Bombshell (Hollywood A-List #1)(38)

“Sure.”

I left, gimping on the sliced foot, smoothing my hair down so it didn’t suggest a just-f*cked-her look. I was halfway down the stairs before I thought about that.

Why did it matter what people thought? Why was I protecting her? She was a big girl. She was doing her job, and I was keeping my hands off her. Done and done.





CHAPTER 29


CARA


—Cara. It’s Ray—

As if Ray Heywood wasn’t in my contacts. As if I wouldn’t know his number straight off or I’d wiped him from my phone. Nicole’s room was getting dark, and the freshly bathed little girl had gotten to sleep while I reclined next to her.

—Willow says she saw you? Can you call me?—

If I called him, he’d hear the music and the party downstairs. I didn’t want him to. And I didn’t want to wake up Nicole, who was sleeping on my shoulder. And I didn’t want to navigate the minefield of Willow’s word against mine in real time. I had no doubt she lied. She was a good girl, but there wasn’t a sane eighth-grader in Hollywood. Puberty was a gateway drug to adolescence, and everyone overdosed.

—Can’t talk now. Sorry—

—She’s still pretty shaken up—

I had no idea what she’d told her father. I was sure it was all my fault. Maybe it was. Maybe I’d been too much of an employee and not enough of a leader. I looped one arm over Nicole, and I held up the phone with the other hand so I could type.

—I don’t work for you anymore. So I’m just going to come out and say what I think.—

Was I going to do this? I hit Send but still . . . I could backtrack. Soften it. Right?

As if in direct answer, a bottle fell downstairs. Nicole’s room looked onto the pool, and as the party had continued into the night, my disappointment in humanity had grown deeper.

—She was at Brad Sinclair’s party this afternoon. No friends. Just her. Not appropriate. Total cry for help. You’re lucky. It could have been real bad—

More? Was I going to go for it? You bet I was.

—You and Kendall aren’t her buddies. She’s a good kid, but she needs supervision and guidance. Parents.—

I waited for the long-winded reply defending his parenting and his daughter. Instead, I got something much shorter.

—Call me when you can. I want to talk—



My job with Ray Heywood hadn’t been terrible. Actually, it had been great. Maybe that’s why it hurt to lose it.

Ray Heywood was a single dad living and working in Los Angeles. He never looked at me as an available bed buddy or gave me a hard time about how I managed the house. He was just completely disengaged, and as Hollywood parents went, that was as good as it got.

My last day on the job started like every other day. The kids were at school. I’d made them their breakfasts, packed their lunches, made sure Willow had her homework, confirmed the robotics tournament for Saturday, and piled them into my car. I’d dropped them at two separate private schools across Los Angeles, promised to come back at two thirty and four thirty for pickup, and driven back to the house where I’d intended to pick up Jedi’s toys, then make annual doctors’ appointments.

When I’d gotten back, Raymond was on the couch in his linen suit, looking as if his dog just died.

But he hadn’t. Frisky was at his feet, slapping his tail against the Mivondo rug, waiting for me to get back so I could feed him.

“Hi,” I said, glancing at the clock. Ray was never home at nine a.m. Not unless there was a parent-teacher conference, and sometimes not even then. He was rarely home for dinner or bedtime either. He was a “quality time” parent. A week in Disney with all the trappings. Summer in Aruba. Skiing at the Aspen resort. Parenting as if cramming for a test. I couldn’t complain. I liked Aruba and I liked his kids.

“You all right?” I’d asked, hanging my coat. I lined Jedi’s shoes up with Willow’s. Jedi’s special talent was laughter. He wasn’t detail-oriented, and I chased him around all day, picking up, straightening, putting away as he laughed his way through life.

“I’m fine. Just wanted to chat.”

He’d indicated I sit across from him, which was awkward. I’d sat in any chair I wanted for the past two years. I’d sat with him and worked on middle school applications for Willow. I’d briefed him for the interviews and done research on which schools she’d like. She’d get into all of them, of course. Not only could she go wherever she wanted on her own steam, but her father was a household name that was feared and respected.

I’d been immune to his white teeth and swoopy little coif. He wore a big silver ring on his middle finger and a leather strap thing on his wrist.

“Okay.” I sat across from him. “Teacher recs go in this week. I think the administration’s going to call Jeannie at Harvard Westlake for her, but she really likes Marlborough. They won’t push her for both, so—”

“This isn’t about Willow.”

“Oh. Okay.” That was all we’d talked about in the past month as he got in late from his girlfriend’s place and left early for morning call. So it could be anything.

“I think you’re probably the best nanny I’ve ever seen. All my friends are jealous.”

He’d smiled with his big white Chiclets as if he got personal pleasure from the envy of others.