by Louise Lynn
I felt Ivy hopping next to me and her fingers dug into my forearm. "Would we get to meet them?” she said. “Movie stars, I mean?"
Michael smiled, and the dimples deepened. “Of course. That can be arranged."
I had no desire to meet Mary Jones, but I kept that to myself.
I glanced at Wyatt and his secretary and felt a frown on my lips. Discussing this in front of customers didn’t seem particularly professional. "Can we talk about this in the back? Ivy, can you watch the counter?"
Her shoulders slumped, but she nodded, and threw me a look that said: ‘you better tell me everything as soon as this is over.’
I gave her a nod and ushered Michael into the back room. It was as clean and neat as possible, but I couldn’t lie and say it wasn’t cluttered either. The oven and food preparation stations were much smaller than the ones at home, not large enough for the cakes I baked, which is why I used my own kitchen for that. Not to mention, the oven was original to the building and was probably older than my mother.
At least it still worked.
For now.
I worried my bottom lip as his eyes moved over everything, pausing on each of the worktops.
He pointed at the pantry and raised an eyebrow. "Bathroom?"
I shook my head. “Pantry and security office."
I didn’t tell him how handy that security office came in when convicting Matthew Walker of murdering his wife.
“Well, what do you say?"
I hugged my arms to my chest. Ivy was going to kill me. "I don’t see how it’s possible for me to cater your movie set and run my shop at the same time. Almost everything is baked in house, and I hardly have enough time to do that as it is."
I didn’t mention how difficult it would be to find reliable help in San Bas that time of year. Especially with a new semester starting up. Ivy would be back in school, and she’d only be here part-time again.
I knew it was selfish, but I couldn’t wait until she graduated. That way, either she’d get her own job, or she could work in Maritime alongside me full time—whatever she wanted.
Until then, we were sort of in limbo. If I hired an extra worker, I may not have enough for them to do on the days that Ivy worked. It was a major Catch-22 and a pain in the butt.
Michael rubbed his chin with day-old stubble on it. It reminded me of Dean, the town’s cute detective, when he didn’t shave daily, and the thought sent a warm rush to my stomach. I shoved it away.
He was still married, and I wasn’t going to entertain any possibility of rekindling that romance until his divorce was finalized.
He was off limits until then.
"So, you’re going to turn me down when the only thing I want to do is eat delicious scones and drink your wonderful tea every day?" Those dimples deepened.
"I’m sorry, but I can’t afford to close my shop at the whim of a movie director."
Which was the truth, but he wasn’t making it easy to tell him so.
"And what if we compensated you a hundred grand?"
I tried not to gape at the number. Sure, my shop brought in enough money to live comfortably, but a hundred grand in that short amount of time? I wasn’t doing that well.
"For how long? Just out of curiosity. I’m not saying yes," I said and jutted out my chin in defiance, “yet.” I added just to be sure he knew I was interested.
“We’ll be shooting here for a little over a month, so that long. Please say you’ll do it?"
I’m sure if Ivy were there the money signs would’ve flashed in her eyes, and I slowly shook my head. "I can’t afford to close my shop for over a month. The gray whales are passing through this time of year, and with the tourists associated with that and your movie filming, I’d be losing out on a lot of business. And yes, it’s a nice amount of money, but the people who pass through the tea shop tell their friends about it then they come in and tell their friends, and so on. Your money can’t make up for that."
I hoped that sounded final enough.
But Michael didn’t make a move to leave. Instead, his eyes slid over the meager pantry and a new expression tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Playing hardball, huh? I knew there was a reason Sandra didn’t like me to do this alone. But, I think you’re worth it, Olivia Darrow. Okay. A hundred thousand for your catering, and enough money to redo your shop. That way, you’ll have a reason to be closed for a while and you could still have the front of the shop open. Just this back section could use a major redo, if you ask me. Put in a new kitchen with a bigger oven. A pantry that doesn’t have to double as a security room. You can even expand out into the main part of the shop.” More dimples and flashing white teeth. “If you’re so inclined, of course," he said.
