quickly pull out my phone, sending Kassara a text to let her know I’ve arrived.
Just got here. House is unreal. Wish me luck!
I turn around at the creaking sound behind me, noticing the double iron gates closing on either side of the circular driveway. They’d been open when I arrived, so I had hardly noticed them.
Now I know for sure he knows I’m here, so I should stop gawking and get to the front door.
Kassara’s response arrives as I make my way up the walk.
You’ve got this! Don’t forget about us little people!
I snort and tuck the phone back into my purse, nearing the door. Upon reaching it, I knock on the wood, then immediately begin to question if it was loud enough.
Should I knock again?But if it was loud enough and he heard me, a second knock would seem impatient. Then again, if he didn’t hear me, he must be wondering what the heck is taking so long.
I notice the bronze doorbell to my right and internally kick myself. Obviously, I should’ve rung the bell, but I can’t do that now.
