The Gardener and The Movie Star

By Lisa Worrall

Drew Singer, aka Brock Kipwell, had played Slade Donovan, action hero, for five years. After a shooting at the premiere of his new Slade outing, which resulted in the death of his personal assistant. Drew left L.A. for the little village where he grew up, in North Yorkshire, to nurse his shattered hip and broken heart. All he wanted to do was spend some time with his grandmother shut away from the world. But there was one thing he hadn’t counted on... the presence of his childhood friend, and first love, Cameron McDonald. Cameron McDonald was Yorkshire born and bred. He still lived and sometimes worked on his parents’ farm, while he ran his own gardening business. Life was plodding along nicely, until he walked into Marty Singer’s kitchen to find she had a new house guest. The two of them had been boyhood friends, best friends, until the final summer when they turned fifteen and they’d become so much more. Ten years have passed and their attraction to each other is as strong as ever. But Cam is dealing with his troubled friend, Ed’s, problems, and Drew is carrying so much survivor’s guilt he can barely stand the weight of it. Is this their second chance? Will either of them grab it with both hands? Or is there something waiting in the dark that neither of them expected?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Worrall
• Release date: May 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463715543

Lisa Worrall

I live in Leigh on Sea, a small seaside town just outside London on the coast of Essex, about ten minutes from Southend, which boasts the longest pier in the world. I live with my partner and two ever-growing children, who I let think are the boss of me; along with a dog who actually is. As the wonderful Beatrix Potter said, "There is something delicious about writing the first words of a new story. You never quite know where they'll take you." I know exactly what she means and hope you'll join me for the ride.

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The Gardener and The Movie Star

Copyright 2019 by Lisa Worrall

Smashwords Edition

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Dedication

It’s been a while, so I need to give a massive thanks

to all the readers who’ve stuck with me and

been waiting for what must seem like forever for this.

I also need to thank Sue Brown,

who threatened to kick my arse from here to Christmas

if I didn’t crack on and finish.

As always, to Kelvin, Alex and Gracie,

you are the reason.

PROLOGUE

Brock Kipwell grimaced as the limousine pulled up to the curb outside the movie theatre. He looked out of the window at the crowds of fans and photographers, rolling his eyes at the life-size cardboard cut-out of himself—well, his character, Slade Donovan—just to the right of the entrance. If he said he loved attending premieres, he’d have been twisting the truth, more than a little. He sighed heavily.

Remind me again why I do this, he said to Melanie, his personal assistant, who sat beside him, her blonde hair a mass of unruly curls framing her heart-shaped face.

Ooh, a quiz. She clapped her hands like an excited schoolgirl. Now don’t help me. Why do you do this? Um… ooh… you love the sound of your own name?

Very funny, Brock drawled, although that’s exactly what filtered into the vehicle from the crowd on the sidewalk.

You like having your picture taken?

Even funnier.

Ooh, wait, wait, Melanie bounced eagerly on the leather seat as if she was expecting a prize for the right answer. Because you’re contractually obligated to?

Brock tapped his short, but manicured to within an inch of its life, nail against the side of his complimentary champagne glass. The sound tinkled around them. And the shiny goes to… the pretty lady in the sexy black dress!

Oh. My. God! Melanie waved her hand in front of her face like a hysterical beauty queen. I can’t believe it. She grabbed a bottle of champagne and held it in her hands like an Oscar. I want to thank God for giving me this talent, my parents for their love and their savings when I moved to L.A., my neighbor’s dog for crapping on my lawn, it really helped me get in touch with the character’s darker side, the guy who delivers my bottled water for keeping me hydrated, Brad Pitt for having such a fine ass and—

Enough! Brock laughed out loud, raising his drink to her in salute. Come on, Gwyneth Paltrow, it’s time to greet your public.

How’s my hair?

Shut up.

So rude.

I really don’t wanna do this.

Melanie slapped his arm. You’re Slade Donovan for Christ’s sake! Nut up!

Brock smacked a kiss on her cheek then nodded at the driver, who climbed out and opened the back door of the limo. Flashbulbs exploded as Brock stepped out onto the red carpet. He stood for a moment, waved to the crowd, then turned and held out his hand to Melanie. The gasp was audible as the fans waited to catch a glimpse of his date, wondering which Hollywood starlet it would be. He almost laughed as the gasp turned into a disappointed groan when Melanie got out of the limo. She schooled her features with a welcoming smile and slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow, guiding him expertly toward the bank of photographers and entertainment reporters, all clamouring for their pound of flesh. He wondered how they’d feel about him tomorrow, after the announcement he planned to make at the press conference after the premiere.

Over here, Brock!

This way, Brock!

To me, Brock! To me!

The photographers shouted out his name, their flashes enough to blind him, but he kept his smile plastered firmly on his face as he turned this way and that, the click of camera shutters drowning out everything else around him. Melanie put her hand in the small of his back and leaned in to say something, but he couldn’t hear her. He glanced over his shoulder at her and, as he did, there was a strange stinging sensation across his cheek, as if he’d been slapped. He opened his mouth to say as much to Melanie, but he heard a piercing scream from somewhere in the crowd and turned in its direction, which was when Melanie slumped against him, blood pouring from the hole in her neck, a bewildered expression in her deep blue eyes.

