Chapter One

The car accident happened on an incredibly sunny day on July 6^th, 2021.

One second, Wren was thinking about just how good it was going to feel to get home and not have to do anything with anyone for the next forty-eight hours. The next thing she knew, something hit her car side on, and she was no longer in control of it.

For one horrifying moment, the world was spinning, everything was moving, and it all somehow happened far too quickly, yet also so slowly it seemed to never end.

When her sleek, red car—aptly named Bob, for absolutely no discernable reason—finally stopped moving, steam already rising from the hood, all she could think was one crystal clear thought: The press is going to have a field day with this.

Then people were everywhere, sirens were in the distance, and her next thought was: This is going to get in the way of those blessed two days of nothing.

With her hands clutching her steering wheel so hard her knuckles were turning white, she took a quick inventory.

Nothing seemed broken. But then, adrenaline usually hid pain. Where had she heard that? Somewhere. She shifted in her seat. Everything seemed to respond. She could move. Was her shoulder sore? Her shoulder was definitely sore. The door was crumpled toward her, something was in her eye that made it hard to see, and faces were at her half-shattered window, calling out to her.

“Is that Wren Acker?”

Then there was a flash. And another. Then lights were around her car that glinted out glaringly from the backs of phones held up in her direction, obvious even in the dazzling sunshine—videos being recorded.

Really? Now?

Faces lit up in recognition.

So, Wren did what she always did when there were camera phones in her face. She smiled.

Those faces mirrored her expression joyfully. The sound of sirens got closer, and so Wren forced one hand to let go of the steering wheel—it gripped on rather tight, a slight shake to it as she raised it up—and she waved.

More flashes.

Very different from a red carpet.

Thankfully, once the police and ambulance arrived, she was pulled away into a little more privacy rather quickly. With her head thumping, everything happened in bursts as she was pulled out of the car and put on a gurney. Now cordoned back, groups of people had their phones out, and so Wren once more plastered a smile on her face and waved, while all around her cars beeped, buildings rose up in the middle of LA, and the driver of the other car called out, leg wrapped in bandages out in front of him, “Holy shit, I almost killed Wren Acker?!”

His wide eyes stared at her from the other ambulance gurney as he was piled into the back of the emergency vehicle.

“I’m not dead!” she yelled at him.

His eyes went wider. “I’m sorry!”

Then the doors closed on him, her gurney was lifted up, and the doors closed on her after she was lifted into her own. She slumped back onto the stiff, crackling sheets under her and stared up at the very white ceiling.

The EMT leaned over her, brown eyes warm as he gave her a smile. “Seems like the two of you got out lucky after that.”

His name was Hasan, she vaguely remembered him saying after she’d been pulled from her car.

She nodded, or tried to, but the neck brace they’d insisted she needed didn’t permit much of that. “I’m not really sure what happened.”

“Little pinch,” he warned, and there was one in the back of her hand as he must have inserted something there, not hurting any more than any other needle had in her life despite the fact that he was swaying as the ambulance raced along. “The guy ran a red and T-boned you. Luckily, he wasn’t speeding when he did it, or everything could have been a lot worse. Your car spun.” He’d attached something to what was in her hand and was now adjusting a bag of fluids hanging up over her head. “You’ve got a cut on your forehead they’ll stitch in the hospital, and your shoulder is dislocated.”

“That’s why it hurts,” she said, stating the absolute obvious.

“Yup. I dislocated mine a few years back, I don’t envy you.”

“How’d you dislocate yours?”

“I want to say I was doing something cool.” His lips pressed together, his face a bit sheepish.

She liked Hasan. He was very good at distracting her from the fact that her head hurt, and her shoulder more than hurt.

“You could lie about it, I’d never know,” she said.

“If my daughter found out I lied to Wren Acker, she’d never forgive me,” he said.

Her gut twisted, just slightly, because some very, very small part of herself was still always surprised that someone who was a complete stranger to her could know her name. Which was ridiculous after over twenty years in the public eye. At least her cat didn’t care she was famous. She was lucky if Hathor gave her the time of day.

“Wren Acker would forgive you, though.”

Hasan laughed. “I rolled over wrong in bed. Pop. Done.”

She blinked at him. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. Pop.” He made a popping sound with his lips. “Rolled over. Done. Dislocated.”

