Bombshell (Hollywood A-List #1)(9)

We went through the living room to a smaller room with a pool table smack in the middle. It had a stained glass Budweiser lamp over it and was racked for nine-ball. Dora Donovan had nothing to do with this room, for sure.

“Wanna sit?” He held a chair out for me. The glass-topped table was just inside the open patio doors and was set with iced tea.

I sat.

“I’m not a date,” I said kindly, indicating the iced tea setup. “Just so you know. You don’t have to do things like hold the chair for me.”

“Habit, I guess.”

He sat opposite me.

“Chivalry is nice. But with the nanny, whomever you hire, it can be misconstrued.”

He smirked a little, as if misconstruing his own thoughts. I cleared my throat and pulled my jacket closed.

“Where’s Nicole?” I picked up the pitcher and poured him some.

“My parents took her to the park. She made the tea. My mother, I mean.”

“I hear they’re not staying?”

“No.”

“And how is she?”

“My mother?”

“Your daughter.”

He took a second to look out the doorway into the blazing sunset, then at his tea. He shook the ice down.

“I have no clue.”

His honesty was refreshing. He earned my attention and respect with those four words.

He looked at the table, then up at me. The camera always caught his little imperfections: the scar on his forehead, the slightly crooked nose. In person, they were tangible indicators of his charisma, and were powerful reminders of the flawlessness of the rest of him.

“Laura said you have a photo shoot set up for you and Nicole with Vanity Fair.”

“Yeah. So?”

“You need the money?”

“It’s going to charity. A dyslexia fund. My sister has it so—”

“Cancel it.”

I looked right at him. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t melt even though I wanted to. He knew I was right. In the millisecond pause and the way he broke his gaze, I knew I didn’t have to explain myself.

“Will do.” His voice was low and husky, like a growl turned down to one. As if he wanted to yell about not telling him what to do, but knew better. I could just about see the string he was tied together with.

“I think she needs as much consistency as you can manage. She was taking gymnastics. You should get her into classes.”

“I can do that.”

“Have you found a school for her?”

He took a sip of tea, then jerked his thumb southward.

“There’s one down the Valley side.”

“Laurence?”

“Yeah. There’s another one on Wilshire. The public school’s on Franklin.” He shrugged. “Summer just started. We have a few months.”

He wasn’t prepared for this. Not even a little. Neither was I, because he seemed so vulnerable behind the cocky veneer that I wanted to help him, and that was the first sign I should run away.

I was there as a consultant, so I was going to consult.

“Nicole is a very together little girl. And I think, under normal circumstances she’d thrive in a tough, competitive school environment.”

“She’s going into first grade.”

“It’s also Los Angeles. It’s a town of self-made strivers and their children. So kindergarten is the entry year. It’s very hard to get a kid into first grade, even one as mature as Nicole. There’s just no space.”

“She’s mature? She can read. Right? It’s amazing.” He beamed. I wanted to smile, but I couldn’t be delighted for him. That was inappropriate.

“I know I saw her in tears, but once she calmed down she followed instructions and spoke clearly. She has great fine motor skills and when she cleans a shitstain she gets every speck off. At her age and for what she’s been through, you’re right. That’s pretty amazing.”

Flattering the child was a sure way to get the job, and even though I wasn’t interested in working for him, per se, seeing him beam like a proud parent gave me hope for him.

“We had her reading tested. She’s perfect.”

He was really stuck on the reading. Most kids could read by the time they entered first grade, but he seemed happy in his bubble. I didn’t want to pop it.

“She’s doing great,” I continued, trying to focus on Nicole and not the way his hand curved around his iced tea. “There’s a school in Santa Monica called Crossroads. It’s a great school, academically, but one of their core directives is the emotional health of the student. They have a grade-bearing course that focuses on each child’s emotions.”

He smiled that award-winning smile.

“Ma’am, I’m from the South. That hippy-dippy shit ain’t gonna fly.”

“And when your daughter breaks down because she never dealt with losing her mother, your good-old-boy shit ain’t gonna fly neither.”

I heard his foot tap, but didn’t look at it. We were eye-locked, measuring each other.

Thank God I wasn’t working for him. He was melting me from the inside out, and I had a feeling it was on purpose.

“You play nine-ball?” he asked.

“Sure do.”

“You win and I’ll go see your hippy-dippy school. I win and you go see the one on Wilshire.”