When I pick Zane up the next morning, I have about a billion questions as soon as he opens the door and slides inside.
“Was the monkey real? Did it stink? Was he nice on set? Did he actually throw poop at you in real life? How did they get him to do all those tricks? I can’t believe how many times you hit your head. Did you get a concussion? Was that the beginning of your career? You looked younger, or was that just makeup?”
Zane waits a couple seconds after the last question, likely to make sure I’m done. “Good morning, Finn, it’s good to see you too. I take it you watched a movie last night.”
“Oliver loved it,” I say as we start for the filming site. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard him snort before.”
“Sweet,” Zane grins as if it means something, “I got a first snort. That’s impressive. But what did you think? You a die-hard fan yet?”
“I thought it was good,” I say, not wanting to give him too much satisfaction. “I’m not really into monkeys.”
“Me either,” Zane points his finger at me, “especially since that movie. That monkey, his name is Roscoe, he’s a jerk. Sure, he played nice for camera, but he hated me. Took special pleasure in some of those rougher scenes.”
It’s too hard to hold in my laughter and it leaks out of me. “Poor baby,” I say. “You made what? A couple million off that movie?”
“And my skull has never been the same shape either,” he tacks on. “I earned every penny putting up with that primate. And no, he didn’t throw poop, but he threw a lot of donuts.” He watches me for a minute before he asks, “Did you laugh?”
I could lie, but since his life is a bit of a disaster, I might as well tell the truth.
“Yeah, I was giggling.”
“I’d like to hear that,” Zane says. I glance at him, but he’s already turned back to look out the window. “I know I’ve heard you laugh, but it’s guarded. I imagine you probably let loose when that two-by-four knocked me down the stairs.”
I have to bite my lip from starting up again, but he’s right. My stomach hurt after watching it.
“What should I watch next?” I ask him as we turn on to the dirt road that leads out to the site.
“I don’t know,” Zane says. “Gongo was one of my firsts. They cast me in dramas after that. Everything else is pretty heavy.”
“Anything I should avoid?”
Zane doesn’t answer me at first. I park the car and wait. He knows the answer, but he doesn’t want to say it.
“Shards of Glass,” he says after a minute.
“You weren’t any good in it?”
“I received an Oscar for best actor in it. The movie was nominated for six and won two of them. It’s a solid film.” Zane hesitates again before he says, “But I don’t think you’ll like it. I’d rather you didn’t see it.”
Before I can ask him anything more, he’s gone.
✽ ✽ ✽
It’s easy to slip into a routine when each day is similar to the last. I pick Zane up at the same time each morning, I run through his makeup, Tabitha’s makeup and any supporting characters. I stand by for touch-ups. I take off Zane’s makeup and we drive home. Mona has dinner waiting, and Oliver is camped out on the front porch watching for my car to pull in the driveway.
The only part that changes is how close this is bringing Zane and me. Every morning is a new discussion about the movie, or the actors, or why I don’t like tomatoes (that was yesterday), and why he doesn’t like avocados (the day before), none of it is groundbreaking or incredibly personal. In the beginning, it was hard to talk with him, but now, it’s easy. I have questions waiting for him, and he’s the same way. It’s as if we’re storing them up like squirrels, ready to explode the second we see each other.
Dare I say it, I actually look forward to seeing him.
I never thought that would happen again.
✽ ✽ ✽
“Hold still,” I tell Zane for the third time. “Or I’m going to get black ink all over your chest.”
“It tickles,” he says as I darken his tattoo on his neck. “This is worse than the scars.”
I twist to lean closer to catch the edge of the tribal swirls from his tattoo. This is the first scene where his character Paxton is topless. The tattoos have to cover most of his chest. Zane’s grip clenches on the chair until it squeaks.
“I’m almost done,” I say. “Stop being such a baby.”
Zane’s jaw shifts side to side before he sighs. “I have a beautiful woman quite literally breathing down my neck, and I’m not allowed to do anything about it. So, I think I’ll squirm a bit, if you don’t mind, Miss Sullivan.”
