“This is the guest room. You can stay here. It’s not much though.”
Solid blue colors decorated the simple room. A full-size bed, dresser, and desk were the only furniture pieces, but it was better than no room.
“The bathroom is down the hall. I have my own, so we don’t have to share. There's a towel on the rack you can use and extras in the hall closet across from it. My room is there,” — she pointed to the closed door at the other end of the hall — “and it’s off limits.”
His eyebrow arched at the thought of invading her room. Clearly, she didn’t know his type. Blond and chesty was what he preferred—at least after Rachel—not sassy and grungy. “I doubt you need to worry about that. My goal is to relax while I’m waiting for the part and then leave as soon as possible.”
“Fine, I’ll leave you to it then. I’m going back to the shop to inspect your car and order your part.”
“Wait, do you get cell service here? Or do you have a phone? Just in case.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Yes, you can get cell service here; we aren’t that backward. And there’s a phone in the kitchen if you need to use the landline.”
Without another word, she spun and left him blinking in the hallway. He shook his head as he entered the guest room. While he appreciated the bed, her hospitality left a lot to be desired. Why did she seem to hate him so much? Granted, he had made a sexist comment when he first met her which he should apologize for, but her reaction seemed more intense than the comment called for. Was he giving off an unintentional vibe? He’d have to watch himself and see.
After tossing his bags on the bed, he opened his travel bag and pulled out the latest script. It was another Night Ranger movie. With a sigh, he sat on the bed and began reading. He only made it five pages before he tossed the script aside. Just like the last four movies, it was nonsense and drivel covered up with a lot of action and shirtless scenes. With a growl of frustration, he raked a hand through his dark brown hair and down his stubbled chin. He needed a shave and a shower. Perhaps the warm water would invigorate his senses and allow him to see it in a different light.
He rummaged in his bag for his travel kit. With it in hand, he walked down the hallway and flicked on the bathroom light revealing one sink, a toilet, and a bathtub. A blue hand towel hung near the sink and a matching larger one adorned a rack near the shower. The whole bathroom was smaller than most of his closets back home.
He placed his bag on the small counter housing the sink and removed his razor and soap, putting them on the shower shelf. Then he stepped into the tub, pulling the curtain closed before turning on the faucets. The warm water pelted his back, but he didn’t mind. Brown trails streamed down his chest and swirled into the drain below. The dirt washing off felt good after his long walk into town.
When he finished the shower, he wrapped the towel around his waist, gathered his clothes and bag, and headed back to the room. He pulled on a pair of cargo shorts, forgoing the shirt for now, and resumed his position on the bed. Script in hand, he continued reading, but it was no use. Freshly showered or not, the script was still awful.
With a sigh, he dropped the script once more, grabbed a shirt, and decided to check out the rest of the house and the town. He would have to call Julia later and tell her to start looking for something else or else he would need a career change.
The fridge was as empty as Sam claimed. A bottle of ketchup, mustard, and a half empty milk carton were the only things on the shelves. A look in the cupboard revealed a few spices, pop tarts, and a few boxes of cereal. This woman was clearly not a cook.
He shut the cupboards and patted his pocket to make sure he had his wallet before heading to the front door, where he paused momentarily as he debated whether to lock the door or not. Since Sam had left him with no key and no return time, he opted to leave the door unlocked. He didn't plan to be gone long, and the town seemed relatively safe.
He headed north, trying to remember Sam's directions, and took a left on Willow Street. Soon a market, sharing lot space with a gas station, came into view. The small shop was not his normal fare, but with a resigned sigh, he entered the store, grabbing a basket from a stack near the door.
Brent couldn’t remember the last time he had been in a grocery store. Back in Houston, he had an assistant who shopped for him, and if he needed something while she was gone, he simply ordered it online and had it delivered.
The small store only held a handful of aisles, and after filling the plastic basket with meat, fruits, and vegetables, he checked out and retraced his steps back to Sam’s place.
Back in her kitchen, he unpacked the groceries before inspecting the rest of the house. He was curious about this woman and headed to her bookshelves first.
Classics ranging from Wuthering Heights to Moby Dick filled several of the shelves. He hadn’t taken her for a reader of books of old. A few self-help books were interspersed on the shelves, mainly on dealing with loss and rejection. Could that explain her emotional walls?
Turning from the bookshelves, he scanned the area, but no pictures hung in the living room either. Where were her photographs? Her art? His eyes landed on the messy coffee table, and he perched in the nearest chair, picking up the papers and scanning them.
Words and art were scrawled across them. Had he stumbled across her journal? A closer look revealed not a journal, but a verse across the top, followed by her thoughts and applications for it. Devotionals. These were her devotionals. He hadn’t picked up a religious vibe from her, but then not everyone screamed their religion. Rachel never had either. She had just had this quiet peace about her, a welcoming countenance, and a kind word for everyone she met.
The papers fell from his hand as the image of Rachel flooded his mind. Focusing on Rachel would only make him sad.
Chapter 4
Sam smelled the food before she opened the front door. The aroma of garlic, steak, and vegetables floated through the air, reminding her of home-cooked dinners before she left for trade school.
