His Cactus Flower
Rebecca Gallo
Copyright © 2019 by Rebecca Gallo
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editing by Write Girl Editing
Cover Design by Dandelion Designs
Created with Vellum
“Golf is like a love affair. If you don’t take it seriously, it’s no fun. If you do take it seriously, it breaks your heart.” - Arthur Daley
Contents
1. Dixie
2. Gardener
3. Dixie
4. Gardener
5. Dixie
6. Gardener
7. Dixie
8. Gardener
9. Dixie
10. Gardener
Epilogue
The May Flowers
Also by Rebecca Gallo
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Dixie
Hollywood Bad Girl Dixie Bell Admitted to Rehab
Dixie Bell’s Rebel Yell Lands Her in Rehab
Ellen Nelson Sues Dixie Bell for Assault
RIP Dixie: Actress Found Dead
What the fuck? I’m not dead! And I’m certainly not in rehab. Being sued by my ex’s new girlfriend? That actually is true. But I’m not fucking dead!
“You need to put out a statement right away telling people I’m still alive,” I tell Agnes, my manager.
“Dixie, did you hear anything I just said?” Agnes’s voice is filled with exasperation and finally, I manage to look at her. She looks pissed off and tired.
“Sorry, what did you say?”
Agnes purses her red lips and folds her hands in her lap before leveling me with a stare that tells me just how annoyed she is with me. “You’re out of control, Dixie. I think you should take some time off before you begin shooting your next movie.”
“I don’t need any time off,” I insist, my voice defensive.
“You’re being sued.”
“So? People get sued all the time.”
“I’ve had you dragged from five different clubs this week because you’ve gotten drunk. And not happy drunk, but mean and sloppy. The pictures weren’t pretty, and they weren’t cheap.”
I look away, not because it’s hard to be confronted with my choices, but because I’m ashamed. Last year, I was America’s sweetheart. This year, I’m Hollywood’s bad girl. And it’s all Tate Allen’s fault. He broke me.
We were a celebrity cliché. Co-stars who met on set and fell in love. After the movie wrapped and we were thrust back into real life, we didn’t work. The magic was gone until the press tour. We were on-again, off-again, desperately clinging to a relationship that was never real. At least, I was; Tate had already moved on to Ellen Nelson.
Finding out about the two of them was a nightmare. Returning home from a months-long film shoot in Paris, I turned on my phone and discovered countless messages of support.
Friend 1: I just saw the news. I’m so sorry, Dixie! HUGS!
Friend 2: OMG Dixie! Are you okay????? HUGS!
Friend 3: Dixie, I’m soooooo sorry!! I hope you’re doing okay. Let me know if you need anything. HUGS!
Agnes: Whatever you do, DON’T READ THE NEWS! Call me ASAP! Hugs.
That was the moment I knew something was really up because Agnes would never end a text with “hugs.”
When I opened my news app, I instantly regretted it.
“TROUBLE IN DIXIE!” one headline proclaimed above a picture of my boyfriend holding hands with another woman as they exited a club.
I clicked on the link to the article to read all about this alleged “trouble” and it was not good. In fact, it was heart-breaking.
Celebrity power couple Dixie Bell and Tate Allen seem to be on the outs again. Tate was spotted leaving a Las Vegas nightclub with a woman identified as Ellen Nelson. The couple were then seen walking hand-in-hand as they took in the sights of the glittering Strip before being photographed enjoying an al fresco dinner overlooking the Fountains of the Bellagio.
Dixie Bell and Tate Allen have a rocky history. Romance rumors started flying the moment they were cast opposite each other in a remake of the Hollywood classic, “Gone with the Wind.” Those rumors were confirmed at the movie premiere when they packed on the PDA. Soon after, reports began circulating that the two co-stars had split, but Tate and Dixie once again seemed inseparable as they stepped out together for a variety of red carpet events.
All seemed well with the couple despite Dixie spending the last six months shooting a remake of another Hollywood classic, “Gigi,” in Paris. Dixie and Tate looked cozy only a few months ago when they were spotted enjoying the gardens of Giverny.
Neither Tate Allen nor Dixie Bell could be reached for comment.
Agnes clears her throat, demanding my attention. “Fine. Where do you want me to go?”
“Arizona.”
“No. It’s fucking hot there.”
“You don’t have a choice,” Agnes says seriously. “It’s either disappear for a bit or go to jail.”
“For punching someone in the face?”
“You broke her nose, Dixie!”
“Bitch had it coming,” I mutter.
“It doesn’t matter. You assaulted her.”
I stand and sling my leather bag over my shoulder. “Whatever, Agnes. But you better put out a statement telling everyone I’m not dead.”
Gardener
My back is screaming with pain. This is my first major event since back surgery a year ago and honestly, I’m having second thoughts. Why didn’t I just retire? I’ve been playing this damned sport long enough and I’ve got enough money to last me and any future children a long while.
