Page 5 of Don't Regret Me
They could have stayed in Tampa near the courthouse, but his heart drew him to this small town like there was something here he needed to remember.
He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and headed toward the main area of town, where shops and restaurants lined the street, their bright awnings adding color to the world.
He passed a diner and kept going, his stomach too twisted up to eat anything as he searched every inch of each building, hoping something sparked in his mind.
There was nothing.
Ahead, a door chimed as a couple exited a coffee shop. The man wrapped an arm around the woman as they smiled at each other. It was how relationships were supposed to be. At least, Nick assumed so. He’d played the romantic hero in enough movies to understand exactly how love looked.
Lifting his eyes to the name etched into the glass of the door, his lips twitched into a small smile. Momma Loves Sugar. Now, that was a name.
He couldn’t help reaching for the handle and pulling it open, stepping into the bustling space. Every table was full, not that there were many of them, but laughter and chatter filled the air. Like this was a safe space, where customers left their worries at the door.
A young woman poured refills from a carafe. She lifted pretty eyes, smiling when she saw Nick by the door. “Hello.” She waved him in. “I can help you at the counter.”
He stepped up to the glass case of pastries as the woman took her position behind it. Her name tag read Marianna. “Can I just get a coffee, please?”
She smiled and nodded. “Of course.” She turned away from him to pour a cup. When she slid it onto the counter, she said, “Black, two sugars and a splash of vanilla.”
“How...” He stopped. “I’ve been here before?”
Her smile fell. “You are Nick Jacobs, right?” She dropped her voice so no one would overhear her. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell everyone, though that hat isn’t really hiding you. And to answer your question, no, you haven’t been here, but that rude assistant of yours came every morning.”
“Assistant…” Why hadn’t he thought of that before? He didn’t keep a full-time assistant, but each movie he worked on normally assigned a local to him.
“The rumors are true, aren’t they?” Her lips turned down. “You lost your?—”
“Yes.” He looked around, making sure no one else was close enough to hear. “Do you remember the assistant’s name?”
“I’m sorry.” She truly looked it. “I don’t.”
He placed a twenty on the counter, not waiting for his change. “Thanks for the coffee.”
Hurrying out of the shop, he felt multiple sets of eyes follow him. He had to get out of there, but if he wanted to find the key to everything that happened, he needed that assistant.
So, he called Bea. She answered on the first ring. “Hi, sweetie. What’s up?”
“Can you find out who my assistant was while filming in Gulf City? I want their number, address, anything you can figure out about them.”
“No problem. Give me five.”
It was the longest five minutes of the day. A few people passed Nick on the street, and he turned his face away so they wouldn’t recognize him. Since waking from his coma, he’d hidden from his fans, from the press. It was easier that way.
When his phone buzzed in his pocket, he almost dropped his coffee. Bea started talking before he said anything. “His name is Franklin. I’m texting you his contact information.”
“Thanks, Bea.”
“Anything for you, doll.”
He hung up, and when the text came through, he ordered a car without thinking about what he was doing. Calling would have been easier, but he needed to see this man in person. Whoever Franklin was, he was probably the only person who knew every one of Nick’s movements before the accident.
The car took him to a part of town far from the beach, where the small houses were crowded together, their paint peeling. It still held the Florida charm, but it was a far cry from what he’d seen in other neighborhoods.
Franklin’s house was a brilliant blue, beautiful even in its flaking state. The small front porch looked like it could collapse at any moment, and the lawn was overgrown. Nick leaned forward, handing the driver a one hundred-dollar bill. “There’s a big tip in it for you if you wait for me.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Jacobs.” He grinned, taking the money.
Nick squared his shoulders and stepped from the car. He should have known this was a bad idea, that nothing good came from trying to regain lost memories. But that hesitant bit of him was overcome by the emptiness, the need to know who he’d become in that year, how he’d gotten to the point of driving under the influence.