As she stepped into the living room, the sound of whistling and something sizzling in a skillet met her ears. Her keys clattered onto the table by the door before her feet carried her into the kitchen.
Brent stood with his back to her, stirring a pot on the stove. Remnants of cut up vegetables cluttered her bar. He turned, his whistling stopping in mid-note.
“Hello, I hope you’re hungry because I’ve made dinner. Your cupboards were empty.”
Sam blinked at him. Though her stomach rumbled, she was more confused at the image in front of her. She hadn’t pegged him for a cook; employing a personal chef seemed more his style. “Um, yeah, I am,” she muttered. “Let me go get cleaned up and I’ll help.”
“No need,” he called after her. “It’s done.”
She shook her head as she walked to her room. When she’d agreed to this arrangement, she had expected he would stay hidden and she would rarely see him. A dinner date, informal as it was, had not been in her plan. Yet there he was, looking at home in her kitchen and handsome in his shorts and t-shirt.
Handsome? What was she thinking? Though she hoped to find love again one day, she had promised herself a long time ago she would never fall for another rich snob. Wasn’t that why she moved to this town? To return to her roots? To simplicity?
Those thoughts ran through her head as she peeled off her grungy clothes and stepped into the shower. She had never been one to shy away from dirt, but she always enjoyed washing it away. To her, it represented cleansing her sins as the water ran over her and her fair skin re-emerged. She usually used the time to reflect on her day and ask forgiveness for areas she might need it, but tonight her thoughts remained on the man in her kitchen and the impending dinner.
After drying off, she pulled on a pair of shorts and her favorite London t-shirt. She had never been, but she’d long obsessed over the region. One day she’d save up enough to visit. Her fingers combed through her wet hair, fluffing it before she returned to
the kitchen.
Brent had set her kitchen table and sat at the chair closest to the stove. Her heart fluttered at the image. How long since she’d enjoyed the company of a handsome man?
He glanced up at her, a smile on his perfectly formed lips. “Join me?” He pointed to the seat across from him.
“You didn’t have to make dinner.” Sam dropped her eyes as she pulled out the chair. What was this nervous sensation fluttering through her?
“That’s true, but pop tarts didn't sound appealing or satisfying. How do you eat normally?”
“I usually grab something at Norma’s on the way home. Since it’s only me, it lasts me a few days. I’m surprised to see you cook. I figured you’d have a professional who cooked for you.”
He cocked his head as he regarded her. “I do, but my late wife was a gourmet chef. She taught me a few things, and I wasn’t always a well-paid actor. Before I landed my first big role, I was a starving author from a small town who had to do everything myself, and I kind of miss cooking.”
Sam lowered her gaze. She should know better than to assume. “I’m sorry about your wife.” She wanted to know more about his wife like how they met, how long they were married, and how she died, but those were personal questions, and she didn’t know him well enough to be asking them.
“Thank you.” His voice softened. “It’s been a few years, but I still miss her.”
Unsure of what else to say, Sam nodded and folded her hands to pray. In addition to thanking God for the food, she added a request for humility and understanding. When she opened her eyes, Brent was staring at her.
“How long have you been a believer?”
The question caught her off guard, but it didn’t sound condescending, only curious. She inhaled a deep breath. “All my life, I guess. My parents were believers, and they took me to church every Sunday. I enjoyed it until I went to trade school and then I got … distracted.” She paused, biting the inside of her lip at the memory. “When my mom died, I realized I needed to get right with God again, so I moved here hoping a slower pace would help me focus.”
Brent filled her plate with the meat and vegetables he had grilled up before speaking again. “I’m sorry about your mom.”
“Thanks.” Though he hadn’t asked how, Sam could tell he wanted to just as she had wanted to. And while she didn’t like talking about it, some tug in her heart told her she should. “She was killed by a drunk driver.”
His hand paused in mid scoop, and his eyes locked with hers. A mix of brown and gold with tiny green flecks, they mesmerized her. He dropped his gaze, finished placing the vegetables on his plate, and ran a hand down his chin before meeting her gaze again. “How did you forgive God?”
With that question, she could tell he held a similar pain in his past, and she prayed for the words to say to reach him. “When I was little, my dog died, and it hit me hard. I wanted to blame God, but my mother told me about Jesus. She told me that God never meant for us to have sickness and pain in our life, but that when sin entered the world, it changed. However, God wanted to save us all, so He sent his son to Earth to die for our sins. When I realized that Jesus died for all of us, even though He had never sinned, I realized death was a part of life and God wasn’t to blame, but He is there for us when tragedy strikes if we will reach out to Him.”
She could see the muscles tensing in Brent’s jaw as he mulled over her words. He opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again and dropped his gaze to his plate.
The corner of her lip tugged upward. God must be working on his heart, and she was sure he’d have more questions when he was ready.
As she lifted her fork, she sniffed the appetizing food and her mouth watered. Norma was a good cook, but how long had it been since her last home cooked meal? The flavors created a symphony, and Sam wondered what other secret talents Brent possessed.
“You mentioned you were born in a small town,” she said after swallowing her bite. “Which one?”
