The fervor from his fan base is no less quiet while they’re deciding. Feeling as though I’ll fade into the crowd like I always do, I whisper, “Why would you come to Ridgedale?” thinking he’ll never hear me.
His face turns. His eyes are mine for five seconds as he stares through me. His gray blue eyes match the sky beyond my pop-up canopy. They tighten, thinner than their already slender shape, and then release as if he’s wondering who I am to ask him a question like that.
“Because,” he whispers back so that I’m the only one who’ll hear, “I have nowhere else to go.”
I back up and snap my compact closed. The oxygen vanishes from his immediate bubble. That wasn’t his rehearsed voice from before.
I know the truth when I hear it.
I understand heartbreak and regret more than most people ever will.
My soul recognized the pain in him, and I ache for what he’s going through.
“Okay,” someone yells from the crowd, “we got it.”
“Let me have it,” Zane fires back with that same prepared smile.
The woman giggles and glances at her friend before she asks, “Boxers or briefs?” They erupt in laughter, and I duck my head into my makeup bag to try to detach myself from whatever that was that passed between us before this latest outlandish question.
“Boxer briefs,” Zane fires back with his own laughter. “Now get back to work before we all get in trouble.”
A few people break the line and venture to shake his hand and admit their undying devotion to his work and talent. It takes a couple more minutes before I can get back to the scars, but at least my heart is beating at a less embarrassing rate of operation. I rub more foundation over the scar that runs the length of his cheekbone, hoping to blend the latex to the skin without seams. Zane pulls back as if it hurts.
“Are you okay?” I ask. “Did that burn?”
His jaw stretches side to side as he considers his words. But instead of speaking, he stands up. The sudden motion shoves me back. I barely catch myself before I fall. Fear is too familiar and knows its way around my mind. Angry men aren’t a strength of mine. I need to put my compact down before my shaking hands drop it.
“This isn’t working for me,” Zane says. “I’m sorry. I tried, but I can’t do this.”
“What? What are you talking about?” I ask as he ducks out of my tent.
“I told you,” he says turning to face me, “I can’t work like this. I tried to be patient; I really did. I’m going to talk to Jay. I’m sorry.”
I can’t breathe. Is it what I asked him? Did I offend him? Did I get too close to him? I want to run after him, beg him not to say anything.
I can change.
I can be better.
He needs to tell me what he wants, and I’ll do that, but I don’t want to lose this job.
Maybe it’s the scars.
Maybe they hurt or itch.
Maybe I’m standing to close.
Jay walks beside Zane headed for my pop-up and tears burn my throat like acid. I toss my compact back in my case and start piling my other gear inside. I won’t give them the satisfaction of firing me. I’ll leave before they get the chance. Save a little face, tell the garden gals I gave it my best shot and it’s over now. Dreams don’t come true for Little Finley Sullivan.
“I mean look at her,” Zane says as he comes into earshot. He’s motioning to me. “Obviously, this won’t work, Jay.”
Jay nods as he takes me in. “I see what you’re saying. We could make a few changes, move things around. It won’t be easy, but yeah, this idea didn’t pan out.”
My teeth catch my lip and clamp down until it hurts. For one brief second, I had it all together. I’ve got to stop believing in fairy tales and happy endings.
“I mean she does good work,” Zane says. “I saw the clips from the stuff back in the city. These are better than your last girl.” He motions to the scars. “And she’s quick. I’ve never been out of makeup this fast for something as extensive as this.”
“Better artist too,” Jay says, still talking as usual as if I can’t hear him when he’s standing a few feet away. “The writers were ecstatic with her tattoo work. I love what she’s added to the design.”
“Then you can see the problem here. Get her a trailer, so she’s not freezing to death,” Zane says to Jay. He reaches out and takes my hand. If not for the warmth, I would have jerked away. But as it is, I want to curl up in the rest of him like a quilt. “Imagine how good she’d be if she could feel her fingers.”
