The Real Baxter (The Baxter Chronicles 1)

The valet opened the passenger side door and thanked Seb profusely when he slipped more cash in his hand before gingerly taking a seat. He pulled the seat belt across his chest and folded his suit coat over his knee.

“Wow. This is…a relic.”

I snorted. “That’s a nice way to put it. Piece of shit works too. Where to?”

“Make a U-turn here and go west. There’s an In-N-Out by UCLA. We were frequent visitors when Char was getting his master’s.”

I grunted in response.

We traveled in strained silence for a mile or two. Strained on my part. I didn’t know how to talk to him as myself. I had nothing to offer. I was the not-so-proud owner of an ancient car, a stalled-out career, and student loans that would probably take me another lifetime to pay in full. We had zero in common. Zilch.

But I had to think of something. I wasn’t his taxi driver, for fuck’s sake.

“You like Italian food?” Wow, that was lame.

“Love it.” Seb tapped his window as I veered into the turn and headed toward Westwood. “Amici’s is a good one. Have you ever been?”

“No.”

“You should go sometime. They have the best Bolognese I’ve had outside of Italy.”

I scoffed. “You wouldn’t say that if you tried my mom’s.”

He twisted to face me. “You’re Italian?”

“On my mother’s side. She’s from a small town outside of Florence.”

“Hmm. I thought she was from a wee village near Stratford-upon-Avon,” he teased.

I flipped him the bird and congratulated myself when he laughed. The deep, sexy sound reverberated down my spine, sending an unwelcome tingle of awareness through my body. Okay, maybe that wasn’t so great.

“No, she’s from Pienza. It’s between Florence and Rome.”

“I know. I’ve been there.”

“Of course, you have,” I mumbled.

“Have you?”

“A couple of times. My relatives usually come visit us, though. My nonna used to come every spring. She lived in the kitchen. Our house smelled like marinara and focaccia from March through June.”

“Lucky bastard.”

“I know. So yeah, I like to think I’m a connoisseur when it comes to Italian food, but I think that about Japanese and Mexican cuisine too.”

“Same.” He tapped his window again, pointing out a new sushi restaurant he wanted to try and the gourmet ice cream shop his son Oliver loved.

Seb bounced from topic to topic with ease, drawing me into curious debates about Pilates, yoga mats, and public drinking fountains. As if my opinion was of the utmost interest to him. He wouldn’t accept my standard “I really don’t give a fuck” line.

In fact, he wasn’t satisfied until I grudgingly admitted that Pilates was good for the core, some yoga mats were better than others, and drinking fountains creeped me out. I wasn’t convinced he cared about my answers, but he put on a good show.

Seb seemed like the type of guy who flitted through acquaintances, eyeing people and places that sparked interest outside of the studio. On one hand, I was honored I’d captured a couple of hours of his time, but…I also knew I was being used.

This was Hollywood. No one did anything for free here. Everything and everyone was up for sale. It was just a matter of price.

I wanted to think I was worth more than a burger, but maybe not, I mused, pulling into a huge drive-thru line.

“This might take a while.”

“I don’t mind,” he said quickly.

I shrugged. “Cool. And since this is on you, I’m getting a Double-Double with fries and a shake.”

“Good choice. Strawberry?”

“The fuck?” My cranky growl earned me a hearty laugh. I studied the collegiate stickers on the Volkswagen idling in front of me to hide my smile. “Chocolate.”

“Get an extra-large,” Seb announced cheerily.

Yeah, in a twist, I could be bought and sold for less than ten bucks. Nice.

“Gee, thanks, mister.”

“Sure thing, big guy.” Seb waved dismissively and shot me with another intense whammy look. “So…now that I know you’re not a Londoner, tell me who you really are. And keep it real. I have access to your files with HR. Love your name, by the way. Solid stage name.”

“It’s my real name.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Trenton Angelo Mackay. I came clean at the bar. I don’t have any big secrets. For the last time…I’m thirty-seven, single, never married. I was born in Trenton, New Jersey, but Trento is also a city in Italy. I think my great-grandmother was from there or somethin’. Either way, I’m named after a city. Go figure.”

“When did you move to Philly?”

“I think I was three. I’ve lived in Boston, New York City, and North Hollywood. And a few other not-so-hot spots.”

“But not London.”

“No. And my last visit was a while ago,” I admitted.

“Hmm. How’d you get into acting?” he asked conversationally.

“The usual way. I got a part in the school play when I was in fourth grade as Townsperson Number Three. My line was, ‘Would you like some broth?’ I nailed it and boom! I was hooked. I tried out for every school production through junior high. I couldn’t swing it with football practice once I was in high school, but I got back into it in college…kind of by accident. I wanted to impress a girl.”