Catch a Falling Star (Second Chances Book 3) by Merry Farmer

and you can have all the money you want for your show.”
    Ben swallowed, sick at the thought that he had blurted out gossip so easily. He stood, taking one last sip of his coffee, then thumped the mug on the table. “No.”
    “Then this is the end of our beautiful friendship,” Jett said.
    Ben shrugged. “You’re not the only producers in town.”
    Jett continued to smile. “Maybe not, but there aren’t a whole heck of a lot of people who can afford to bankroll a new musical. We know most of them. All of them, probably. And between us and the accusations that are being made against you in reputable publications now, do you really think anyone else is going to work with you?”
    Ben’s pulse slammed so hard against his chest that the corners of his vision went black. “I’ll find someone else to work with.”
    “Will you?” Jett’s stare was unyielding.
    “At least you have your cute little television show to fall back on,” Ashton added, then burst into a snigger.
    Thank God for Second Chances . Even though throwing himself into the show would look like he was running and hiding from the mess he’d made on Broadway.
    “I don’t think there’s anything more to say here.” The statement would have had a lot more impact if his voice wasn’t so hoarse.
    “I think you’re right,” Jett seconded. As Ben turned to go, he added, “Give us a call if you change your mind about the book.”
    “I won’t,” Ben called back over his shoulder.
    But as he stepped out into the frosty afternoon and pulled the collar of his coat up, he had the acid feeling that he’d slipped on black ice, knocked his head, and ended up on life-support with the Pollards standing over him, ready to pull the plug.

 
     
    Chapter Five
     
    Jo turned off the road and started up the long, winding drive of her family’s estate. Coming home had always filled her with relief and a sense of “Thank God that’s over” after every previous trip to New York. This time, her mind had been thoroughly engaged in daydreams and fantasies of a certain tall, broad-shouldered, achingly sexy Broadway director.
    Ugh. Engaged wasn’t the right word. Not even close. It was a fling , she reminded herself. No one mentioned anything about getting together again .
    But it was hard to forget that when the sex god in question called you to make sure you’d gotten on the road okay, and then texted you in the middle of a bad meeting and told you to call if you wanted to talk.
    It’d been impossible not to think about Ben as the miles grew longer and the damp, gray roadside morphed into ice-covered dirt, then a thin layer of powdery snow. The woods leading up to her house looked as though they’d been dusted with a liberal amount of powdered sugar as she wound through the trees. When she reached the point where the trees had been culled to reveal a sloping, snow-covered lawn, she sighed her way into a smile.
    That lasted until she spotted the two, ugly stumps in the fading twilight where decades old maples had stood only a month ago. She growled at the sudden tension in her gut and fought off the imaginary sound of a cash register ringing as she kissed her money goodbye. No one ever realized how expensive trees were until they fell over. At least neither had fallen on the house. Now she didn’t even have the security of a book advance coming her way to foot that bill.
    The Burkhart house itself sat at the top of the hill, high enough to provide a stunning view out every window, but not high enough to be unreachable on an icy driveway. Great-Grandfather Burkhart had made his fortune in glass in the late nineteenth century, and had built this house as a retreat from the madness of everyday life. It was huge—twelve bedrooms—and fashioned of stone in a style that was usually found further south.
    The house had been built in a lopsided T-shape. Its wide, gravel front courtyard had once held a fountain, but that had been removed to make room for cars in the