Maybe my eyes weren’t sparkling with money signs, but the idea of a not so cramped back room was enough to give me pause.
"An industrial oven," I said and rattled off a few high-end brands I’d had my eye on for years and couldn’t afford.
"Anything. I can assure you it’s within our budget," he said and grinned. “Your food’s worth it.”
I found myself nodding slowly. "I’ll agree, but only if my mother can watch the shop while I’m busy catering. Those are my stipulations," I said.
He held out his hand. "Fine. I’ll shake on that."
I offered him my hand and shook. His was more reminiscent of Dean’s than Wyatt’s. He had a few calluses on his palms and a scrape on two of his knuckles.
In the back of my mind, I screamed at myself—what do you think you’re doing?
But the thought of a new kitchen and that amazing oven blew it away.
Plus, I knew my mother well enough that she’d probably say yes.
We emerged from the back room to be greeted by Ivy, who looked ready to burst. Wyatt and his secretary had finished their tea and were already gathering their things to leave.
Before they had a chance, a woman, also wearing the film crew polo shirt, burst in the door, followed by a gust of January wind.
“Michael," she said in an exasperated growl, though the anger didn’t reach her eyes.
Her hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail, the color a deep, muddy brown. Her eyes were a similar shade, and while she was pretty enough for a normal town, I couldn’t see how she could be an actress in Hollywood. Not to mention the muscles on her, which put my feeble body to shame.
But if she was wearing one of the crew shirts, she probably wasn’t.
Michael rolled his eyes at me then turned his megawatt smile toward her. "Sandra, you’re late. I decided to run off and do some negotiating on my own and—don’t get mad—but we came to an excellent deal. And Miss Olivia Darrow here has agreed to cater. We just have to pay for the regular stipend plus a little something extra," he said.
I swallowed a new lump in my throat, and Ivy let out something between a gasp and a squeal. "How much is the stipend? A million dollars?"
I shook my head and hoped that was enough to shush her.
The woman, Sandra, put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes dangerously. "What is this ‘something extra’? Is it even in the budget, Michael? I’m the producer. This is my job, not yours. You’re supposed to be on the beach with the DP and instead you ran into town to get someone to cater."
Michael waved his hand at her like it meant nothing. "This isn’t just any caterer. First, you must try her scones. Second, look at Miss Darrow."
Sandra’s narrowed eyes pinned me in place, and I wished I’d taken the time to wash my hair the night before. I knew my braids were fuzzy because I hadn’t, and I smoothed the front of my apron and hoped there wasn’t anything spilled on it yet. Probably not considering we had just opened before they arrived, but still, it would be just my luck.
"Quinn won’t like it. You know she’s on an anti-carb thing," Sandra said, her voice venomous. “Not to mention your pretty extras.”
"Exactly. Every actress is on an anti-carb thing, and I couldn’t care less. Quinn has her own m
eals made so it doesn’t matter. But this is going to be perfect. And the extra isn’t much. Just redoing the kitchen and maybe this part of the shop," Michael said as if buying a four-thousand-dollar industrial oven wasn’t a big deal at all.
Maybe for a movie director it wasn’t.
Sandra sucked in a breath through her nose and let it out through clenched teeth. I had a feeling she was used to doing that in his presence, and I could see why. He reminded me of Ivy in a way. The kind of person who could bowl everybody over with their enthusiasm, and talk them into doing nearly anything.
Like the time Ivy talked me into getting that string bikini for swimming because it made me look like a Bond chick. Swimming in a Bond chick bikini is not nearly as easy as walking around in one, and I hoped that all those innocent beachgoers forgave my indecency.
Sandra marched up to him and wagged her finger in his face. They were short, like the rest of her, but her nails were long and manicured—the opposite of mine. "If I agree to this, you’re good to go back to the beach and finish with the DP today. Then you’re going to shoot scene twenty-two until it’s done. And you’re going to let me handle all the rest of the finances for this."
