“Tell you what. You get Anthony Green to sign a baseball for José and we’ll call it even.”
José, Salina’s son, was the world’s biggest baseball fan, and he was autistic. Allie tapped her lips with her pen as she thought about going. José was the cutest kid in the world. He’d go nuts over a Braves baseball. Plus, the money she’d save on a hotel would make up for whatever tips she’d miss. “How can I say no to José?” She laughed.
“Okay.” George rubbed his palms together as he looked her up and down. “Do you have anything else to wear?”
“Excuse me?” Allie glanced at her black skirt and button-up shirt. Her clothing wasn’t fancy, but she was clean and put together with her thick brown hair in a French braid.
George bobbed his head. “Besides Anthony, Mark Dubois and Beau Mckay will be there. I’ve been waiting for three months to win this lunch and I don’t want you to come in all …” He waved his hand through the air. “Prissy.”
“You’re embarrassing yourself,” growled Jack.
George backed up toward the door. “I just mean—can you glam up—make me look good?”
Allie barked a laugh. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d spent more than five minutes in front of a mirror. “Yeah, I’ll be sure to glam up.”
Her sarcasm was lost on George. “Great.” The bell tinkled as he left.
“Can you believe that guy?” asked Allie, hooking her thumb towards the door.
“Ignore him,” advised Selina. “What you need to focus on is those three hunks you’ll be sitting next to at this lunch.”
“Hunks?” asked Allie.
“Yes, big giant hunks of muscle and gorgeousness.” Selina fanned her face.
Jack snorted. “You’re killin’ me, Selina. Those guys could be your kid.”
“Hush, Jack. I may be old, but I ain’t dead. And they’d be more of a kid brother than my kid.”
Allie’s cheeks burned. Who hadn’t noticed Beau’s hazel peepers or Mark’s bulging muscles? She wasn’t sure about this baseball player, Anthony, as she didn’t follow the team like a good Atlanta native should.
Jack harrumphed and went back to his dry slice of pecan pie.
Allie tried to disappear into the kitchen, but Selina was hot on her tail.
“You’re not old,” said Allie. Selina did all the same work Allie did and she went home and took care of José. Allie never thought of her as old.
“Don’t worry about me. I got thick skin. Buuuut, George had a point. You should dress up.”
“I don’t even know how to go about glamming.” Allie flapped her arm around to indicate the industrial, run-down kitchen. “This is as glamorous as I get.”
“Just promise me you’ll try—maybe wear your hair down.”
Her reflection in the stainless steel cover for the heat lamp bulbed out at the top and the middle sucked in, distorted by the metal. She had an hourglass figure, all right. “There’s no point to putting in that kind of effort for one lunch.”
“Yes there is—this is your one day off in forever. Your fairy tale. For once in your life, live a little.” Selina snapped her fingers and shook her perfectly round booty.
Allie laughed. “Fine. I’ll wear my hair down.”
“Thank you.” She clasped her hands together. “And those pretty jeans you have with the sparkles all over the butt.”
Those sparkle jeans were an impulse buy at the consignment store. She’d worn them exactly once. “Why?”
“Because you’ve got good assets.” Selina snickered.
“Some days it’s hard to believe you teach Sunday school.”
“And some days it’s hard to believe that the good Lord wasted all that on a woman who dresses like she’s eighty-five.”
“I do not!” Allie bit her lip. Except that she kind of did.
“I dare you—wear the pants.”
Allie blew a raspberry. Selina was right. This could be her one and only chance in life to see how the other half lived. “Fine.”
“Good girl.” Salina patted her hand.
Allie softened. For all her trouble, Selina was a dear.
Gag! I even think like an eighty-five-year-old.
She took another look at herself in the heat lamp. She’d never been one to wear a lot of makeup. Her dark, thick lashes were a blessing. But maybe a little blush and some lip gloss wouldn’t hurt. And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn her hair down. Somewhere in the apartment was a flat iron; she might as well get some use out of it.
The more she thought about dressing up, the more her hands trembled. It was one thing to just be you every day, and quite another to pretend to be more than what you are.
She wanted to remember how it felt to be in her twenties. Maybe with a little practice, she’d stop thinking like an old lady and start living like a young one.
Chapter 3
“I’ll see you in a few minutes.” Mark Dubois hit the button on the steering wheel to end the call with his buddy, Beau Mckay. They’d spent the evening at a silent auction for autism and planned to meet up for a game of pool in Beau’s man cave.
In the seat next to him, Aspen Hamilton, Hollywood’s rising star, checked her manicure. “I think tonight went well, don’t you?”
Mark adjusted in the leather seat of his Maserati Ghibli S Q4. “I think so. I checked with Aaron before we left, and he said they’d raised enough to help the families on their list and even a few more.” There were few perks Mark enjoyed about celebrity status—being able to donate to causes like Aaron’s Homes for Autistic Children was one of them. The shallower side of him liked the car, but that was about as far as that end of the pool dipped. He could give or take the clothing designers shipped him, hoping he’d be caught wearing their label. In fact, he did give those boxes to Goodwill.
