Bombshell (Hollywood A-List #1)(2)

“Are you feeling sick in your belly?” I asked.

She nodded.

“And your head?”

“It hurts right here.” She put her hand on the front of her head and moved it back. Top of the head. Not neck. That was good. “And it smells really bad in here.”

Her face screwed up. She was about to cry again.

“You’re right,” I said. “It does. Should we clean up a little?”

“Yes, please!”

The mother, whoever she was, had raised her well so far.

Blakely cut in, “I have an audition in an hour.” She tossed the wad of paper in the toilet.

“You smell like a colon.” I looked at my watch. “And you don’t have time to get home and shower.” I pointed to the seat and addressed the little girl. “Hey, great job cleaning up. My name is Cara. Do you want to tell me your name?”

She shook her head. Her face had gone from red to pink to normal, revealing brown eyes big as cups of black coffee and thin eyebrows. Her coloring was nothing like Sinclair’s, but the lines and planes of her face were so similar, she could have been his clone.

“That’s all right. You don’t have to tell me. Let me see what we have back here.” She bent over in the shameless way of children so I could see that the backs of her thighs were covered in brown stink.

“Not so bad,” I said. “Blakely, can you toss these and grab me a fresh one?” I handed her the wad, keeping my eyes on the child. “This is a nice shirt. Who is this?” I pointed to a pink horse with kitten ears.

“Pony Pie. Her nature symbol is joy.”

“We could use some of that.”

“We could,” Blakely said, handing me a wipe. “But this sweetheart really is a joy. Just having a hard day.” She leaned forward to make eye contact with the girl and winked. Nicole wiped her nose with her sleeve.

“I agree,” I said. I got to work on the girl’s bottom while Blakely wiped down the bathroom.

Blakely whispered, “I’ll never make it home to shower and get to Culver City in—”

She gulped her words back when there was a hard knock on the door.

“Blakely Anderson?” a male voice barked from the other side. My friend and I looked at each other.

“We’re in here,” I called.

A key slipped in the lock and the door slapped open, revealing two huge guys in dark shirts with radios squawking. The little one started screaming again, stamping her feet in poop streaks.

“Close the door close the door close the door,” she shrieked. Blakely threw her hands up. The guys came for the girl, who was getting more upset by the millisecond.

What I should have done was step back and let them take her, shitstains and all. I would have had far less trouble. But I didn’t have time to think it through. The bathroom was small, the guys were big, and the girl sounded irrevocably hurt and upset. I didn’t have cerebral cortex time. Only lizard brain time.

I stood up with my hands out.

“Stop!”

They stopped. I had three seconds to talk over her screams.

“This little girl is upset because she’s dirty. You two taking her out of here like this is going to make it worse so—”

My three seconds were up. Guy number one pushed me out of the way while guy number two picked her up under the arms just as she kicked off her stained pants, shoe landing in filth, ear-splitting screams. Blakely stood in the hall feverishly talking to someone. My heart fell apart for the little stinker.

“Whoa, whoa!” A male voice echoed above the din. “Can we all chill out for a second?”

Everyone froze except the child, who was upset past obedience.

In the doorway stood my agent, Laura, and Brad Sinclair. But honestly, Laura was a footnote to his presence. We all were.

I was used to celebrities and actors. Star power had no effect on me anymore.

But he was different.

Burgundy button-down and jeans. Blue eyes and brown hair that needed a brush. Six-two-ish. A jawline that may or may not have been geometrically possible. Sure. Those were all words that described what I saw, and I could have come up with a hundred more the next day.

But at that moment, with his shoulders filling the doorframe and Laura behind him, clutching a folder, he wasn’t just a collection of perfectly fine features. He was action and motion. He projected himself outward, emanating heat. My ears turned red. Half a second turned to minutes. He was the hurricane and the eye of it. A constellation of angles and planes that curled around the world and complemented it.

Get a hold of yourself.

He was just stunning. One of a thousand like him.

Maybe a hundred.

A dozen.

Fine. You could count the number of men that gorgeous on one finger.

“Mr. Sinclair,” I said, giving him my most authoritative tone. “There’s no way out of here besides that door. I’m not going to take her. Just let me clean her up and bring her back.”

“Who are you?”

I had to shout over the nonstop loop of the girl’s screams. “My name is Cara DuMont. I was nanny to Ray Heywood’s kids.”

He knew Ray. Everyone knew Ray. Brad looked me up and down as if taking stock of my soul. I continued. “I’m not here for the job. But she’s upset. I’m fingerprinted and background checked, and I’m not afraid of a little poop on the floor.”