I held eye contact for a long moment ’cause honestly, he was the kind of stunning that deserved a moment of awe.
Everything about Mr. Stuntman was cut, from his sculpted cheekbones and square stubbled jaw to his toned biceps testing the integrity of his skin-tight black T-shirt. His longish, sex-tousled dark hair completed the bad-boy look, but this was Hollywood. We had some of the best wardrobe and makeup folks working on Baxter. They were so good, they could age a thirty-year-old to pass for eighty and turn the most homely among the general public into supermodels. No doubt some of his hotness was artificial.
Or not. He was a stuntman, so his face probably wasn’t in the shot. Not that it mattered. I prided myself on being immune to sexy men with brooding eyes who were built like brick houses.
But he had a British accent. Need I say more?
Well, I had to say something.
“Uh…yeah, we have great writers,” I confirmed, glancing at the caller ID on my cell when it vibrated in my hand. Trish was gonna kill me. “Sorry, I gotta take this. What was your name?”
“Trent Mackay.” He lifted the corner of his mouth and offered his hand.
“Trent Mackay who just got canned,” Hal interrupted, stepping between us.
“It was slick onstage and—”
“Yeah, right.” Hal waved him away. “I don’t have time for this bullshit.”
Buzz, buzz.
I stepped away from the melee with my signature smile in place.
“Gotta run. Good luck, Trent. Later, Hal. I’ll forward the proposed itinerary.”
“It’s not happening,” Hal called after me.
“It’s gonna be amazing!” I countered.
Hot guy moment over, London seed planted, time to move on.
I strode toward the exit, pausing to fist-bump the security guard as I stepped onto the lot and sucked in a lungful of fresh air. It was a beautiful early spring day in LA—blue skies, fluffy white clouds, and the sweet smell of jasmine wafting from a nearby hedge behind a row of trailers. I slowed my pace to avoid sweating through my navy Cavalli suit and read the name tags affixed to the first few doors. Makeup and wardrobe…though not for Baxter. I idly wondered which show this was for.
Rourke Studios had various projects going at the moment. A spy thriller, a rom-com, and the pilot for a teenage coming-of-age vehicle. There were a few others, but I couldn’t keep them straight anymore. I attended all the necessary production meetings, gave my two cents, then handed control over to the appropriate party. Except for Baxter, of course. Baxter was mine.
Some might argue that I was too involved and maybe a tad possessive when it came to the blockbuster franchise that had made me a very rich man. And they were probably right. When I cared about something, I tended to give it my all. I was like that with people I loved too. My kids, my friends…
My cell buzzed again. I answered without checking my screen this time. “Trish, I’m on my way.”
“Running late?” A familiar voice hummed in my ear.
“I’m never late,” I lied, trying and failing to keep a monster grin from taking over my face.
I couldn’t help it. The list of those I’d give my right nut to was relatively small, but Gray Robertson was in my top two…behind our son, Charlie, and my younger son, Oliver, who shared that number one spot.
Gray was my first love and my best friend. And while the love part hadn’t gone as planned, we’d stayed close. We leaned on each other in tough times and celebrated wins, losses, birthdays, and holidays. We were family in the truest sense of the word.
“Bullshit,” Gray coughed.
“Yeah, yeah. What d’ya want? I’m a busy man, Gray. If I don’t put in an appearance in my office soon, Trish will send out a search party. I’m not sure why she’s looking for me, but—”
“I asked her to. I’m in the lobby at the studio. Are you close?”
I frowned and picked up my pace. “I’m around the corner. What’s up?”
“Meet me at that park on the lot with the funky statue and the white roses.”
“Huh? Why?”
He hung up.
I stopped in my tracks and stared, unseeing for a beat. A prickle of awareness tingled along my spine, warning me to ready my defenses. I’d learned from a very young age never to ignore my instincts.
But Gray was my safe space. I had no reason to worry about him and if there was an emergency, he wouldn’t stall. He would have spit out any bad news, then calmed me down while I freaked out. He certainly wouldn’t have asked to meet at a fucking park. He hadn’t sounded anxious, though. He’d sounded…happy.
Hmm.
Happy was good. I think.
I felt vaguely better as I bypassed my steel-and-glass office building, veering left toward the adjacent park I’d had built for the second Baxter movie. Everyone liked it so much that I’d opted not to dismantle it. I could see why. It was peaceful here. A wide shady tree anchored one corner of the rectangular space beside a tall brick wall covered in ivy. There was a rose garden on the opposite end and bright-red benches along the winding gravel pathways in between.