Aspen pulled down the sun visor and checked her lipstick in the lighted mirror. “That’s not what I was talking about.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about meeting Simon Tinsley. I’d heard rumors he was going to be there, but you don’t think a director with his clout would come to a podunk event like this.”
Mark twisted his hands on the wheel. “The event wasn’t small, and Simon’s son has autism.”
Aspen pouted. “I didn’t know that. Too bad.” She flicked her hair over her shoulder, glitter sprinkling into the seams of his leather seats. “Was that the slow kid following him around?”
Mark bit his cheek to keep from commenting on her lack of knowledge, her lack of sensitivity, and her lack of class. “That was him.” Simon’s son, Cody, was a great kid. Mark had met him on several occasions and enjoyed his sweet spirit and kind nature.
“Have you thought about doing an auction for your water thingy?”
“Waters without Borders is fine.” He’d started the charity ten years ago and had recently handed operations over to a board of directors. He still went on several trips a year to dig wells, lay irrigation pipe, and plumb villages, all in an effort to wipe out diseases spread by unclean water. Waters without Borders had been his passion, but the cause outgrew him and his abilities. Besides, with his divorce, his focus had shifted closer to home. He understood the irony of the situation. It took his wife and daughter moving out of the house for him to understand how important a home truly was. He wouldn’t make that mistake again and had joined up with several local charities to bring awareness and raise funds for their efforts. “Teens on Target needs my attention now.”
“Right—the lottery.” She turned up her nose.
“You don’t like the idea?”
“I don’t like that you’re selling yourself—it cheapens you.”
“I’m not selling myself; I’m selling my time. There’s a difference.”
“Whatever.” Aspen stared out her window, her long blond hair shimmering in each streetlight they passed. “Jennifer Kay bought a thousand dollars’ worth of tickets this afternoon.”
While Mark
was excited about the increase in sales, he wasn’t thrilled about spending an afternoon with Jennifer Kay. The woman was a sly gossipmonger who spewed drama everywhere she went.
He’d asked about capping the entries so one person with a high income couldn’t fix the raffle. The idea of setting the tickets at five bucks was so that everyone could participate and anyone could win—rich or poor.
In the end, they went without a limit to encourage people to give as much as they could. The more money they raised, the more projects Teens on Target could do around Atlanta. He wondered if there were other people with nefarious motives trying to get at him or Beau or Anthony through the same channel.
“How do you know that?” he asked.
“She tweeted this afternoon.”
“Pray she doesn’t win.”
Aspen snorted. “That’s your thing, not mine.”
Mark turned into her private drive, and she entered a code into her phone for the gate to open. “Do you want to come in tonight? We could give the press the idea we’ve taken our relationship to the next level.” Her hand landed on his knee.
Mark shook his head. The last thing he wanted to do was give the paparazzi a nice, juicy story. Besides, Aspen wasn’t the woman he wanted to be Chloe’s stepmother. “I have an early meeting with my trainer.” He pulled open the door and stepped out, her hand sliding off his knee. By the time he opened her door, any trace of disappointment was wiped from her face.
“I totally understand. I need to lose at least two pounds for the shoot in Cozumel. Good luck to you.” She air-kissed both his cheeks and sauntered into the house.
Mark didn’t watch her walk to the door. Instead, he climbed back into his sports car and drove to Beau’s place. He’d probably end up crashing there tonight. Without Chloe, the house was just an empty shell of a home.
Shaking his head, he struggled with not having her around. He never should have married Jasmine. What he’d believed was support for his career was actually greed. She’d eagerly hitched her wagon to his star and done all she could to propel his career forward—including sleeping with a producer early on, which he hadn’t found out about until they were in divorce court.
Once Chloe was born and the pictures of the three of them leaving the hospital went out, Jasmine learned that a baby can bring a lot of attention. She’d petitioned for full custody, and since Mark was often out of the country for weeks at a time filming, she’d won.
Beau, wearing a pair of baggy sweats and a Braves T-shirt, let him in.
“Is Anthony here?” Mark asked.
“Nah. Leticia didn’t feel well, so he canceled.”
Mark shrugged. Anthony’s wife was expecting their first child. She’d spent the last few weeks with Hugo Francois turning one of their spare bedrooms into a nursery fit for a prince. At the auction, Anthony and Leticia had talked nonstop about the process, smiling away.
If Anthony wasn’t a stand-up guy and a good friend, Mark might have to hate him for being so happy.
They made their way down the stairs to the ornate pool table located in Beau’s man cave. In all honesty, the whole house was a man cave. Beau had gone through two wives, Hollywood starlets who fell for the dashing hero of the big screen but didn’t love the drama that came from being married in the limelight. Every fight, every sour look, every makeup was handed to the fans like a sample chocolate at the candy counter.
Just like his own failed marriage. Mark knew there were two sides, but having seen the heartbreak firsthand, he stuck by Beau. Since he’d been painted as a playboy, Beau had decided to play. He hosted parties that went into the dawn’s early light, kissed dates for the cameras, and drank what he wanted.
Mark had never seen him so hollow.
The walnut wood pool table was shiny and the green felt top smooth. Mark removed his jacket, tie, and shoes. He pulled out the ends of his dress shirt and rolled up the sleeves.