The entire time he was talking, his gaze would sweep over the numbers displayed on the machine attached to her, his hands moving over equipment, writing down numbers on a clipboard, yet still he managed to make eye contact with her, smile, keep her talking.

“That’s embarrassing, Hasan.”

He gave a burst of surprised laughter. “It was. My wife will never let me forget it.”

“It’ll be brought up at your next big wedding anniversary.”

“You say that as if it hasn’t already. So, got to ask you some questions. What day is it?”

“July 6^th.”

“Great. What year?”

“2021.”

“What’s your name?”

“That’s cheating, you told me it a moment ago.”

He laughed again as he wrote on the chart, the machine beating in time with her heartbeat above her. “Something tells me you don’t have a serious head injury, at least.”

He finished his exam as the ambulance seemed to slow down, and the pain in her shoulder had dulled to a distant ache.

“My shoulder hurts less.”

“That’ll be the morphine.”

“I got morphine?”

He chuckled. “As we put the neck brace and sling on you, I asked about your allergies, you said none. We gave it to you then.”

The ambulance came to a stop, brakes hissing out a slight squeak.

“I have no memory of that,” she said, grimacing.

“That’s pretty normal right after an accident, especially if you’ve hit your head. I’ll make a note of that in your chart, just in case.”

Then the back doors were thrown open, daylight flooding in, and she was moving again. She couldn’t even really look down and see who was there or what was going on, and everything passed in a blur.

“This the celebrity called in? We have a private room sectioned off.”

She winced at that. Surely someone else needed it?

But she had no chance to say much as she was wheeled along, blue sky overhead cut off by cement, then a giant doorway, and the sounds of a hospital overtook everything.

Hasan said something about being oriented, “To time, place, and person. Pupils equal and reactive. Not much memory around the immediate accident. Everything else stable. Given morphine onsite for pain of suspected dislocated shoulder. Head wound deep enough for stitches, bleeding controlled. Possible mild concussion.”

Someone was shouting down a hallway. An announcement was blaring, garbled, and Wren couldn’t catch what they were saying. A kid was crying.

Then a new face was appearing over her. “Hi Miss Acker, I’m Doctor Friedman. We’re just going to get you to a room to check you out.”

Oh good God, she looked twelve. Was a child her doctor? Was she even old enough to vote? Of course she wasn’t, she was twelve.

“Where’s Hasan?”

“Headed back now, Miss Acker. Bye.” His disembodied voice faded off.

“Thanks, Hasan!”

Which left her with the twelve-year-old and being pushed into a room that was blissfully quiet after the hectic sounds of the ER. A door was closed, and that silence grew even more blissful. She was slid over onto a real bed, then there was a flurry of movement and faces appearing over her, things attached, detached, moved, questions fired at her, the feel of something running along her feet, making her jump.

“Just checking reflexes, sorry,” the twelve-year-old said. “Anyone we can contact for you?”

Oh no. Her agent—meaning to say, her mother—would need to know. Her PR team. In fact, they probably already did—those photos would be everywhere by now. Where was her phone? Shoved near her feet; they’d grabbed her bag out of her car for her. Poor Bob. Really, though, she didn’t want to call anyone.

“My mom is listed as my emergency contact. She’ll need to know.”

There were murmuring voices and the door opening and closing as someone was sent out to do that.

“Do you remember the accident in more detail now?” This was a nurse asking, lines fanning out around her eyes as from Wren’s point of view she was mostly a floating head.

She really wanted this neck brace off.

Closing her eyes, Wren tried to think. The car jolting—just the flash of it in her mind made her pain-free hand clench the sheet under it. The cameras. The sound of her name. Did she wave at them all? Shit. Then, crisper now, the memory of Hasan and some other person slipping the neck brace on, asking her questions, pulling her from the car.

It was all there now, and a ball of worry eased in her gut.

Opening her eyes, she saw the nurse peering down at her.

“I do now, yeah. There were two EMTs, police were holding a crowd back. I remember them talking to me now.”

“Great, that’s excellent. We’re going to get you to a CT scan just to be sure about your spine, and to check for concussion.”

The twelve-year-old appeared over her, face bright and cheery. “We’re also going to get an X-ray to confirm, but your left shoulder is dislocated. How’s your pain?”