“Then I’m going to take twice as long,” I catch the curve and follow it leaving a perfectly rounded arc of black, “because I’ll have to start over.”
“Is that a threat or a promise?” Zane asks.
“Both.”
Using my fingers, I pull the skin taut to flatten my workspace. I can’t focus on the fact that I’m this close to him, or that he’s acting as though he’s attracted to me. He’s a canvas. I’m an artist. That’s the extent of it. Though the way he’s biting his lip is horribly distracting.
I blow on the ink to speed the drying process and Zane whimpers, though it’s all for show. Forever the ham and the center stage actor. That’s all this is. A game, a scene, a chance to play the part. I can’t buy into it.
My art is my focus, the swirling lines, the darkened pieces. I follow the curves over his neck, up to his ear and across his jaw line. No tattoo there, but I’m easily distracted. I take a deep breath and blow on the wet ink again. I thought I had every aspect of his face memorized, but there in the space between his jaw and his ear I swear I see a scar. I run my finger over it, noting the increased tension in Zane’s face that I’ve discovered it.
“Have you had work done?” It’s probably outside my rights to ask, but I can’t help my curiosity.
Zane hesitates before he answers, “Uh, yeah. Some.”
I cap the ink and twist it until it’s secure. “What’d you do?”
The dodgy side of him surfaces, obviously embarrassed by this vane surgery. “Work on my cheekbones. But it’s not common knowledge so, shush.”
“What?” I set my tools away and check to be sure no one else is listening. “Did you get implants?”
He doesn’t want to answer. Like Oliver playing with putty, his face screws from one side to the other before he finally says, “Something like that. They made it look better.”
I set in close as if I’m going to work on his scars again. My finger runs over the one that spans his jaw, but Zane catches my fingers and pulls me away. When I meet his eye, it’s there again, that raw side of him. Exposed, vulnerable, and waiting to see what I’ll do next. Freeing my hand from his grip, I touch my fingers to his cheek, pressing in until I feel a dip. Satisfied, I back away.
“I knew you couldn’t look this good naturally,” I tell him without hiding my smug attitude. “No one is born looking like you.”
That brings a smile to his face, and the vulnerability is replaced by his confidence. “Really? So, you are attracted to me?”
He’s got me there, but I reverse to keep the upper hand.
“Apparently, I’m attracted to your surgeries.”
“There weren’t that many,” he says as he watches me through my mirror.
“But there was more than one?”
“Two,” he holds up his fingers so I can’t be confused. “This one and another one to remove a scar from my forehead.”
“How’d you get it?” My brushes are forgotten, and I lean against my table to listen.
“Trouble as a teen.” Zane glances toward wardrobe. “I think they’re ready for me.”
“You running?” I tease him.
“Before you know all my secrets,” Zane says with a smile.
I bite my lip as he walks away from my station. What would it take to know his secrets? To understand what makes Zane Alexander
tick?
What price would I pay for that kind of privilege?
✽ ✽ ✽
“What are you going to do with your day off?” Zane asks as I pull up to the curb outside Cecelia’s.
Jay announced that we’d take a day off while they worked on sets and some preliminary editing. Since it’s been twelve solid days of not seeing my son except for an hour or two at night, I’m all for it.
“Oliver,” I say, as if he is one inclusive task. “What about you?”
“I don’t know,” Zane says. “I’m sleeping in, and maybe going on a bike ride since someone still hasn’t cleaned out her anti-kidnapping trunk. But I’m free later in case she wanted to feed me at her ranch she talks about every day.”
It’s a good thing he’s cute, or I might not allow such behavior from him.
“Are you hinting at something?” I ask.
“Are you willing to let me hint at something?”
“That’s basically bringing you home to meet my son.”
