“He’s coming home tonight. I’ll talk to him,” I told her. “But you’re his manager. There’s only so much I can do.” I hoped I’d closed the subject before it really opened.

Jack felt terrible for what was being said about me in the press. He felt it was his fault—he felt directly responsible for the snipes and barbs being thrown at me by his fans.

“But if you weren’t with me, this wouldn’t be happening! Of course it’s my fault!” he shouted on the phone one night after a particularly nasty blog post had surfaced. I tried not to look anymore, but someone had shown it to him on set, and he exploded when he saw the expletives used to describe my ass . . . in a pair of shorts I wore one day to the gym. They were on the short side.

“I don’t see it that way, Jack. There’s not much anyone could say about me that would make me rethink being with you. Unless Joey McIntyre got involved. I’d have to really think hard about that one,” I joked, trying to sooth him.

“Who’s that?” he asked, his voice still tense and angry.

“Duh, he’s the youngest New Kid on the Block, and my personal favorite. I covet him.”

“You covet him?”

“Yes. This would be a good time for us to make our lists. You know, celebrities we are allowed to run away with if the opportunity arises? However, in your case, you actually have access to any celebrity you want, so I may have to be the only one in our relationship to have this privilege.”

“Now, now, wait a minute. I demand my list be in consideration,” he challenged, his voice relaxing now into the Jack I knew, the one I loved.

“Wait, wait, you already have a list?”

“Of course! Catherine Zeta-Jones is on that list.”

“Uh-oh, anyone else I need to know about?”

“Hmm, I have always had a soft spot for Jennifer Lopez. I’d be down with Jenny from the block.”

“This list is fascinating. Anyone else?” I laughed, sinking back into my bed. We were catching up after playing phone tag for two days. I was exhausted after a long day of reshoots but wanting to connect with my Sweet Nuts.

“I think the only other one on the list might be Norah Jones: great voice, decent tits, lovely face.”

“Okay, enough. Enough. No redheads on your list?”

“There’s only one redhead for me, Crazy, you know that. You’re my one and only ginger.”

“Oh, that’s sweet, love!” I sighed, pointing my toes as his words washed over me. I liked being his one and only.

“Who’s on your list? Come on, give it up!”

“Well, Joey Joe you know about. That goes without saying. And I suppose Johnny Depp is always on the list, now and forever.”

“He could be on my list, actually. He is quite dashing.”

“And there’s this new actor—he’s been around only for a little while. Someone introduced me to his work last year. He’s pretty dreamy.”

“Last year. Is that so?”

“Yeah, he’s an up-and-comer, one to watch for sure. I think his name’s Jack Hammond or Hamfield. Something like that.”

“I’ll give you a hamfield!” We both laughed.

“Are you going out tonight?” I asked after we had quieted down.

“No, I’m too tired.”

“I wish you were here, George.”

“Me too, Gracie, me too.”

“You still with me, asshead?” Holly’s voice brought me back from my daydreams.

“What’s that? Oh, yeah. What are we talking about?”

“What does Jack Hamilton think about the pictures that have surfaced recently of you considerably heavier than you are now?”

“I imagine he feels the same way any other actor would feel if pictures of him were sold to a tabloid to make a quick buck, to profit off of someone else’s personal struggle. Was I heavier than I am now at one point? Yep, and while for me personally I made a choice to live a healthier lifestyle, it doesn’t take away from the fact that women in this industry—and in society for that matter—are held to a standard that men are not. So show that picture as often as you need to. That was me then, and this is me now. And I’m okay with it,” I finished, my voice growing stronger at the end. I realized I wasn’t just shoveling bullshit to a reporter. I believed everything I’d just said. And I was going to tell anyone who asked me what I really thought. I glanced at Holly, waiting for her reaction.

“Okay, fruitcake, I think we’re done here. Let’s go talk Michael into making us dirty martinis and bringing them to us in my hot tub.” She snapped her planner closed and winked at me. Press junket, here we come.

Later that night, I was home waiting for Jack. He was actually driving himself back from the desert for a change. He liked the drive. He said he liked the peacefulness he derived from speeding through the desert at night. But he was more than two hours late, and as I cleaned the sink for the tenth time, I considered calling him again. Then I saw his headlights pull into the driveway.

We both had new cars, my little convertible I traded in on a large Escalade that I felt safer in when driving. And Jack now had his own convertible safely tucked away in a private garage in the Valley. He now drove a much less conspicuous but still tricked-out Tahoe when he was out and about without Bryan.

I smoothed my shirt as I walked to the front door, nervous energy charging through me. I hadn’t seen him since the wrap party for my show, and I was anxious to see him, hold him.

I opened the door, and there he was. Hair starting to grow out a bit and looking messy, even though it couldn’t be more than a half inch long. Circles, huge bruised-looking circles under his eyes. He looked exhausted, and even the way he was walking seemed tired, plodding across the pavement with his duffel bag and guitar. I was glad to see he still had it with him. He seemed to have lost some interest in playing over the last few months. His smile, though, that still belonged to me, and it greeted me twenty feet from our front door. He was home.

“Hey.”

“Hey, yourself,” he replied, walking past me inside the door, dropping his belongings and catching me into a close embrace. I wrapped my arms around him, sighing as I breathed in his scent, accented by sun and sage from the desert he’d been living in. His body was lean and hard against my own. He had lost some weight while he was shooting, and he seemed to be all angles and limbs, hugging me tight.

We held each other in front of the front door, kissing and connecting, holding and remembering. I pulled back to look at him, resting my forehead against his as he leaned down.

“I’m so glad you’re home.”

“Me too, love.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m too tired to know.” He laughed ruefully, looking down the hall toward our bedroom.

“How about you take a nice, hot shower, and I’ll heat something up for you. How does that sound?”

“Can you bring it to me in that red silky thing you wear for me sometimes?” he asked, one eyebrow raising.

“I thought you were tired?” I pushed back against his chest as he nuzzled into my hair.

“I’m never too tired for that, Crazy.” He pulled me close again and lifted me a few inches off the ground, swinging my legs around in a circle.

“Okay, you go shower. I’ll make you something to eat, then I’ll play dress up for you. How does that sound?” I teased, removing myself from his arms and starting for the kitchen. I turned to see him watching me walk away. Grinning big was his only answer as he headed the opposite way. I heard the shower turn on, and I smiled to myself as I fixed him a snack.

A little of this, a little of that, and then I slipped into his favorite red negligee, lacy and see-through in all the right places. I waited a few moments after I heard the shower turn off, then headed into the bedroom with a tray piled high with all of his favorites.

There, in our bed, Jack lay sideways, still in his towel, sound asleep. I set the tray down and sat next to him on the bed, trying to rouse him enough to have him turn the other way. He sighed in his sleep, turning on his side, reaching out for me and placing his head in my lap. With a small sigh escaping, he was back to sleep almost immediately.