Mel? Brock held her to him, instinctively pressing his hand to her throat. Mela— He didn’t get to finish her name, knocked to the ground by what felt like a punch to the back, Melanie falling from his arms.

He’s hit! Brock’s hit! The shout echoed in his ears as more gunshots rent the California night.

It’s not me, Brock tried to yell, but he was already being hauled up the red carpet toward the movie theatre, by two beefy security men, their radios crackling loud static. He slapped at them, calling out Melanie’s name over and over.

Shooter’s down! suddenly came over the radio. I repeat, shooter’s down!

The security guard quickly fired back into his own radio, We need EMT’s, now! We’ve got two casualties, one GSW to the back and one dead.

Dead! Brock’s panic spiralled out of control. He desperately tried to shrug off the hands that held him in a vice-like grip as pain, sudden and white hot seemed to flow through him to converge in his lower back. Melanie! he screamed. Mel—!

He sat bolt upright in bed, skin drenched with sweat and his racing heart doing its damndest to beat right out of his chest. He clapped his hands once and the lamp on the bedside table came on, casting a shadow-filled glow across the room. His frantic gaze darted around the bedroom, taking inventory, making sure everything was exactly as it should be. It was, of course. Why wouldn’t it be? The therapist at the hospital had said nightmares were normal. His brain’s way of processing everything that had happened, and it had only been a couple of weeks. It would take time to heal. It wasn’t his fault.

Not my fault? Are you fucking kidding me? I’m the reason she was there! I’m the reason some crazed lunatic decided to—! Not my fault? Of course, it’s my fucking fault!

He angrily threw back the duvet and planted his feet on the floor. Ignoring the frame less than six inches from the bed, he tried to stand unaided as if causing himself what pain he could would somehow make everything better—it never did—Melanie was still dead, but he did it anyway. His hip screamed at him and pain radiated down his right leg. The bullet had shattered his hip and he was now pinned together by the best plastic and titanium money could buy. He reached out for the frame and his fingers grabbed the handle, just in time to stop himself from falling on his arse.

He cursed loudly as he shuffled his way to the bedroom window and threw it open to let in some much-needed fresh air. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs as the cool night breeze lifted the lace curtain, the softness of it brushing his face. The loud hoot of an owl in the tree outside his bedroom startled him and he froze, squinting out into the dark. The owl hooted again, and he rolled his eyes at his own idiocy. It would take him a while to get used to the everyday, and night, noises of Thornby Dale. He breathed in the unspoilt air and smiled. Maybe it was psychological, but he’d only been here two days and he felt better already, despite the jetlag. If he was honest, the conversation with his agent before he left had drained him more than the thirteen-hour flight.

"You’re what?" Alex Burrows was a tall, broad-shouldered man, who had many a movie exec shaking in his shoes.

"You heard me."

"You can’t! Are you crazy? Alex pointed to the wheelchair. You had major surgery ten days ago. They won’t even let you on the plane!"

"That’s why I’m here," he said tightly.

"Seriously? The single word told him his friend knew exactly what he was after. I’m not loaning you the jet."

"Yes, you are."

"Now why would I do that?" Alex leaned back in his leather chair and glared at him.

"Because you love me," he replied.

"Gonna need more."

"Because you know I’m right."

"Brock—"

"And because you love me."

"Brock. Alex sighed, and his gaze softened. What you need is to get well. Your body, and soul, have been through enough. You need to heal."

"Alex, please. He wasn’t above begging. Please do this for me. Nor threatening. Or I won’t come back."

The owl hooted once more, obvious displeasure in the sound at having his nightly doings observed in such an impertinent manner. As it spread its wings and soared off into the dark, he decided it was definitely an English owl if it had been that offended by his presence. Maybe he should brush up on RSPB etiquette. Well, his manners might not be up to scratch, but his ability to ramble was certainly intact.

Lie down before you fall down, for God’s sake.

For once, he didn’t argue with his inner self and shuffled back to bed. Getting under the sheets proved to be a paroxysmal exercise and by the time he was settled against the pillows, his skin was as damp as when he’d been trapped in his own memories. He sighed heavily and closed his eyes, his lips curving into a smile as he heard the distinctive hoot of his feathered visitor on its return outside the window. Despite Alex’s—and everyone else in the L.A. part of his life—reservations, he knew he’d made the right choice. He did need to heal, but that was never going to happen in L.A. He needed to be where the crazy couldn’t find him. Where no one cared about Brock Kipwell. Where he could be plain old Drew Singer.

Home.

Chapter one

Cameron David McDonald! If I have to call you one more time, I’m coming up there with a cricket bat to beat you out of that bed!