Golf is stupid anyway. The whole objective is to get a tiny white ball into a tiny hole using a variety of glorified sticks. But fuck if golf didn’t save my life. My high school math teacher saw something in me, convinced me to learn what I called “an old rich man’s sport,” and effectively prevented me from traveling down the path of my childhood buddies. While they were dropping out and shooting up, I was working on my short game.
One more tournament, I tell myself as I shove my putter back in my bag and hop onto the cart. This is the only one I haven’t won and if I do, I’ll quit.
“You doing okay there?” My caddy, Robbie, asks as he drives me back to the clubhouse.
“Nothing an ice bath won’t fix,” I tell him with a forced smile.
“Day off tomorrow, boss. Get a massage or something.”
“Sure, Robbie. Maybe I’ll do that.” I tip up the brim of my white hat and wipe the sweat from my brow. An ice bath and a massage might very well help, but what I need to do is face the truth. Surgery might have fixed my problem, but it ruined my career.
Robbie drops me off right in front of the pro shop. I’m ready to head into the locker room and soak my muscles, but something catches my eye. Or rather, someone.
Dark brown hair and pale, creamy skin. Miles of curves. And a lethal swing.
“Whoa, sweetheart,” I say as I approach the driving range, my hands go up defensively because at any moment, the driver this woman is wielding could go flying.
She turns and glares at me, her honey brown eyes piercing me right through the heart. “Don’t call me sweetheart.”
Now that we’re up close and personal, I realize I’m staring at Dixie Bell. Her reputation as Hollywood’s bad girl sounds the alert in my brain. My agent would tell me to
stay the fuck away from her. I’m on a bit of a reputation rehab tour, but my heart is racing. And my dick? Fuck, that thing definitely wants to get to know her.
“Sorry, but I’m trying to save that piece of artificial turf from the hell you’re about to unleash.”
Dixie sighs and her entire body seems to wilt as she sets down the club. “This seemed like such a good idea. Release some of my stress by whacking a tiny ball into next Tuesday.”
Slowly, I step forward and pick up the driver. It’s nothing special, just something the clubhouse has on hand to let guests use. “This can absolutely relieve some of your stress. Can I give you a quick lesson?” The suspicion in her eyes does something to me. It’s hard to describe but I love the combination of mistrust and curiosity that I see there. She steps back to allow me to demonstrate but I have different plans. “First, this driver is too big. You need something smaller.”
Her lips quiver with a smirk that she’s trying to hide. “I was taught that bigger is better.”
“Oh, it definitely is,” I say with a grin. “But when it comes to golf, size is very important.”
I excuse myself and walk into the clubhouse. There’s a stand with various clubs and I sort through them until I find one that will work with her petite frame. When I return to the tee box, her phone is in her hand and her lips are twisted into a frown.
“Un-fucking-believable,” she mumbles before she shoves her phone into her back pocket.
“Bad news?” I hand her the club, which she practically snatches from my hand.
“More like a bad year.”
“Bad years are sort of my specialty,” I tell her as I move behind her. I hold out my hands and ask her, “May I?”
She glances over her shoulder and nods. “Tell me about your bad years,” Dixie says softly.
My arms wrap around her body and my hands cover hers on the club’s shaft. I murmur my instructions, moving her fingers so they’re positioned correctly. She’s warm and relaxed against me, nothing like the tense beauty I stumbled upon a few minutes earlier.
Slowly, my hands slide up her arms to her shoulders. I grip them and adjust her before my hands drift to her hips. “Car accident that nearly ruined my career followed by countless surgeries and an addiction to painkillers.”
Her eyes watch every move I make. “So, you’re a golfer?”
“At one point in time, I was the best in the world,” I tell her as I grasp her hips tighter, turning her until she’s aligned perfectly. My entire body is nearly covering hers and my cock quickly hardens in response. I force myself to step away. “When you’re ready, slowly bring the club back and take a swing. Just remember to keep your eye on the ball.”
Dixie breathes in deeply before attempting her first swing. The head of the club skids across the artificial turf as it misses the ball completely. Her entire body sags as she looks at me, embarrassment reddening her cheeks.
“That was a good attempt,” I encourage her.
“You’re too kind. But I don’t think I’m meant for golfing.” She holds out the club to me. “Why don’t you show me how it’s supposed to be done?”
The club is too small for me, but I can’t deny her request. I accept the club, take my place at the tee, and step back ready to take aim. Swinging a club is a muscle memory. Every part of my body knows what it’s supposed to do and the satisfying thwack! of the driver hitting the ball is music to my ears. I squint as I track the ball, watching it travel to the deep end of the practice range.
She slow claps for me and I turn back to face her. Her smile is lopsided and fucking adorable. “I’m Dixie, by the way,” she says, holding out her hand.
My hand swallows hers as I hold it tightly. “I know,” I say. “I’m Gardener.”
“Well, thanks for the lesson, Gardener.”
“Do you want to meet me for a drink?” The question slips out before I can even think about what I’m asking. “I mean, I don’t drink anymore but . . .”
