LEAD ME ON Julie Ortolon (mind reading books .TXT) 📖

She felt her aunt studying her. “For what it’s worth, I was talking about choices I made when I was your age. I chose career and pride over a man I was absolutely mad about.”

Reaching the cottage, Alli pulled around back, under the covered carport, and set the brake. The tiny backyard where she’d played as a child lay before her, tangled and neglected. Tucked in the corner stood the old oak with the swing hanging from a stout branch. A grass-lined path led to the back door into the kitchen that had known generations of laughter, voices, and occasional tears. An ache rose in her heart, so sweet she wanted to cry. Even though she’d lost her parents, her life had held such joy. Scott’s life—or what little she knew about it—seemed so empty in comparison. He had his writing, but nothing else. Everything in her longed to help him fill the void with happiness. If only he would let her.

Unfortunately, he’d pushed her away by closing himself off. It’s over, she told herself for the thousandth time. You have to move on.

But move on to what?

“Do you regret it?” she asked her aunt. “Not having a family of your own?”

“No.” Her aunt turned to her as if sensing her need to talk. “I made the right choice for me. The theater has always been my first love, and what I had with my young man was mostly lust and a whole lot of really great sex.”

“Aunt Viv!” Alli blushed.

“Don’t be too shocked, dear. Your generation didn’t invent the concept, you know. As for your situation, whatever it is, only you know what’s right. I will say this, though, if pride is the only thing standing in the way, I’d toss that out in a heartbeat.”

“It’s not pride.” It’s fear. “I’d do whatever it took, if I thought it would do any good.”

“Have you tried?”

“Actually, I did.” Her heart ached at the memory. “The ball’s in his court now, and the game appears to be over.”

“In other words, you tried but not hard enough.” Vivian shook her head in disapproval. “Do you have any idea where I’d be today if I’d tucked my tail and run home the first time a director yelled ‘next’? The things in this world that are worth having come with a price tag. Only you can decide what you want, and what you’re willing to sacrifice to get it.”

Anything, she wanted to say. “But what if I fail?”

“What if you succeed?” Her aunt raised a brow. “Life doesn’t come with any guarantee but this: the surest way to fail is to stop trying.”

“It’s just...” She swallowed the knot in her throat. “It takes courage to keep on trying.”

“That it does, my dear. That it does.”

Scott tried to find a comfortable sitting position on the sofa. He shifted again, tugging on the collar of his shirt.

“You’ll need to be careful with the wire, sir.” The cameraman—or kid, rather—pointed to the tiny microphone clipped to the shirt placard.

He nodded as the kid moved behind the camera they’d set up in the den of the beach house. He hated interviews, hated them with a passion. Why had he agreed to this? Because last spring, sitting around the breakfast table at the Pearl Island Inn, October had seemed like a lifetime away. Now that it was here, he wanted to bolt right out of his skin.

“Jorge, how are your light readings?” Keshia Prescott asked the kid as she took her seat.

“They suck. I can’t work with solid black clothes against all that white.”

Scott watched Keshia’s face as she tried to figure out a tactful way to ask him one more time if he’d consider changing into a different shirt. He looked right back and raised one brow. Sighing, Keshia gave Jorge a helpless shrug of apology.

While the kid muttered curses and adjusted the lights, Scott rolled his head in a vain attempt to relax his shoulders. Any minute, the questions would begin and he’d have to answer off the top of his head. He wouldn’t be able to write his answers out, think about them, and rewrite any he didn’t like. They’d just go straight into the camera to be aired the following Saturday. The queasiness in his stomach brought back everything he’d felt that day when Allison had asked him to talk about himself. He’d frozen up inside rather than having the guts to do what she asked.

Weeks had passed before he’d realized the full extent of the mistake he’d made. He’d had the gall to criticize Jack Kingsley for lacking the courage to bare his soul to Marguerite, yet he was ten times worse.

Okay, so he’d been a juvenile delinquent from a dysfunctional family. Big deal. If Allison could forgive him for lying to her about being related to John LeRoche— and she had seemed willing—surely she could forgive the rest.

Couldn’t she?

Gawd, the awful doubt returned full force, twisting his insides into knots. Weakness and insecurity were so unattractive. And embarrassing. He didn’t want to be Scott LeRoche, the screwed-up kid. He wanted to be Scott Lawrence: the cynical but successful writer, rich, famous, and self-assured.

Unfortunately, Allison had been right when she’d said that if they couldn’t share their pasts, they had no future. He should have just laid everything on the table when he’d had the chance, no edits or rewrites. Instead, he’d blown it in a moment of sheer panic. And now it was too late.

Or was it?

He eyed the camera. He might not have the guts to call her on the phone, not after this much time had passed, but there was a way he could let her know he wanted a second chance. The idea had his stomach churning like mad, but at least it didn’t require talking directly to her.

“All right, Mr. Lawrence,” Keshia said. “We’re ready to begin.”

“Wait.” He braced himself. “I’ve changed my mind.”

“About doing the interview?” Her eyes widened.

“No. About what you can ask.”

“We