Michael nodded. "Of course. I don’t want to get involved in your paperwork. Have our lovely supplier sign the contract then you can handle all that stuff. I’ll head back to the beach now, and I can’t wait to eat more of your wonderful food, Miss Darrow.” He gave me a small bow, which caused my cheeks to flush, then disappeared through the door with a bounce in his step.
It was then that I noticed Wyatt hadn’t left, though his secretary must’ve gone on without him. "I can look over that contract, if you like," Wyatt said to Sandra.
"Are you her attorney?" she snapped, as if she didn’t believe that could be the case, even with Wyatt’s flashy suit on.
Of course, someone from Hollywood probably thought anyone in a tiny town like San Bas was a complete yokel, even if it weren’t true.
"I’m both an attorney and a friend, so yes," Wyatt said, and this time it was Ivy’s turn to flush.
I smiled. At least I knew if the contract had anything negative in it, Wyatt would spot it and point it out. He didn’t even hold any hard feelings after we accused him of murder a month before. If that didn’t say what kind of a good man he was, I don’t know what else would. Not to mention he was an animal rights attorney.
He handed Sandra his card and she glanced at it before shoving it in her pocket. Then she walked up to the counter and her eyes flitted across the display case and the menu board behind me. "Look, Michael has a fondness for tea and scones and all the stuff that reminds him of New Zealand, but this won’t be easy. You need to be on that movie set at four a.m. every day with all your things ready to go. Got it?"
If it hadn’t been for the brand-new oven, I might’ve backed out then. Four a.m. was too early to be up and at the beach.
"We can do it," Ivy answered for me, and I gaped at her. She gave me a shrug, and I sighed.
“We’ll be there,” I said. “Do you have a list of what you would like me to prepare?"
Sandra wrinkled her nose as if I’d asked her to crawl into the sewer. “I’ll have a PA send one up in a few hours. Along with the contract to your attorney. Welcome to the team, Miss Darrow," she said then left without a backward glance.
Something about the way she said my name sent a chill up my spine, but it didn’t seem to dampen any of Ivy’s excitement. Her fingers dug into my arm again and she jumped up and down. "Did you hear that? We’re going to be in a movie!”
"On a movie set; serving food, Ivy. There is a difference," I reminded her as a new rush of customers poured through the door, their pom-pom hats flapping in the breeze.
Still, I couldn’t deny the bubble of excitement that had welled up inside me at the prospect of catering for a Hollywood movie set.
All the hard work would be worth it, just for the oven.
Chapter Three
The excitement quickly vanished once I pulled up at the movie set two days later. Contract in hand, food at the ready.
“Oh no …” I swallowed the sickness emerging in the back my throat and focused my attention on Quintessence Lovejoy, who stood at the guarded entrance, apparently waiting on someone. “Does she ever have a bad hair day?”
Even from across the parking lot, I could see her lavender hair had been styled in thick, mermaid-like ringlets and she wore a tight blue dress and matching purple heels. At four a.m. she looked utterly flawless, and I hated how, in comparison, I felt like a trash bag with its use kicked out of it. At least I had a coat with me. Comfort over style any day.
“You’ll be fine,” Ivy said, patting my arm gently. “Just remember what we’re doing this for, okay? A mega big oven and so much money you could retire at thirty-five.”
“You’re not making me feel any better. I’m only thirty-three, and I couldn’t retire on a hundred grand.”
Though, I wasn’t about to say ‘no’ to it either.
I narrowed my eyes at Ivy, who unbuckled her seat belt with a mischievous grin. She wasn’t the one who had to face her arch rival. Not even touching on the fact that I hadn’t seen her in fifteen years.
When we stepped out of my truck, grains of sand had been swept onto the concrete by the wind, sticking to my sky-blue dress, flat shoes, winter-thick leggings, and polka dot apron. I was glad we’d be serving food inside the set instead of outside. Even for money, there was only so much coldness I could take.