“Yeah, okay. I’ll condense wardrobe and get her in that trailer.” Jay finally looks at me and says, “Good work on the scars. Can you clean up his beard? Less pirate, more cowboy.”
It’s like the day before when I was trying to keep up with Anton, I’m still a few steps behind, but I nod because, of course, I can do it. Before he leaves Jay says, “We’ll get a heater over here. That’ll help.”
Zane drops my hand and takes the other one to warm it. “Sorry, I couldn’t take another second of these cold hands on my face. OSHA would have a fit if they saw your purple lips. I didn’t mean to be so abrupt. I hope I didn’t scare you.”
I shrug because I don’t know what to say. “Thanks for caring,” is the best I’ve got.
Releasing my hand, Zane returns to my chair and takes a seat again. “I’m sad to see my beard go. It has just the right amount of crazy to keep the paparazzi at a distance. I like looking a little dangerous.”
I can’t help but smile because that’s exactly what I thought of him. Not a guy who’d get me a trailer because I run cold.
“You have a good smile,” he says as I take the end of his scraggly beard between my fingers.
“You’re just saying that so I’ll do a good job.”
“Sweet talking my way into a decent shave, yeah that sounds like me.”
“Don’t move.” I set the scissors close to his skin. Without dropping his gaze, he holds steady as I clip away at his beard, trimming and cutting until he’s groomed instead of grizzly. My palm runs over his cheek to brush away the loose hair. His eyes slip closed at the sensation.
“That feels good,” he whispers. “Haven’t had anyone touch me in a while.”
“No girlfriend?” I ask, meaning for it to be a question, but somehow, it comes out flirty.
“I have to keep a plant alive for one more week, and then a fish.”
He catches my confused look and grins like I should know what he’s talking about. “Recovery treatment. My therapist doesn’t want me in a relationship until I can take care of living things that have less emotional needs than a woman.”
“I saw that in a movie once.” I rub his other cheek with my opposite hand.
“My shrink must have seen the same movie,” Zane tells me, though his eyes are closed. “Are you sure you got it all? Maybe one last time?”
Against my better judgment, I run my hand over the soft clipped surface of his beard before I back away.
Zane draws two deep breaths in through his nose before he opens his eyes. “Thanks,” he says in that same authentic voice as before. “It’s strange how much you can miss human contact, even just an innocent touch.”
My mouth is dry and awkward, completely untrustworthy because the best I’ll manage is a few babbling words of incoherent noise. Instead, I smile because he said I had a nice one.
✽ ✽ ✽
It’s stupid to think about him. He’s a movie star. I’m a single mom and recovering abuse victim. He wasn’t coming on to me. Innocent touch, that’s what he said. It’s not like he asked me to dinner. He can’t even have a relationship. But after my last face is done, I take some time to stand back and watch him work.
Despite the bit I found online about an exploding super nova, Zane Alexander is spellbinding as an actor. The second action is called, he vanishes, and stuttering Paxton takes hold. His eyes stay on the ground, his movement is jerking and terrified. Even when Marina first meets Paxton, running
smack into her and knocking her basket of flowers to the ground, I can’t find Zane anywhere in the character. His hands tremble as he snatches a daisy from the dirt and shoves it in the beautiful woman’s basket. She tries to thank him for his help, but he backs away, full cower, and vanishes into the tree line.
“Cut!” Jay calls, and the gathered crowd erupts in applause.
After a full day of shooting, I’m beat, but I’m starting to see why people are enamored with Zane Alexander.
I stop my crazy thoughts before they jump off that cliff. My life is complicated enough. I’ll have to keep my distance, so I don’t fall victim to the same fate as the rest of these people, believing my life isn’t complete without Zane Alexander.
✽ ✽ ✽
“We’re in town tomorrow,” Jay says to those of us who are still around. “Meet on Main and Thanning, except makeup, actors and wardrobe, meet here at daybreak.” He turns to leave, but a quick look from Anton brings him back around. “Oh, yeah, for any of you locals, we’ve got an opportunity for a little side hustle if you’re interested.”
