The Real Baxter (The Baxter Chronicles 1)

“Hmm. Well, based on my dating history, I’m into brunettes more than blondes. Any body type or ethnicity works for me. I’m also into brains…not tits and ass.”

“Bullshit,” he coughed. “Are you trying to tell me that given the choice between a fit, handsome older man who’s set in his ways but richer than Midas…and a charismatic, intelligent younger man with a pot belly and no money to his name, you’d choose the younger guy?”

“Every time.”

“That’s ageist.”

I snorted. “Age doesn’t factor at all.”

“Hmph.”

“It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not. I’m telling the truth. Now it’s your turn. What’s your type?”

“I’ll pass.”

“Pass?”

Seb chomped on a french fry. “I’m not answering.”

I narrowed my eyes at his clipped tone. “Are you mad at me?”

“Of course not.”

“Good.” I set my burger down so I could shift in my seat and glower at him properly for a half second. “You asked for an honest reply and I gave it.”

“Right.” He drawled out the one-syllable word into three and took another long sip before setting his milkshake in the holder again.

Geez, this guy was frustrating. One second, I was sure we were on the same wavelength, the next, he was playing the big exec and I was the peon. I stared out the window and counted backward from one hundred while I chewed.

Blowing up at an internationally acclaimed producer was career suicide. I had to keep my shit together.

Nope. I couldn’t do it.

“You know, you’re kind of an asshole,” someone who sounded like me said.

Seb huffed. “So I’ve been told. Make a left here.”

“Yes, sir,” I snarked. I turned onto a tree-lined street and let out a low whistle. “Holy crap.”

This wasn’t anyone’s idea of a typical neighborhood. These were estates, not houses. Each residence was either hidden behind tall palms or set so far from the street, I’d bet you could break into a sweat walking from the front door to the sidewalk.

I slowed to shamelessly gawk at the mix of impressive modern and traditional architecture and tried to guess which one might be Seb’s. I thought for sure his was the steel-and-glass structure at the end of the block, but when the road veered, he directed me up a narrow lane.

Quaint lamplights illuminated the deserted stretch. I thought I spotted the flicker of city lights in the distance through wispy leaves of the enormous eucalyptus trees, but otherwise, it was almost eerily quiet.

Seb pointed at the iron gate at the end of the clearing. “That’s me.”

I pulled into the driveway and gaped at the massive home visible through the iron bars. No kidding. I was momentarily awestruck. “You live here?”

“Mmm. Yeah,” he confirmed distractedly as he typed a code on his cell.

A moment later, the gates glided open, revealing the kind of estate you needed a special access code and clearance to enter. Yet, here I was, cruising toward a contemporary Spanish-style mansion partially covered in ivy in my beat-up Chevy.

Un-fucking-real.

Well-placed outdoor lighting revealed manicured hedges lining the circular drive and an honest-to-God fountain surrounded by white roses in the middle of the roundabout facing the grand entrance. I noted the stunning lantern overhead before pulling along the side of the house at Seb’s request.

The evening shadows made it difficult to see, but the garden across the gravel pathway looked like the kind florists raided to put together fancy bouquets. I was about to ask if he grew veggies too…for the sake of conversation, but somehow, I doubted he’d know the answer.

So I squinted at the multi-car garage in the distance, feeling more out of my depth than I had all night. Could you blame me? C’mon, this was the type of residence that came with a bowling alley, a movie theater, and a butler named Jeeves. I wondered how many priceless cars he stowed in his garage and never drove. Damn, I bet he owned a fuckin’ Ferrari. I couldn’t decide if I thought that was cool or ridiculous.

Nah, definitely ridiculous. I couldn’t wrap my head around the notion that one person lived here. It was so over-the-top. Tasteful, yes, but also insane. Like something from a movie or—

Wait.

This was a movie set.

This was where the real Baxter lived.

Baxter traveled incessantly. Bad guys didn’t take breaks and they knew no borders. The famous international crime-solving adventurer never stayed in one place for long. He might be in LA one day, Bangkok the next, but every film featured a cameo of his elusive home on a hill overlooking the city.

Not this one exactly, but something like it.

I would have loved to check it out, and if our conversation hadn’t taken a nose dive I might have asked a million questions. But now I felt self-conscious and comically out of place.

“Home sweet home, eh?”

Seb gathered his suit coat and his takeout bag with a strained smile. “Something like that.”