Beau grabbed his cue. “Mind if I break?”
“Go right ahead.”
Mark’s thoughts went back to the conversation he’d had with Aspen. They’d gone to the same event and talked to the same people, yet her version of the evening was completely different than his. He missed having someone to really talk to—someone with a heart. He also missed an easy shot and sank one of Beau’s balls instead.
“You okay tonight?” asked Beau.
Mark shook his head. “You ever feel like you’re missing something?”
“Like what?” Beau lined up to knock the seven ball in the corner pocket.
“Like real life?”
“I don’t know how you can get any more real than that.” Beau pointed his cue at the image on the far wall. The picture was taken in Africa, where they’d dug their first well for Waters without Borders. Covered in mud and surrounded by dark-skinned children in brightly colored shirts and shorts, Mark and Beau grinned.
“I mean, an everyday real life. Is it strange that the only time I feel like a real person is when I’m in a well or with Chloe?”
“So what? You want to quit acting and become a plumber?”
“I want substance. Someone real.”
“No one is real.”
Mark thought of the teens that he volunteered with on a monthly basis. “Kids are real.”
“I don’t recommend that you date a child.” Beau dropped the seven ball in the corner pocket.
“Thanks for that,” Mark griped.
Beau leaned on his cue. “What are you really after?”
Mark considered the question. “I guess what I really want is someone who doesn’t want anything from me.”
Beau slid his cue back into its holder on the wall. “If you’re not going to be realistic, then I can’t help you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Everyone, and I mean everyone, wants something. Your ex wants alimony. Your assistant wants a paycheck. Heck, even Chloe wants your time and attention. You’re looking for a fairy tale.”
Mark stared at the floor, his heart dropping into a side pocket as easily as one of the balls on the table. “Maybe I am.”
“I’m going to bed—you staying over?”
“Yeah.”
“We can hit the gym together in the morning.”
“Sounds good.” Mark usually looked forward to working out with Beau. They were evenly matched in weights, so they wouldn’t have to find someone to spot for them. But not even the chance to smack-talk with his best friend brightened his outlook on the world.
Maybe he was too jaded. Maybe seeing all the heartache and physical difficulties he witnessed in his travels had colored his thoughts. Maybe “real” life was a fairy tale.
Anthony has a beautiful wife, a baby on the way, time for both. Love. Home. Family. The lucky jerk.
Mark chose acting as a career. He just didn’t know he’d be giving up so much in the process. There had to be a way to have a marriage and do the work he loved. Even a star’s stars could align once in a lifetime.
Sunday afternoons were one of Mark’s favorite times. When he was in town, he met Chloe at a local church for services and Sunday school in the morning, heading back to his house for lunch and board games or a movie.
They were just clearing the table, their grilled cheese sandwiches reduced to crusts, when Chloe grabbed a catalogue off the pile of junk mail on the counter and stared at the cover.
Mark glanced over her shoulder to see what held her interest. There was a woman in a suit walking on a busy sidewalk. “What are you looking at?” he asked.
“I was wondering how we could help this woman.” Chloe pointed to the lady in the picture.
“Why does she need help?”
Rolling her eyes, Chloe replied, “Her outfit is so boring she blends in with the street signs.”
“What?” Mark blinked several times, sure he hadn’t heard his sweet ten-year-old degrade an adult for her style.
“Mom says we have to help the fashionably unfortunate by setting a good example for them.”
Holding back the name he’d like to call his ex-wife, Mark said, “I think she looks pretty.”
“You do?” Chloe appeared shocked.
At least she wasn’t mortified by his comment as Jasmine would have been.
“Yeah, she looks sweet and kind—two very attractive qualities in a woman.” He set the last of the dishes in the dish washer and pressed start. A deep hum filled the room.
Chloe continued to stare at the image. No doubt her thoughts were a jumble. Mark hated to outright contradict his ex-wife, because it made Chloe feel like she was in the middle of a tug-of-war and that wasn’t fair to his girl. The choices he’d made contributed to the sense of unrest he felt as of late, but he hated that his choices—and Jasmine’s—affected their daughter.
They settled in to a game of Uno, Chloe quickly taking the lead. Her mind was on the game, while his mind was on his options. He’d reduced his schedule to the minimum—just short of quitting completely. Acting paid for Chloe’s school, the house she shared with her mom, the car that drove her to and from school, and his job allowed Jasmine to be at home with Chloe. That was part of the deal. He’d support them both—the alimony was insane—until Chloe graduated high school. He wanted his kid to have at least one parent at home. He’d gladly be that parent, but with his financial obligations, that wasn’t an option right now.
He also battled the fear that if he gave up that part of himself, he’d lose a part of who he was. Acting was in his soul.
“Uno!” announced Chloe.
Mark stared at the eight cards in his hand. He laid down a red draw two. Chloe scowled as she drew the cards, making him laugh.
Chloe moved her cards around, her lips pressed firmly together. That was the Dubois determination—right there on his girl’s face. He wasn’t giving up on gaining full custody—after all, the DuBoises weren’t just determined; they could be stubborn too.
A Blockbuster Proposal_The Trouble with Dating an Actor Page 2