My hand shoots up before I think better. Mona has always teased me that I’m highly motivated by cash. Jay spots me and motions to follow him. The rest of the crowd disperses.
“Hey Glenda,” Jay says, and I don’t correct him, “we need a driver for one of the cast members.”
“Who?” I ask, but I don’t need to because Zane steps into the circle and grins.
“I’m the deadbeat with no license,” he says. “but I’ll pay you five hundred a week to get me to and from work if you’re willing.”
So much for putting distance between me and Zane Alexander.
Chapter 5
Nothing feels as good as hugging my little boy after a long day of work. I want to keep him against me for the next hour, but he squirms after ten seconds, and I have to let him go.
“Come a’ see,” Oliver says while dragging me through the house. “Gamma made dinner.”
“And Oliver made a picture.” Mona scoops him up and carries him to the table. She hands me a coloring page full of heavy scribbles and a bulldozer in the background. It might as well be Starry Night. It’s twice as beautiful to me and far more meaningful.
“I love it.” I follow them to the dining room. “Let’s hang it on the fridge after dinner.”
Mona is the best mom any girl could hope to be adopted by, though the homemade food on my table might have me a bit biased. Not only lasagna, but homemade bread and a green salad. The woman knows how to nurture like no one ever has. I sink into my chair and lean back until the poor thing creaks.
“Shoes’a mama,” Oliver says as he pulls at my legs. His fists go to his hips as he tightens his face. “No shoes in a house.”
“You’re right, Oli. No shoes in the house.” I unzip the side of my ankle boot and let him pull them from my aching feet.
“So?” Mona starts cutting into the lasagna. “How was it? What’s the project? Are you allowed to talk about it?”
Oliver finishes my shoes and half drags himself, half begs for me to lift him into my lap. I breathe in the scent of my favorite little person as he burrows against my chest and tightens his grip on my top. I don’t think I’ve ever been away from him for an entire day before. Food can wait. Snuggling this little boy until he never doubts my love will need to come first.
“It was great.” Oliver’s silken blonde hair slips between my fingers. “I put on fake scars. I worked with celebrities. I thought I got fired, and then I didn’t.”
“Fired?” Mona asks midway between the salad bowl and dumping a heap of lettuce on my plate. “Why would you get fired?”
The embarrassment of the misunderstanding burns my cheeks all over again. I shouldn’t have said anything.
“I didn’t really. I was doing Zane’s makeup and my fingers were so cold I think I was hurting him—”
“Wait,” Mona puts her hands up to interrupt me and drops the entire bunch of lettuce on my plate, not to mention the tongs as well. Oliver’s hands go over his ears at the clang, but Mona is unfazed. “Zane as in Zane Alexander? The movie star?”
“You’ve heard of him?”
“Heard of him?” Her hand smashes against her chest like she’s trying to stop an impending heart attack. “Honey, everyone who hasn’t been living under a rock knows who he is. He’s one of my favorites! Do you think I could meet him? Or maybe you could have him autograph something for me?”
“It’s only been one day.” I shovel the lettuce that’s fallen on the table back onto my plate. Meanwhile, Mona is gone in her mind, likely accepting some award on behalf of her new best friend, Zane Alexander.
“Oh, is he as handsome in person as he is in the movies? Please tell me that isn’t all makeup?”
“No, it’s not makeup.” It’s too hard to forget the way he makes my heart race at just the sight of him. Men shouldn’t look like him. It’s dangerous.
“What about what the tabloids are saying? Is he crazy? Did he go nuts? Oh, is that why you almost lost your job? Did Zane have one of his fits?”
I draw in a deep breath and stab my fork into the salad as I consider my words. “He didn’t seem crazy,” I tell her. “I thought he was upset with my work, but I was cold, and he was worried about me…” My voice trails off as I glance at Mona. There might as well be talking mice on the table and singing birds floating around her head with the way she’s watching me.
