Souvenirs

by Mia Kay

  For a split second, the leopard from Vienna stared back at her. Then she blinked and it was gone. The light must be playing tricks on her, feeding her imagination.

  “It’s nice outside,” he said. “Why don’t we eat out there?”

  She surveyed the room. Pages cluttered the dining room table, the drafting table she used as a desk, and the sofa. No wonder he wanted to eat outside.

  “It’s not always like this,” she blurted. “I have to keep the projects separate or I get confused. Since my new book is on the big table, I have to work on the script in the dining room.”

  He passed the sofa. “What are these?”

  She joined him, keeping the food a safe distance from the artwork and the upholstery. “Cover art. I can’t make up my mind.”

  He pointed. “I like that one.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t like the light on Weathermore’s face in the other. He looks too harsh—unless you’re going for harsh.”

  She wasn’t. And it was sexy as hell to talk shop with him. Don’t think about sexy. This is not a date, it’s a friendship. Nothing more. “Thanks. Let’s eat.”

  They sat opposite each other, and Grace had no idea what to say. Friends would talk about common experiences, but those were all tainted. They could talk about work, but it was after hours. If they were on a first date, they’d talk about—

  It’s not a date. She should at least remember her manners.

  “Thanks for doing this for me.” She dug into her rice. “I’d forgotten to eat after breakfast.”

  “It seemed silly for both of us to eat alone,” he said.

  As she sipped her wine, the havoc that had been Paul and Meg’s guesthouse loomed in the background. The lights turned the stacks of paper and books into mountain ranges of responsibility that grew taller by the day. “Who am I kidding?” she sighed. “It will always be a mess. I tell myself one last re-write, one last edit, and then I’ll take a break. Then something else comes up.”

  Grace looked across the table and told him what she should have months earlier. “I was going to write a book. One book. I had a story in my head, and I wrote it down. It became another, then a third, and now we’re almost to nine. Paul asked to buy the rights, and I volunteered to write the treatment for investors. Before I knew it, I was writing a screenplay. And now I’m an associate producer, for God’s sake. And I’m finishing one book while marketing the others and the movie.

  “This morning I thought I was getting a handle on it. The edits are going well, and the book promotion will slow when production picks up. My agent sees the movie as one big advertisement. Then my publisher called and asked me to edit an anthology and write the anchor story.”

  “Can you tell me about it?”

  She stared at him, gauging his interest. He stared back with raised eyebrows and a tile to his head.

  “I’d get to pick the contributors,” she began, “and I can mix them between new talent and known authors. It’s a chance to work with writers I admire and to give a few the same break I got.”

  “Would you write a one-off story?”

  “I’d like to try something different,” she confessed. “I want to know if I can do something else.”

  “You can.” He poured her another glass of wine. “You’re excited about this, aren’t you?”

  She looked at the stacks of paper. “I’d love to do it, but how—”

  “I’ll find you another table.”

  She blinked, her heart in her throat. She wanted to hug him, but she stayed in the safety of her chair and changed the subject. “Enough about me. How are things going for you? Are you enjoying California?”

  They spent the rest of the evening in small talk, and Bennett left early. Grace stayed up thinking about their visit. Maybe a friendship wasn’t off the table. Lots of ex-lovers became friends later. It would make it easier on everyone.

  She went to bed and stared at the huge mattress mocking her in the moonlight. It would be easier on everyone else.

  Wine and insomnia resulted in oversleeping the next morning. She was halfway out the door, balancing coffee and a granola bar while trying to keep her bag on her shoulder, when her phone rang. She shifted her load and fished for it in her purse.

  Grace groaned when she saw her agent’s name on the screen. She didn’t need this today. They were blocking scenes, in costume, using her favorite dialogue. Making a disgusted face, she answered.

  “Hey, Rick. I’m late for work. Whatcha need?”

  “Have you looked at the list I sent you?” he demanded. “I’m getting repeat calls.”

  “My laptop is in my bag.”

  “Well, unpack it and look at what I’ve sent you.” She could almost hear him rolling his eyes. “I have a busy day rebuilding my website after your fans trashed it.”

  “Yeah, and I’m sittin’ by the pool eatin’ Moon Pies and drinkin’ Dr. Pepper,” she retorted, exasperated.

  “Why won’t you just do the book festival?” he cajoled. “They’re offering a shit-ton of money, and everyone there will want a new hardcover for your autograph.”

  They’d had this argument before, and she knew he was hoping to catch her in a hurry and distracted so she’d agree with him. “I don’t want to do this to sell more books. I’ll look at the list tonight and email you tomorrow morning. I have other things to do.”

  “You have to—”

  She cut him off. “Rick, I’m late.” Who was the employer here? No boss she’d ever known had explained their decisions. “And I don’t have to explain myself. I’ll send you an email tonight.”

  She hung up on him, raced to the car, and sped to the studio, arriving just as Bennett exploded with a roar and hurled the script across the set.