“No, you’re setting up a meet and greet with one of my biggest fans. We can run a fake promotion if you want. Look I’ll draw a name.” Zane scribbles down a couple names on a scrap receipt he finds on my floor. Tearing the paper into strips he stuffs them in his palm like a cup. “Go ahead, draw the winner for the Meet Zane Alexander Sweepstakes.”
I laugh and lift my eyebrows as if to ask if he’s serious. To show he is, he thrusts his fist closer. I wriggle my fingers into his tight grip until I feel the papers. But that’s not all I feel.
I feel his warmth.
I feel my heart racing.
I feel his eyes watching me, always hopeful that something is going to change between us.
“Who’s our big winner?” he asks, but it’s too close to a whisper, and his breath tickles over my skin.
I unravel the strip and read, “Mona. What a surprise.”
“Wow, that’s an upset. I really thought the other one would win.”
“Don’t they both say Mona?”
“Nah, it’s my two biggest fans. The other one says Oliver.” He waits for me to laugh before he says, “Well, you said I made him snort.”
“You did. That’s true.”
“I’d hate to disappoint my fans. I mean, this sweepstake was a big deal. Weeks in the making.”
I’m waging a war inside of me. I haven’t even glanced at another guy since Todd. But it’s getting harder to ignore what’s happening here. It’s not a date. It’s dinner with Mona and Oliver. Hardly romantic.
“I’ll pick you up at six,” I tell him.
“No, I’ll call for a ride or something. Maybe Cecelia will take me. I don’t want my fans thinking they aren’t important. Hate to show up to an event of this caliber looking like a loser.”
“You’re not a loser,” I tell him because I’m getting to know him well enough to know that’s where his thoughts are headed.
He nods, but he doesn’t believe me. “Six? Tomorrow?”
I borrow his words, “I can’t wait.”
✽ ✽ ✽
My plans for a day one-on-one with Oliver are foiled because he has preschool for three hours in the morning. Hard to hide my disappointment, especially when I offer to keep him home, and he chooses school over me.
Knife through my mommy heart.
I spend the time cleaning because it’s not every day that an A-list celebrity is coming to dinner. Looking around the farmhouse, all I can see is my deficits. Zane just sold a house in Malibu, likely beach front, and I’ve got a three-bedroom, two bath, built at the turn of the century home, complete with loose shutters and chicken poop in the backyard. Who am I kidding? We come from different worlds.
With the house in some kind of order and smelling faintly of lemon cleaner, I head out to my brood of chickens. They squawk the second they see me. I know it has nothing to do with attachment and everything to do with the fact that I’m the food lady who lets them out of the coop. But no such luck today. I have enough time to see that their food is low before I need to go get Oliver from school. Thinking I can knock out two birds with one stone, I drop by the feed store and pick up a couple bags of pellets. But by the time I have it loaded in my truck, I’m five minutes late to get Oliver.
The preschool is run out of one of the new subdivision houses in town. The kind that come with solar and identical arches, and the kind that were built this century. I guess they can claim turn of the century architecture too. But this woman, Genevieve Renning, has it all, complete with a little family of gnomes to greet you beneath her carefully trimmed bushes.
In contrast, my dirty boots slap the asphalt as I slide out of my F-150. It’s about forty years old, two hundred and fifty thousand miles and still the same transmission. Cecelia claims it’s held together by faith and prayer. Duct tape has done its share of work, in my opinion.
I jog to the house but Miss Genevieve, as Oliver calls her, flings open the door and plasters on a tight I’m-better-than-you smile. The instant it slimes its way across her face, I know exactly who she is.
Jennie Baker.
We went to high school together. She was head cheerleader, and I was head nothing. She doesn’t know who I am, even though I look exactly the same as I did back then. Jennie though, Jennie’s had work done. New nose, new cheekbones, and her sweater is extra perky if you get my drift. Jennie must have married money.
“You must be Oliver’s mom, huh?”
I swallow my nasty retort and adjust the messy bun piled on top of my head. Of course I am, he’s the only kid left, isn’t he?
Failure.
Failure.
Failure.