Always looking for the happily ever after.
“Anyway, at least I’ll be inside now, which is great because I was freezing.”
Oliver isn’t eating yet, but that’s likely because he’s still pressed against my chest. I tap his cheek and hold a bite of lasagna on a fork for him to try.
This is my life.
This is my prince charming.
This is all I need.
“I knew those articles had to be wrong,” Mona talks as if I’m not even in the room anymore. “I knew he couldn’t be such a monster.”
“He has been in and out of rehab at least three times.” I scoop another bite for Oliver. “Couldn’t both be true? A monster and a good guy? Aren’t you the one who’s always told me people are gray, not black and white?”
Mona waves me off and starts in on the bread. “Leave me to my fantasies, Finley. Old ladies don’t have much. Let me play pretend.”
She’s right. I’m constantly stealing the wind out of her sails and everyone else’s as well. Too realistic after everything with Todd. I can never decide if it’s an asset or a detriment.
Eager to change the topic, I crane my head down to look at my red sauced boy and his fistful of lasagna he’s stolen.
“What did you do today, Oli? Tell me all about it.”
His smile broadens until I can see his molars, all coated in sauce. “I go at school, mama.”
My heart tightens. Avoiding Mona’s eyes, I ask again, “What did you do?”
“I go at school with Gamma,” Oliver says. “I play twucks and go swide.”
“Mona,” I start without looking away from my son, “I thought we talked about this.”
“No, you told me what you wanted, and I guess I figured things had changed.”
Oliver’s hand falls wet on my collarbone before he smears the red sauce like finger-paint. Frustration flashes in my chest, but it’s not with him.
It’s with her.
Carefully, I pick him up to fasten him into his booster seat where a fresh square of lasagna has cooled and waits for him. I refuse to yell in front of my son. That’s what I saved him from. I won’t be the one to add it to his life.
Calming my voice, I say, “Mona, I told you I wanted to teach him myself. I don’t want him with strangers. That’s why I trusted you with this. If you’re not up to the task—”
“It’s not about being up to the task, Finley,” she says without waiting for me to finish. “It’s about what Oliver needs.”
“Oliver is fine,” I blurt out without bringing my volum
e into check. “He’s here with me.”
“And you won’t be here anymore,” she says. “I didn’t enroll him. We went to check it out. See if he’d like it. See if he could learn a little more.”
“He doesn’t need to learn anything,” I say. “I’m teaching him and he’s fine.”
The air gels as she catches her breath and presses her lips together. “Finny, he’s behind all of them. Sweetheart, he’s nearly four and still struggling with words. I know you’re protective, but these are good people and it’s only three—”
It’s my chance to talk over the top of her. “What do you mean he’s behind? He’s fine. I understand him. You and the Garden Gals all know what he’s saying.”
“But no one else does,” she says. “He doesn’t know his alphabet. I swear every kid there has it down pat. He’s struggling. You’re keeping him here on this ranch, sheltered from the world like it’s going to hurt him, but what you’re doing is hurting him just as much.”
I can’t look at her anymore, not with those hazel eyes of hers burning into me as if she knows my every sin as a mother.
Yes, I’m protective.
Is that a crime?
I hear about mothers leaving their children in cars, or letting a screen be a babysitter, or screaming at them for just a cup of spilled mil— I stop myself before I walk that path. But still I can’t shake her words.
Am I doing a disservice to Oli by keeping him home? I didn’t birth him so I could ship him off to everyone else who might want a piece. I plan on being his mother, every minute and every second I can.
Yet, tomorrow morning I’m going to be off before his eyes even open. Am I a hypocrite?
Even after a near silent dinner full of awkward conversations and warm bread, the only conclusion I’ve come to is that motherhood has a way of breaking my heart over and over again.
Will I ever get life right?
Will I ever be good enough?
✽ ✽ ✽
Shards of My Heart (The Forgotten Ones Book 2) Page 4