He shook his head and the corners of his lips turned up. “Star Lake, Texas, and let me tell you nothing is there. We had one stoplight, and for entertainment, we would drive around the main square, called the drag, and check out the general store parking lot because that was the meeting spot. I think that’s why I turned to writing. The boredom forced me to create worlds to keep me entertained.”
“I can see that. I grew up in Junction West. I remember thinking there had to be more than this tiny town. I couldn’t wait to get out, and I left for trade school as far away as possible while staying in the state. After Mom’s death, the familiarity and camaraderie of a small town calmed me. I used the money I received from her will to open up the shop.” She took another bite of the caramelized asparagus enjoying the conflicting flavors of salty and sweet.
“I noticed you have a lot of books. Are you a big reader?”
Sam smiled. “I enjoy reading, but those books were my mom’s. She loved books of all kinds, but especially the classics. She would read to me every night before going to bed when I was young. When she died, my father told me he didn’t want the memories reminding him of her every day, so he boxed them up and sent them all to me.” She shrugged. “I haven’t read many of them, but I enjoy the reminder of her.”
Brent nodded. “I can understand that.”
“So, you mentioned you were an author. Did you give it up for acting?”
“I didn’t give it up entirely, but acting brought in more money. And becoming famous then helped with book sales, but I still write when I can.”
She nodded. He had quite the busy past. “What type of movies do you act in? I have to warn you, I don’t watch a lot of TV, and I can’t remember the last time I went to a theater so I probably haven’t seen them.”
Brent laughed. “You probably wouldn’t enjoy them. I do action movies mostly. Kind of like Mission Impossible - only in space.”
“Oh,” Sam tried to keep her tone neutral and failed miserably, “well, that sounds interesting.”
“No, it’s awful.” Brent’s laugh was rich and hearty, and it made little lines appear on the sides of his eyes. “The plots are terrible and the scripts…” He shook his head. “Don’t even get me started on the scripts.”
“So, why do you do them?” Sam asked.
“It wasn’t what I wanted to do when I first moved to LA. I wanted to write amazing scripts with depth and character, but it’s hard to get scripts looked at when you are unknown. So, I decided to get known, but like most struggling actors, I started doing commercials and low budget films. Then I met Rachel who was working in a restaurant. She had dreams of opening up her own restaurant, but we couldn’t do that on what I was making, so when Julia approached me with the first Night Ranger movie and told me how much it paid, I took the audition. I figured I could make enough to help Rachel open a restaurant and maybe make a name for myself so I could get better roles and sell my books.”
“And did you?” Sam asked intrigued.
“Make a name for myself? Yeah, but not the kind I wanted. The books started selling which was great, and about a fourth of my fortune comes from royalties. But the Night Ranger movie made so much money that they extended my contract for three more movies. Not only did they keep me busy, but I got pinned into that typecast. Now, I can’t get anyone to take me seriously as they only see me as this shirtless GI Joe type character.”
“I’m sorry.” Sam had no idea how acting worked. She had always assumed it was an easy job that anyone could do. “How about the restaurant? Did Rachel get to open one?”
“Yeah, that’s what moved us to Houston. She wanted to open it in a big city but away from the celebrity clientele. As I was from Texas originally, I didn’t mind moving back, and by then I was making enough money to charter a plane to fly me to auditions or movie sets. Of course, now I’m no longer sure I want to keep acting. While the money is nice, I don’t need it. I have more than I’ll probably ever spend and the manager who runs Rachel’s restaurant is amazing, s
o I make a passive income from that too. I can’t keep doing something I dread, and if I can’t get a serious role, then it might be time to hang up my hat, as they say.”
“What would you do if you didn’t act?” Sam asked. “Would you go back to writing?” She found herself intrigued by all of Brent’s layers. She had thought he was just a rich snob, but there was a lot more to him.
“Probably. It’s a lot easier to sell books now that I’m a known name. And I’m sure I could write a decent script and get it sold now. I’ve read enough bad ones to at least know if mine was better.”
“Whatever it is, I hope you find it.”
Their eyes locked for a moment, and some unseen current passed between them. Afraid of what it might mean, Sam dropped her eyes to her plate and they finished dinner in silence.
When her plate was empty, she chanced looking at him again. “How about I do the dishes since you cooked?”
“No way.” He shook his head. “You're letting me stay here while you fix my car; the least I can do is help with dishes.”
“Suit yourself.” She sent a smile his direction. Doing dishes was one of her least favorite chores, and she was happy not to have to do them alone for once. “Wash or dry?”
He brought the plates to her as she filled up the sink with water. “I’ll wash.”
“Good.” With a laugh, she grabbed a nearby towel, “because I hate washing.”
Sam didn’t mind living alone most days, but one big drawback to it was having to do all the chores by herself. It was probably another reason she let Norma do most of her cooking.
With an experienced hand, he scrubbed the plates before handing them to her. She dried them, enjoying the companionable silence between them. As she turned to grab the next dish, something wet smacked across her face, sending her reeling back in surprise.
When Brent laughed, she realized he had splashed her with water. She whipped her towel at him in a playful gesture. “Not nice,” but she smiled as she said it.
A Brush With A Billionaire (Sweet Billionaires Book 2) Page 3
