Bombshell (Hollywood A-List #1)(35)

It wasn’t uncommon for an A-list actor or studio head to have staff constantly move in, out, and about the house. Housekeepers, assistants, cooks, nannies, and security moved around freely during assigned hours. But the party I walked into was beyond what I’d seen before. Too many people in the house. Too many bikini bottoms. Too many nipples. Too many drinks. What the hell was he thinking? The music was thumping the entire house.

Nicole and I hung out for a while building block towers and knocking them down. Doing a puzzle. Playing pretend princesses. I got her bathed and put to bed. Luckily, the swim had exhausted her. The party had become a low rumble. I didn’t realize the power of it until I got to the main part of the house. By then, I was white-hot, scanning the laughing, beautiful faces for Brad.

Waste of time. The man had his own magnetic field. He was talking to some stunning young girl with his bare foot on the coffee table. All smiles and charm, exposed legs, and tanned hand on a beer. Sunglasses flipped to the top of his head.

“Sinclair!”

I couldn’t have yelled louder, but he barely acknowledged me until I was two feet away. Then he looked over.

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing?”

The stunning young thing looked me up and down with an unmasked sneer. What a waste of a pretty face.

“Throwing a birthday party.” He shrugged.

I was dismissed.

I had no right to do what I did next. I was an employee. I was not the mother of his child, nor was I the head of the household. I was nobody. Infinitely replaceable. Exactly nothing. Stating my opinion of him, his action, his attitude was so far out of my contractual obligations that I expected to be thrown out as soon as I finished.

I pushed him. Literally.

“You’re an *.” I had a moment where I could have paused, or run away, or calmed myself. But he looked so stricken, I saw an opening, and in my anger I went right into it. “You should have given her up for adoption if this is what you’re going to do. Because I’ve seen this go down before. I’ve seen how this shakes out. You make this her normal and she’s going to be snorting coke by middle school. In Malibu. With a driver and a Prada bag, yeah, all that. And she’s not going to know where she ends and the paparazzi begin. She’s going to be a target for the media unless you protect her. You’re the only one between her and . . .” And what? Getting pawed at by an older guy behind the hedge? “Look at you! Look at you!”

I could have said it ten more times.

We’d earned an audience, and though the music hadn’t stopped, all conversation had. Paula stepped between us, facing me, and held her arms out.

“We’re all going to take a deep breath and—”

“You want to look at me?” Brad shouted past Paula as he slapped his beer on the coffee table.

“Look at how you’re acting!” I leaned around Paula, even as she shifted to block me. “You have a child in the other room.”

He unbuttoned his pants. When everyone gasped, she turned and saw him over her shoulder.

“Bradley!” Paula scolded. “Do not—”

“Get a good look!”

He spun around and dropped his drawers, mooning me with his perfect ass.

The room went into uproarious laughter, hoots, and shouts. Camera phones were out. Brad shook it for me. I wasn’t angry anymore. I was humiliated. Cowed completely.

Paula made a show of covering her eyes. “Oh my good Lord Jesus what are you—”

For the third time, she wasn’t allowed to complete a sentence.

“Daddy! Your butt is out!” Nicole cried in her pajamas. She obviously hadn’t been as exhausted as I thought.

Maybe I would have gotten angry again. Maybe I would have found a way to stay and protect her. Maybe my heart would have softened another ten degrees if one of the caterers hadn’t been holding up a tray of glasses. She didn’t expect a five-year-old still in her pajamas and bare feet. She only tried to dodge a chair and tripped on Nicole.

For a second, time stopped.

The server kept the tray aloft while keeping her feet under her, but weight plus momentum plus the slippery wet platter resulted in a show-stopping crash.

Nicole stood in the center of a minefield of melting ice and broken glass.

“Don’t move!” Brad shouted.

“Get her out of here!” Paula pointed at me with one hand and Nicole with the other.

Before I could tell Paula that nothing would make me happier, Nicole melted into loud, blubbery sobs.

Brad tiptoed through the glass and lifted her to safety. The staff descended on the mess with towels.

When he turned, he and I were face-to-face, Nicole crying on his shoulder. The music rose. The chatter came back, and he and I were still locked, not speaking.

Not with words, at least.

His anger was still all over his face, but it veiled something else. Something deeper. Regret? Understanding?

He just mooned you to make a point.

“I’ll pack my things,” I said.

He didn’t answer, and though I should have just walked off and done what I said I was going to do, he held me fast with his stare.

“Your résumé said you have a first aid certificate.”

“So?”

He looked down. I looked down. A pool of blood spread beneath his foot.

“You’re a mess,” I said.