“Not too bad now. Are you twelve?” The nurse snorted nearby and Wren grinned. “Sorry. That kind of slipped out.”

Doctor Friedman—because Wren really shouldn’t call her the twelve-year-old—smiled tightly. “I’m a second-year resident, Miss Acker.”

Oh, God. She could already imagine the headline. Wren Acker Hurls Insults at Health Care Team.

“Sorry.”

“No worries.” Doctor Friedman’s shoulders released. “It happens a lot. I have a baby face.”

“Hard to get taken seriously in certain fields sometimes, huh?” Wren asked. Maybe it was feeling so vulnerable laid out like this, but she allowed exactly how true that statement was to seep into her voice. Maybe it was the morphine.

Doctor Friedman’s head cocked, and she nodded as she considered Wren. “Yeah, it is.” She smiled. “I loved you in that miniseries that you just did.”

It could only be The Downfall—the closest thing to TV Wren had ever done. Convincing her mother to let her had been a fight.

TV is not for serious actors, Wren. You make films.

Wren grinned so hard the movement hurt her forehead cut. “Thanks. How’d we do on the medical side of things?”

Doctor Friedman winced.

“Oh no, that bad?”

“If it’s any consolation, most do pretty badly.”

The sound of the door swinging open interrupted any further bonding with the definitely-not-twelve-year-old, and someone brought in the smell of the ocean and an air of authority that Wren could in no way see but sensed in the way Doctor Friedman straightened.

“How’s the patient doing?” Mature voice. Commanding. Not in a shouty way. Simply…commanding.

Doctor Friedman rounded off with all the information, some Wren understood and some that was in medicalese.

“Fantastic. Good work, Friedman.”

Next to Wren, Doctor Friedman stood a little taller.

Did she know that voice? Wren could swear she knew that voice.

And then a head was over her again. Deeply olive skin. Brown eyes. A barely there smattering of freckles over a nose. Round apple cheeks. Definitely not twelve. Someone her age.

Someone very, very attractive. Here Wren was, lain out, probably with her chin all smooshed up with the neck brace, blood crusting her hair, and here this woman was, looking like some doctor goddess.

“Hi, Miss Acker.” The warmth was gone from that voice, the expression as cool as her tone. “I’m Doctor Taylor, the consultant in the ER today. You’re in good hands with Doctor Friedman here. My chief wanted me to let you know that your privacy is being assured. You’re listed under a different name, all press that has called has been, of course, denied any information, including a confirmation of whether you’re with us or not, and all staff is aware of what will happen if any information is leaked. Doctor Friedman and Annie here will be with you to decrease staff members in contact with you to thus decrease gossip risk.”

Not this hospital’s first rodeo, obviously. Which wasn’t surprising in LA.

“I appreciate that,” Wren murmured. “Thank you.”

She really did. Everything had been such a blur, but the worry of her privacy was always in the back of her mind. People didn’t seem to think celebrities needed any.

Doctor Taylor pressed her lips together, giving a singular nod. Something about her was so familiar, but Wren couldn’t put her finger on it. She was excellent with faces and names. She had to be. In her business, networking was half the game. But this was eluding her. Maybe she had one of those faces. “Of course. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back when your scans are in to relocate that shoulder.”

“Oh. Goody.” Wren went for dry, which made the nurse—who must be Annie—snort again.

Doctor Taylor’s lips didn’t even twitch. “Message me if you need me,” she directed to Doctor Friedman.

She swept out as fast as she’d entered, leaving behind that smell of the ocean and a frosty air.

“I don’t think she likes me,” Wren said.

Doctor Friedman patted her shoulder. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Convincing.”

It had been anything but.

Doctor Friedman gave a shrug, and then Wren was getting whisked out for a bunch of scans. The entire time she lay there, with the flash of an X-ray and then the humming of the CT scan, racking her brain and trying to figure out where she knew that doctor from. She ignored the whispers she heard from techs who had clearly recognized her.

Forgetting someone that stunning was not an easy thing to do. If Felix had been here, he’d have been laughing at just how much her type Doctor Taylor was. Wren was anything but unpredictable, as her best friend knew.

It was what the media loved about her really—she’d avoided scandals, she’d had an incredibly wholesome image. Some tried to dig things up, but had always failed.