Cam groaned into his pillow. He really must talk to his mother about her indecisiveness. That was the third time she’d changed the method of how she was going to get him out of his pit. Although the cricket bat did sound preferable to the colonoscopy she’d threatened to give him ten minutes ago.

He rolled over onto his back and immediately wished he hadn’t. Sunlight spilled through the gap in the curtains, directly onto his face. He swore through gritted teeth and threw his arm over his eyes before they burned out of his skull. Okay, a little dramatic maybe, but he didn’t really care about opinions on his turn of phrase.

He did, however, care about getting his hands on Edward Maybury III, the so-called ‘best friend’ who was responsible for his current tender condition. Maybe he could get his mother to try out her colonoscopy skills on Ed. He smiled inwardly—too afraid to try a real one in case his head exploded—at the thought of his mother, dressed in the head-to-toe hazmat suit she wore for sheep dipping, and Edward Maybury naked on a trolley with a tube up his—

"Are you trying to make me kill you?"

Mornin’ Mum, Cam mumbled.

She ignored him completely. Of course, he’d expected nothing less.

That’s it, isn’t it? she blustered as she stomped around his room. He quickly pulled the duvet over his head, knowing from experience he had nano-seconds before she opened the curtains. You think I’ve nothing better to do than waste God knows how long in a courtroom, explaining to a bunch of strangers why I beat my only son to death with a copy of Gardeners World!

He didn’t need to come out of his duvet cocoon to know she was now stood at the edge of the bed with her hands on her hips, worrying at her lower lip to stop herself from uttering the profanities queueing up on the tip of her tongue.

Ed made me—

You’re a little old to be using the Ed made me do it excuse, aren’t you?

But it’s not my—

You’re twenty-six! she countered. Of course, it’s your fault!

I gotta say, Mum, Cam said sarcastically. You know those sensitivity classes you’ve been taking? I’d demand a refund.

You’re hilarious, she deadpanned. Now get up, or you’ll be late.

Late for what? Cam was confused. It’s Sunday.

I promised Vera Newman you’d put those shelves up in her dining room today. I did tell you three times this week.

Crap.

You forgot. Beatrice shook her head in despair.

"I did not forget, Cam replied, venturing slowly out from under the duvet. He squinted until his eyes had adjusted to the light and blinked a few times to bring his mother into focus. I temporarily misplaced the information." If he hadn’t, it would have influenced his response to Ed’s constant whinging that they hadn’t had a lad’s night out for ages.

Her lips twitched, and he grinned. Luckily for Cam, Beatrice adored her only son, otherwise she’d have beaten him to death with Gardener’s World long ago. God knows he’d given her enough reasons. Especially during the terrible teenage years.

You stink. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. Go on, you lazy sod, get in the shower. If you’re lucky, there might be some breakfast waiting for you when you’re done.

Cam winced as his stomach made its feelings perfectly clear on that subject with a triple somersault and a backwards roll. I’m never eating again.

If I had a pound for every Sunday morning I’d heard that…. Beatrice didn’t even bother finishing the sentence. Now shift. She padded across the room to the door and opened it, pausing to add with a wicked glint in her eye, You’ll feel much better with some greasy bacon and a couple of snotty eggs inside ya.

Ugh, Cam complained as a wave of nausea washed over him. He glared at Beatrice as she closed the door on her smiling face. You’re evil, he shouted. I’m going to report you to Social Services!

Her response floated up the stairs. If I had a pound for every Sunday morning I’d heard that….

Cam clambered from his pit and shuffled into the bathroom to turn on the shower. While he waited for the water to warm up, he stared at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. He looked like he’d been dragged through the proverbial bush, arse first. Cam shook his head. I’m never drinking again. His mop of dark brown hair fell around his face in an untidy bird’s nest of curls and his brown eyes were bloodshot, a tell-tale sign of a heavy night of elbow-lifting. He couldn’t remember the last time Ed and he had been on that big a bender—maybe the day they’d graduated university—but that was a long time ago.

Stepping into the shower, he closed the door behind him and put his head under the warm spray, his eyes tight shut against the flow of water. It was all coming back to him now. Ed had practically begged him to go out last night and had looked like he was on the verge of saying something, all evening. On the verge, but never quite stepping into the road, so to speak. In fact, Cam squirted some body wash into his hand and rubbed it over his chest, if he remembered rightly, every time he’d tried to ask Ed what was wrong, he’d bought him another beer. Cam rinsed the soap from his body and grabbed the shampoo. He’d left the pub no wiser as to what was eating young Mr. Edward, but he was bloody well going to find out. Ed couldn’t avoid telling him forever.

After drying himself off and pulling on some long shorts and a T-shirt, Cam was feeling a little more human, and followed the smell of bacon downstairs. He inhaled deeply as he walked down the hallway towards the kitchen, assailed by all the scents of home in that single breath. Lavender from the pot pourri his mother kept on the table in the hall, the lemon furniture polish she’d used since time began, and frying bacon. He smiled as the comforting combination enveloped him. Experience told him that whenever he caught the scent of any one of those three things, he was transported right back to this hallway, no matter where he was.

Cam