  “That’s five takes in a row,” Ted whispered to her as she sank into an empty seat.

  Bennett paced the set like a caged animal, clawing at his cravat. “I wouldn’t wear this at home. I hate these.”

  He stared into the mirror over the fireplace on set and tore through his hair until he could shake it free and finger-comb it into a different style. Then he tossed his head and nodded at his fuzzy reflection.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Grace screeched, leaping to her feet.

  “It’s wrong.” He unbuttoned his waistcoat and let it hang open.

  “It’s not wrong.” Her voice shook.

  “I’m not doing it this way.”

  “You have to.”

  “If I could just change—”

  “He is not yours!” Grace shouted as her control failed. “He is mine, goddamn it.”

  “Why didn’t you cast a fucking parrot?” Bennett thundered.

  “What?”

  “I say what you want. I stand the way you want. I wear what you want. You are in my way.”

  “How dare you!” Hearing her shriek echo in her ears, she clapped her hand over her mouth.

  On set, Bennett squared off with his hands on his hips and glowered at her from under his brows.

  Grace dropped her hand and dragged in a shaky breath. “Bennett—”

  “No,” he snapped. “I’m tired of trying. My. Way.”

  Grace held his icy stare and waited on his apology. When it didn’t come, she stalked off and slammed her door. A few minutes later, the back door banged open and crashed closed. Her windows rattled.

  In response, she opened and slammed every drawer and door in her office. She bashed her pencil cup on her desk for good measure. Throwing herself in her chair, she pounded on her laptop keys resulting in a screen full of gibberish.

  I’m tired of trying. His words replayed in her head.

  Leaning back, she stared at the ceiling and took deep breaths until all her vertebrae relaxed. T
hen she picked up the script and left her office. The crew gave her a wide berth, and Susan waved feebly as she shut her door. Bennett’s dressing room was empty.

  Paul’s door was open. He looked up from his reports. “He’s right, Grace. And he’s cooling off in the park if you want to tell him.”

  She latched the back door and almost tiptoed across the park to where Bennett sat staring at the sky with his arms draped across the back of a bench. She perched on the edge of the seat as far away as she could manage. It took all of her effort, but she waited until he looked at her.

  “Why don’t you do this to Susan?” he sighed.

  She stared at the small sliver of beach they could see. She lived near the beach, she worked near the beach, and she never went to the beach.

  “Zadie has always belonged to Susan,” she began. “I plotted everything about that character around her. But I didn’t have anyone in mind for Ian. I created him out of whole cloth, and he’s part of me like she’s never been.”

  “Would you look at me?” he asked. “I’d like to have this conversation with your eyes instead of your ear.”

  She expected to see him laughing at her, but he wasn’t.

  “He’s your favorite?”

  She nodded and turned back to her view. Her toes wiggled in vain for the sand. Maybe she could go to the beach tomorrow.

  A figure blocked her line of sight, and she squinted up and up yards of black until she saw the wry smile and cocked eyebrow of her hero.

  “Miss. Forgive me, but you seem to be without a guardian and I am without a card.” He bowed low, and the new hairstyle draped across his brow and shaded his eyes. “Ian Frost, sixth Earl of Weathermore.”

  Oh my God.

  When she didn’t answer, he stayed bent at the waist and scowled at her. “Are you ill or simply rude?”

  “No. My apologies.” She offered him her hand. “Grace Donnelley, milord.”

  “May I?” When she nodded, he sat, keeping his back straight and looking down his nose. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Donnelley. May I skip the pleasantries? We have things to discuss.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  Ian—no, Bennett—recited the line she’d written, the one he’d fluffed so many times. Then he cocked an eyebrow, looked her in the eyes, and said it the way he wanted. And it was better his way. She nodded and picked up her script.

  He put his large hand over the page, preventing her from working. “A few other items, if you please?”

  “Yes, milord?”

  He plucked the fabric around his neck. “Cravats are like leashes. I am constrained enough without voluntarily strangling myself in my own home.” He tugged his waistcoat. “And I don’t fancy this. Neither the fabric nor the color suit.”

  “But it matches your eyes,” she blurted. Heat crept up her neck.

  “Yes it does, but I’m not fond of people watching my eyes or recognizing my clothes. This needs to be mingy.”

  “Mingy?”

  “Ugly, sweet.” He winked at her. “One last item.”

  “Sir?”

  His face changed as he leaned closer. The angles became more pronounced, his eyes glittered. His muscles hardened. Hello, Lord Weathermore. “I don’t fancy a chit ordering me about like a houseboy,” he growled, “no matter how many freckles are on her nose.”

  Grace resisted the urge to cover her nose and scoot away. Ian blinked, then blinked again, and Bennett reappeared. His posture eased as he flexed his jaw and his neck. The planes of his face softened.

  “We have to share him, Grace. I promise I’ll take care of him, but you have to trust me.”