Coming out last year had been an interesting hitch to all of that.

Not too long after all the tests she was in a new room, Annie had taken her neck brace off, announcing her spine was in the clear, and she was alone.

Her phone vibrated in her bag next to the bed and Wren ignored it. There was no way she felt like facing the media storm right then. It vibrated again, and she rested back against the bed, lifted to a half-sitting position by the wonderful Annie, careful not to jostle her shoulder. Which was very much aching at that moment, even after the extra pain medication Annie had given her.

Wren wasn’t alone often. And while she liked it—the rare moments she managed to grasp—right now the silence in the room was the buzzing kind.

Her phone vibrated again.

Huffing, she reached for it.

The door opened, and Wren stopped reaching for her phone as Doctor Taylor breezed in, door closing behind her on the bustling hospital hallway. She carried a chart in her hand, staring down at it.

“Okay, Miss Acker, we—”

“You don’t have to call me Miss Acker,” Wren interrupted.

Doctor Taylor did not look up. “Miss Acker—” the emphasis made Wren gulp “—as I think you’ve been informed, your spine is in the clear. Your shoulder is dislocated; I’ll relocate that now.” She flicked a page of the chart over, a stray curl loose from her ponytail falling over her eye. “Annie gave you some pain medication, didn’t she?”

Finally, Doctor Taylor met her gaze, expression businesslike. Almost cold. Was she like this with all the patients? She’d sounded so nice to her colleagues. Maybe she hated celebrities. It happened. Especially in settings like this in which all the extra care they were forced to take annoyed people, having to make special allowances.

Those brown eyes were so familiar.

“Did you get more pain meds?” And now her tone was impatient, because Wren had gotten lost in all of that and forgotten to answer.

“She did, I mean, I did. It’s actually starting to feel a lot better.” Wren tried a smile.

One was not given in return. “Fantastic. This is going to hurt, but it will be quick.” Doctor Taylor put the chart down on the table for meals next to Wren’s bed and walked closer, hands in the pockets of her lab coat. “If you could sit up and sit on the edge of the bed.” Wren did as instructed. “We need to suture your forehead, but your mother was apparently very insistent that that could only be done by our head of plastic surgery.”

Heat flooded Wren’s face. “I really don’t mind, whoever normally does that is fine.”

“She’s been paged, she’ll be down after her surgery.”

Wren’s cheeks must have been flaming red. “Really, my mom, she—she’s my agent too, and she can be, well, a lot. It’s fine, whoever.”

“Well, apparently she threatened the nurse, and we don’t want to risk a lawsuit.”

Shit. Wren could just hear her mother delivering that line. She straightened on the bed, lifting her chin to make eye contact with Doctor Taylor, who was standing close. “I apologize for my mother.”

Doctor Taylor, hands rubbing alcohol gel in vigorously, pressed her lips together and stared her straight in the eye. It was a little disconcerting. She blinked, once, and something so small it was almost indiscernible softened. “That’s appreciated. Regardless, Doctor Williams will be down as soon as she finishes.” She leaned in, eyes on Wren’s forehead, so incredibly close that Wren’s breath caught. The smell of salt grew stronger, the smell of the ocean when the breeze picked up, and warmth radiated from her. Lips that were very soft-looking were very close to Wren, and she closed her eyes and was thankful she’d already been blushing because she was even redder now. What was wrong with her? “It will only need five, maybe six stitches. Annie did a good job cleaning it.”

Thankfully, Doctor Taylor pulled back and Wren was able to breathe normally again.

“I’m just going to remove the sling; Annie left a good one here to replace it after your shoulder has been relocated.”

Wren was nodding, all the while staring at her face thinking I know you I know you I know you.

Then Doctor Taylor had her hands on her. Wren, a little high from the morphine, stared her in the eye, and right as she said, “Okay, Miss Acker, three, two, one,” Wren realized exactly how she knew her. Mortification flew through her body and those cheeks that had finally cooled down lit up.

She yelped, “Madison Taylor from camp?!”

And Doctor Taylor’s jaw clenched, her body twisting as she yanked. Searing pain flew through Wren’s shoulder as a horrendous grinding sound reached her ears, then the pain eased as her shoulder felt the most normal it had in hours.

“Hi, Wren.”

All Wren could do was blink up, horror flooding through her.