The Real Baxter (The Baxter Chronicles 1)

“And Mary is?”

“My housekeeper.”

He rolled his eyes and lifted his cup to his lips. “I knew you had a housekeeper.”

“I have two. It’s a big house.”

“Right. And what time does your staff arrive?”

“Around eight thirty.” I popped two pieces of bread into the toaster. “You don’t have to hurry out on Mary’s account. She’s paid to be discreet, and since you’re staying for coffee, you might as well stay for my avocado toast. It’s one of the few things I can cook and…it’s very good.”

“I hate to break it to you, but making toast is not cooking.”

“Oh, but this toast is special. It’ll change your life,” I singsonged.

He narrowed his gaze suspiciously. “I’ll take your toast, but I know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?”

“You’re sweetening me up, but I assure you, it’s not necessary. I’m the model of discretion too, and there’s no need to ruin a great night by reminding me that you’ll develop a sudden and acute case of amnesia if we ever happen to run into each other.” He held his hand up like a stop sign and continued. “I know the score. You can kick me to the curb whenever you want…no hard feelings.”

I wanted to be irritated, but he wasn’t wrong. I’d gone one step too far when I’d invited him inside my home. If I’d thought our night would end up the way it had, I would have suggested going to a hotel…or even to his place. Not mine. I never brought men home unless we were in a relationship. And I’d vowed to stay out of those for a while.

Last night was an anomaly. I wasn’t sorry it happened, but I couldn’t take a cavalier stance. If he wanted something from me…his stuntman gig, a new spot on an upcoming show—I needed to know now. And ideally, not before a film premiere. There was nothing worse than having an old affair kill a marketing campaign. Been there, done that.

I sliced an avocado in half and removed the pit, then pulled two small plates from the open shelving above the coffee machine. As soon as the toast popped, I moved everything to the island to begin assembly.

Two things to note: One, making someone breakfast was an intimate endeavor that hinted at a bond and fostered a sense of allegiance—even when none existed. And two, eye contact and proximity were a language all their own. You could do something nice and convey a strong message.

Mine was…this was my house, my turf, and if I wasn’t mistaken, the jacket he wore was studio property, which also made it mine. I had all the cards, all the leverage…but I was kind enough to offer toast before I detached myself from the equation and put us in the “acquaintance for one night” box where we belonged. See? I could be a good guy.

“Thanks.” I cut a lemon and drizzled the juice over the avocado spread, then added a pinch of salt, pepper, and red-hot pepper flakes. “Here you go. More coffee?”

Trent stared at the toast and cocked his head. “Is this spicy toast?”

“It has it a little kick. Try it.”

He picked up a piece and sniffed it before taking the smallest nibble. “Mmm.”

“Good, isn’t it? Take a bigger bite,” I cajoled, pleased when Trent obeyed.

He nodded his head as he chewed and swallowed. “Not bad.”

“It’s amazing and you know it,” I huffed. “They sell avocado toast like this for twenty dollars a slice at my favorite bistro by the studio.”

“Ah, what’s amazing is that anyone would pay twenty fuckin’ bucks for a slice of toast. My dad would have a coronary.” Trent clutched at his neck as if in the throes of a conniption, modulating his voice in a thick Philly accent I could tell was completely genuine. “Whadder youse thinkin’?”

I burst into laughter, which of course, killed—or at least delayed, my exercise in detachment. “That’s LA for you.”

“True. I’m used to it now, but my parents freak the fuck out every damn visit. There’s no point in taking them to a fancy restaurant. They spend the whole time telling me how much I’d save if I cooked at home.” Trent did his voice trick again. This time he sounded like a fussy old woman. “ ‘You see this here toast. It’s bread. Maybe ten cents worth of bread. You see this avocado? Free. It comes from a damn tree. Grow yourself an avocado tree, grow a lemon tree, and put that nineteen dollars in your damn bank account.’ ”

I chuckled at his self-deprecating delivery. He was surprisingly charming.

“Do your parents really talk like that?” I asked, sipping my coffee.

He snorted. “Uh, yeah, but my Mom’s accent is more Italy meets Philly. They’re unintentionally funny as hell. In their minds, they’re the normal ones. They don’t understand what I’m doing here. Dad thinks I should be a plumber like him. Ma thinks I should teach. And my friends baffle them ’cause they seem respectable, but then they say crazy shit or walk into my apartment unannounced wearing orange stage makeup, griping about union fees and never getting their fair share. To which my parents say…”