Men and women in the familiar polo shirts moved around us, some of them carrying large items, and others already speaking loudly into minuscule headsets. I glanced at my watch. It wasn’t long past four a.m. yet and already they were set to go. On the other hand, I could feel the bags under my eyes from being up too early weighing me down, dragging me closer toward the ground with every step.
“Oh. My. Gosh!” Quinn’s heels clicked over to us, her arms wide and her cherry-red lips puckered in a way that blatantly spelled out lip augmentation. They were so wide and shiny and seemed to squeeze together like a pufferfish. “Guuurl, I nearly flipped when they told me ya’ll would be visiting the set! I can’t believe it’s really you. Olivia Marrow from San Bastion Bay High School. Crazy or what?”
“It’s Darrow,” I said, trying my best not to speak through clenched teeth.
And her accent? Mary Jones wasn’t even from the south. She had been born and raised in California, just as I had been. Perhaps she was still in character.
Or perhaps she was just a false idiot.
Her perfectly tanned arms wrapped around me, and she kissed both of my cheeks, then pulled back to study me. Her sapphire eyes tumbled up and down my body, pausing on my waist. I cringed. Yeah, so I wasn’t on one of those anti-carb diets. So what? I could already feel my blood boiling at the cold perusal flashing in her eyes. That same judgmental look she’d always carried about with her in school.
She smirked at me. “You look … well, you look like an absolute doll!”
“Doesn’t she?” Ivy said, nudging my shoulder. “Olivia’s always been the beautiful one.”
I held back my retort and focused on the prize. A newly refurbished Maritime and a hundred thousand bucks in my pocket.
For that amount, I would tolerate anything. Even Mary Jones.
And Maritime could use the TLC.
“So, who do we report to?” I looked around me, searching for the director, but within the sea of crew members, it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. “Michael?”
“Michael?” Quinn raised a perfectly threaded, blonde eyebrow. “Oh. The director! Yes. I imagine so. I hope you’re not still so shy around men, Olivia. You were always so hopeless.”
Second jab of the morning.
“She was terrible in high school,” she told Ivy. “Could hardly see through those glasses, I think.”
Third.
“It was so adorable when Dean asked her out in front of the whole school. A pity you guys didn
’t last long.”
Fourth.
“You looked so cute together. Actually, he’s here on set, too. I had coffee with him in my trailer before I headed to makeup. He’s such a sweetheart, and, I hear, he’s rather single now. Isn’t that amazing? I think I might ask him out for dinner tomorrow.”
Sixth, seventh, eighth, one millionth jab.
I cleared my throat and nodded. “I guess we should look for Michael, Ivy.”
“Yeah,” Ivy agreed, tone chipper. “Michael said we don’t need any makeup, though. He wanted us to remain on set just as natural as we always are. He said it’s a rare quality. Isn’t that so sweet of him?”
At that moment, Quintessence’s too-sweet-of an expression flummoxed. She watched us enter the security gate, where a myriad of trailers stood neck to neck, and I had to wipe the grin off my face.
“Ivy one, Mary Jones zero.”
“I couldn’t help myself. Now I remember why you hated her. She says everything in such a sweet tone, even when what she’s saying is a complete and utter insult.”
“Yup,” I said, “that’s Mary Jones for you. She made Regina from Mean Girls look mediocre.”
“I don’t want to be eating my lunch in the toilets. Hopefully we can avoid her as much as possible.”
“Unlikely. She’s the star of the movie, remember?”
Ivy scrunched up her nose, and I mirrored her. It was going to be a long, long month.
“Hey, isn’t that the producer over there?”
Ivy pointed to the red trailer, which stood out from the rest of the white or grey ones. Sandra popped out of the door, two back packs slung onto her shoulder and a tray of coffees in one hand. She looked more like a PA than a producer.
“Maybe she’ll know what on earth we’ve got to do.”
Right. I hoped so. The busier I was, the more I could focus on totally not wondering why Dean had been sharing coffee with the devil in disguise, Quintessence.