  His words haunted her for the rest of the day as she stared at the script and then at the pages on her screen. They were her words. When she had nothing else, she could point to these pages. They were her friends, her real estate, her children.

  I’m tired of trying.

  They were her hiding place.

  The next morning, she walked into the read-through and smiled at the group sitting around the table. Everyone was friendly, but for the first time there were more people sitting on Bennett’s side of the room.

  She gave him his pages and whispered, “See if this is better.” Resisting the urge to hover, she took her seat across the table.

  His gaze roved the page as he whispered the words. He looked up with a smile. “Thank you, Idgie.”

  “Idgie?” The cast and crew parroted her nickname, laughing. Bennett joined in as she dropped her head to her folded arms.

  “Sorry.” His stage whisper encouraged more teasing.

  “Idgie? C’mon, tell us.” The coaxing grew to a chorus.

  She sighed in resignation but lifted her head and enunciated the initials. “E.G. It’s a family nickname.” She rolled her eyes. “And Bennett is attached to it.”

  After read-throughs, the wardrobe supervisor stopped Grace in the hall. The woman had a wide swath of orange silk over her shoulder and one extended arm. Gold dragons paraded across a background of red fleur de lis.

  “What do you think for his dressing gown? I love the pattern. It’s correct for the time period, and the color is wonderful. He’d look—”

  Grace put up her hand. “Bennett’s with the hairdresser. Take it to him and see what he thinks. Weathermore is his.”

  “Do I have to? He’s been in a mood for days.”

  “He should be better now.”

  The woman walked away, and Grace closed her door. Safe in her office, she plugged in her iPod and put the buds in her ears. Playing with the volume, she finally found a level just above blaring.

  Satisfied, she reviewed the required edits, but every line of Weathermore dialogue was uttered in Bennett’s voice and it overwhelmed even the deafening pop music. Gritting her teeth against the painful memories, she bent to her work.

  Late in the afternoon, she unplugged and stretched her neck and shoulders. Using her stiff muscles as an excuse, she went in search of coffee she shouldn’t drink this late in the day.

  She skidded to a stop inside the break room doorway. Bennett was sprawled across the sofa, where he’d fallen asleep while reading. She found a blanket in a nearby cabinet and watched for movement as she shut off the light and lifted the book from his chest. Even though she left his glasses, he stirred anyway, pulling them off and letting them dangle.

  “Shh.” She left her hand on his chest until he quieted, then draped the blanket over him. As she brushed his hair from his forehead, her heart lurched at memories of watching him sleep all across Europe.

  Better to have loved and lost.

  She walked away.

  That was, without a doubt, the dumbest expression she’d ever heard.

  Chapter 17

  “Oh, my God.” Susan’s laughter bounced through the hangar and reached the training floor.

  “I know. Isn’t this horrible?” Grace’s squeal echoed from the rafters. “It’s a good horrible, Sally. This is more than I could have dreamed.”

  Ben missed his mark in the fight choreography, and Max put him on his ass.

  “Take a minute,” the trainer sighed as he knelt on the mat. “Get your head screwed on, dude.”

  “What?” Ben asked, frowning.

  Max rolled his eyes. “If she’s here, you stare at her. If she’s not, you look for her. If she laughs, you go completely stupid.”

  As if on cue, Grace cackled with glee, and Ben turned toward the sound. He grimaced an apology when Max smacked him on the shoulder to get his attention.

  “Repeat after me,” the trainer instructed. “Fuck it. We’ll figure it out.”

  Ben shook his head. “It’s not that simple.”

  “Hell if it isn’t,” Max countered. “Sweep her off her feet.”


  “But—”

  “Look, I don’t know what happened, and I don’t want to know. But it’s pretty clear she’s giving up on dating you, and it’s just as clear you’re totally gone over her. Figure it out, but do it quick. Every day that passes, she’s putting you farther and farther into the friend zone. Besides,” he continued as he swept Ben’s hand out from under him and sent him back to the mat, “if you don’t get your head in the game, Susan’s gonna kick your posh British ass.”

  Later in the week, Ben woke on the break room sofa under a blanket with his book in the floor. Grace’s office light splashed a bright rectangle across the opposite wall. It drew him forward.

  She’d turned off her overhead fluorescent lights in favor of the ambient glow from her desk lamp, which highlighted the copper in her hair. Her iPod teetered on the edge of her desk while she worked at her computer.

  “Damn and double damn. I don’t understand this,” she muttered.

  Sweep her off her feet, Max had said. Taking her dinner hadn’t done it. Maybe work would.

  When he walked into the room, she did a double-take and yanked her earbuds free.

  “I thought you’d left with everyone else.”

  “Nope,” he drawled. “You don’t understand what?”

  “This financial statement. There’s a reason I was an English major. Numbers make my eyes cross.”

  He pulled a chair behind her and looked over her shoulder. “It’s just like your current account.”

  “My bank statement doesn’t have this many numbers on it. Does yours?”

  “No, but it’s the same principle. Are we broke?”