“Sorry, I got held up at the feed store. I thought I could make it in time.” She lets me into her home. It’s pretty enough it could be a spread in Better Homes & Gardens. Even the playroom is color-coordinated, every box labeled and the smell, I can’t believe there were ever children here, let alone my stinky little monster.
“It’s piped in through the vents,” she says as if reading my mind. “Helps to keep things fresh.”
“You have a lovely home,” I say, though I fear I should have said it sooner.
“I’m sure your ranch is charming. You certainly look the part of a little farm girl. Just today Oliver was telling us all about his pigs and the horse, and sixteen chickens, is that true?”
It’s a trap, but I can’t see where the snare is going to catch me.
“Yes, sixteen. Fresh eggs all the time.” I stretch to try to see my son. I’m relegated to this four-by-six patch of tile in the entry because for miles beyond this safe haven, it’s nothing but pristine white carpet. My boots would leave a trail thicker than Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs.
“Wow,” she smiles again, but I feel the snare tightening, “seems like you’d be cleaning up poop all the time.”
My mouth gets the better of me. “I think I could say the same about running a day care.”
She catches my inference with ease and scrunches her nose before she corrects me. “It’s a preschool. They’re all potty-trained.”
“Is Oliver ready?” I ask before she can go any further.
“Oh yes, he’s been ready for about fifteen minutes now.”
Another dig at my lateness, but I know I’m only five minutes late.
“He’s out back playing with my little Ophelia.”
Interesting name choice. Personally, I would have steered clear of all drowned tragedies, but to each their own I suppose.
“If you wanted to call him inside, I’d be happy to get out of your hair,” I tell her.
“Oh, come with me,” she says as her stocking feet touch down on the snowy white carpet. But she frowns, “Oh, I guess you can’t, can you?”
It’s intentional. I’m sure of it. Jennie has always gotten pleasure from maintaining her status as holier, prettier, and a generally more awesome than thou type of person.
“I was out working in the barn when I came to get him. I even brought the work truck,�
�� I say, as if my excuses will mean anything to someone like her.
“Well,” she starts to the back door but turns to face me, “I guess that’s why I dress like me and you dress like you, Finny.”
She’s gone before I can call her on the fact that she does in fact know who I am. Likely, she thinks I should feel honored that she remembered me. After all, she is the great Jennie Baker, and I’m that little orphan girl with hand me down jeans and no parents.
The slider rolls open and her perfect voice calls for my son. If he didn’t love it so much, I’d yank him out of here in an instant. But he’s been nonstop excited about his time with Miss Genevieve. My petty feelings aren’t important, not when it comes to his happiness.
Waiting on Oliver’s glacial pace, I glance around her entry way. Pictures adorn every wall. Trips with her perfect family. Grandparents from both sides. When I lean all the way to the right, I spot her floor to ceiling family tree painted directly on the wall. It probably goes all the way back to the princess of Charlemagne or something like that. I imagine if I asked, she’d tell me Ophelia is a family name. Shakespeare stole it from her.
“Mama!” Oliver bursts through the door. His arms go wide to catch me. I scoop him up to let his warmth fill me. Animosity flees from my heart with his arms around me. There’s nothing better in this world than a hug from my favorite little man.
“Aww, isn’t that sweet? He doesn’t even mind the manure and mud. Now that’s love,” Jennie says from where she’s waiting by the stairs.
It takes everything in me not to gloat that Zane Alexander is coming to my house for dinner tonight before I duck out of that torture chamber she calls a house.
On the way home, I decide for the millionth time that it’s hard to feel good about yourself when everyone else is intent on reminding you how little you’re worth.
Chapter 8
Oliver is bouncing out of his skin that Gregory McMellen is coming to our house for dinner. I’ve explained to him at least six times that his name is Zane, or Mr. Alexander. Gregory was a character he played on a movie. It’s not helping that Mona is freaking out as well. Seventy-four-year-old woman, I guess I expected a little more decorum.
Shards of My Heart (The Forgotten Ones Book 2) Page 7