My words fail me. This woman has got me tongue-tied and from the smirk on her lips, she knows it.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.” She’s quiet for a moment as she shifts back and forth on her feet. “Which is exactly why it’s the best idea.”
Her devilish grin hits me right in the dick. As she walks away, there’s only one thought in my head: What have I gotten myself into?
Dixie
“No, Dixie,” Agnes warns me. “Absolutely not. Do not get involved with Gardener Campos.”
“Agnes, what’s the harm? Really?” Gardener is an interesting complication of this whole “disappearing act.” I’m pretty sure that when Agnes sent me to this resort, she didn’t intend for me to have a fling, but what’s the harm? I’m not a nun, and this isn’t a convent.
“He’s bad for you. Golf’s bad boy does not need to get involved with Hollywood’s bad girl.”
I grit my teeth because I hate that term. Being Hollywood’s bad girl was never my intention and I’d give anything to shed that image. Maybe Agnes is right. Maybe Gardener is a bad idea.
“While I’ve got you on the line, I have some news.” Her voice is tense which worries me. I wonder which of my projects decided I’m no longer worth the risk.
“What’s the news?” I ask innocently.
“Tate’s getting married,” she says in a quick breath. “And Ellen is pregnant.”
My heart stops beating for a moment. “What did you say?” My voice shakes and there’s a knot in my stomach.
“Fuck, I’m sorry to have to tell you, Dixie. He’s getting married and they’re going to have a baby.”
“Good for him,” I lie. This isn’t supposed to happen; Tate and Ellen are not supposed to live happily ever after while I’m miserable in the desert. “I’ll call you in a few days.”
“Wait—” Agnes begins, but it’s too late. I end the call and hurl my phone across the casita’s living room. It falls to the floor and shatters into pieces.
It’s time to let Hollywood’s bad girl out to play.
* * *
“You’ve had enough,” the bartender tells me when I wave him over.
“No, I haven’t,” I mumble, holding up my glass and shaking it. The ice cubes rattle inside, reminding him that my drink is gone.
“If I give you another and you leave this bar and kill someone, I could get fired.”
“Dude. I’m staying at the resort. No driving involved. Now get me another fucking drink.”
The bartender rolls his eyes but submits to my request. Within minutes, a fresh vodka tonic heavy on the lime is in front of me.
“This one’s for the baby,” I mutter to no one but myself.
My eyes flick up to the television above the bar and it’s a mistake. Tate and Ellen on the red carpet are the top story on the news, along with her baby bump. Tate’s hand is protectively placed over Ellen’s rounded belly and they smile for the cameras like the perfect fucking family.
My hand grips the glass as my anger boils inside of me. He’s a cheater, I tell myself. This is all a lie because once a cheater, always a cheater. The news story keeps going for what seems like forever and eventually, my face appears on the screen. The closed-captioning isn’t on so I have no idea what’s being said about it and frankly, I don’t give a fuck. I just want this goddamn story to end.
Annoyed, I stand up, pull my arm back and let the glass fly at the television. The sound of shattering glass is satisfying.
“What the fuck!” The bartender yells as he races toward me.
He’s too late though. The tiny dish of cocktail peanuts is already in my hand; I hurl it toward the television too. Breaking stuff is so much fun! I search the bar top for something else to lob at the television and ignore the pleas of the bartender to stop.
There’s an empty glass nearby. I reach for it and ask the stranger sitting a few seats away, “Are you done with that?” I don’t wait for his response. I pick it up and let it fly.
“What is wrong with you?�
� The bartender shouts.
“Nothing,” I wail. Because there’s nothing fucking wrong with me except for a broken heart. How is it possible for a lying, cheating bastard like Tate Allen to come out on top while I’m forced to “disappear”? Why does something have to be wrong with me when I’m the one who was betrayed?
I reach for another glass when a large hand clamps down my wrist.
“Easy there, Babe Ruth,” a smooth, familiar voice says.
I look up into a pair of cola-colored eyes. Gardener has come to save the day.
“Get her out of here, Gardener,” the bartender growls.
Gardener nods and then backs away, taking me with him.
My buzz is gone; my rage-fueled burst of energy has died, and now all I feel is small and pitiful. I suddenly understand how Britney felt in 2007.
Gardener places a warm, comforting arm around my shoulder and leads me out of the bar.
“Agnes is going to be pissed,” I mumble and reach up to swipe at the unexpected tears that trickle down my cheeks.
“That bar has seen worse,” Gardener says softly.
I look up at him with wide eyes. “Did you trash that bar?”
He simply nods his head. “Don’t have a single memory, but my accountant knows exactly how much I paid to fix the damages.”
“Same bartender?”
“Same bartender.”
Gardener leads us outside and I lean in closer because it’s cold and I’m wearing merely a slip of a dress. He doesn’t seem to mind; he simply holds me tighter.
“You’re bad news,” I tell him in a small voice.
“More like I’m old news.” He sighs. “No one really cares about me anymore. They liked me better when I was the villain.”
His Cactus Flower (The May Flowers Series ) Page 1