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what to cook for dinner, the long talks by the fire. She wondered now if she’d only imagined the love she could have sworn she’d seen in his eyes every time he’d looked at her.
    The movie had ended. Marcy sighed, relieved she could now escape to bed and be alone with her misery. Then Justine gave a little gasp of shock. Marcy opened her eyes and stiffened.
    Frank was on the television as a female presenter gushed about “local author Frank Anderson.” His best-selling novel, Texas Drifter , had been adapted into a movie which had premiered last week in LA. Tonight it opened in Denver. Marcy’s heart skipped at the sight of Frank in a dark tuxedo, his expression serious, almost severe. It took her a few moments to notice the woman standing proudly by his side, petite, dark-haired, stunning. They weren’t holding hands but she posed close to Frank for a photograph, glancing up at him with love and admiration.
    Marcy had thought the pain couldn’t get any worse, but now it pierced though her as she tried to smother a sob.
    Justine turned to her. “Mom, are you okay?”
    She managed to nod as she stood. “Honey, I—I’m going up to bed.”
    Sleep refused to come. Hurt poured through her as she lay in the dark. It certainly hadn’t taken him long to find someone to replace her, which just went to show she’d done the right thing. Marcy squeezed her eyes shut, trying to shut out the image of Frank with another woman, but she couldn’t. Finally, she threw off the covers and pulled on some clothes, desperate to get out of the house and clear her head. She didn’t care how late it was.
    Hours later, here she was, walking nowhere in particular, drenched and feeling no better, and wondering what the hell she was going to do. Frank had obviously decided to move on with his life, and she had to do the same.
    If only moving on was that simple.
    ****
    It should have been one of the most exciting nights of his life. His idea, his novel, had been made into a movie. He’d been interviewed and photographed tonight and the film had received rave reviews. Frank knew his smiles and responses to questions had been wooden, knew he came across as way too serious. He didn’t give a shit. He just wanted to go home.
    “Oh, Frank, I’m never going to forget tonight,” Lillian said as he dropped her off at her hotel. “My little brother is a celebrity I’m so proud of you.”
    “Thanks,” he said. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself, Lily. Now get some sleep. It’s just a few hours until your flight.”
    “You didn’t, did you? Enjoy yourself?”
    Frank didn’t answer.
    “That new house of yours is lovely, but it’s way too big for one person.”
    “I’ll be fine,” he said, wanting to get away. “Bye.”
    “Give her a call—I’ll bet she’s hurting as badly as you.”
    “Bye, Lillian,” he repeated, then turned and walked quickly away.
    He loved his sister but wished she would just mind her own business. And he wished to God she’d never given him Marcy Garrett’s number in the first place.
    Why the hell did people have to constantly interfere? He’d been fine before Marcy came along. Okay, not great perhaps, but making it through each day, functioning, moving forward with his writing. And then she’d come along and he’d stupidly allowed himself to become involved, knowing it was probably a mistake but falling deeper and deeper in love.
    In love.
    The thought jolted him as he headed home along the dark highway. He’d never told Marcy he loved her, never felt ready to say those words. Yet now he realized the truth, and pain surged through him as his hands tightened on the wheel. He loved her. And now she was gone.
    Three hours later, Doc barked in greeting as Frank entered the house, not quite used to the brand newness of his surroundings. He glanced around, unimpressed by the great curving staircase that led up to his office and three enormous bedrooms. So what? he thought. A home wasn’t made of rooms,