Reel (Hollywood Renaissance 1)

27

Canon

I’m not sure this was a good idea.

A little sign out front boasted this place is LA’s most romantic restaurant. A man dining alone for Thanksgiving doesn’t exactly scream romance, but I trust Jill. It’s the only way I could get her to stop harassing me to eat dinner with her family. I asked what part of alone did she not understand, but finally caved and agreed to give this place a try. Why not? It’s just a meal. Since I’m in the thick of filming, today is just another day.

The holidays held less significance after my mom died. I do have extended family still in Lemon Grove—Mama’s people. I keep somewhat in touch and typically spend the holidays there. I’ll see them at Christmas, but I invest more time in the family I’ve found through the years. I’ve collected some of my best friends working on sets, like-minded storytellers and dreamers.

I’ve barely spent a string of hours by myself since Dessi Blue started production, and for someone like me, I need the time alone. It’s how I recharge. I’m not at my creative best if I don’t get it. So before we enter what will be the toughest stretch of production, I’m taking advantage of this tiny reprieve, and not crowding it with a bunch of people and football.

I mean, I’ll watch football when I get home, but in peace. In quiet, with just me and my Macallan 25.

“Mr. Holt,” the hostess says with a warm smile. “We have your table ready.”

“Thanks.”

I follow her through the restaurant and outdoors, where a white tent strung with twinkling lights and flowers oversees a sprawling patio. So this is the romantic part. Just show me the turkey. I don’t need romance. I shoot down the image of Neevah, her smile equal parts sweet and seduction. I got too much shit to do. The last thing I need to think about is the actress starring in the biggest movie of my career. I’m not screwing this up. The only thing that derails a movie faster than ego is feelings and fucking, and I suspect with Neevah, you don’t get one without the other.

That I cannot afford.

The hostess picks her way carefully past the tented tables and down a steep flight of stone steps. I look back and up at the other diners. Where the hell is she taking me? Do they annex the singles? Shunt them away from the couples and the families gathered around their festive five-course meals?

Fine with me. No one wants to see that anyway.

We reach a clearing with two gazebos. A creek gurgles close by and in the distance, there’s the rush of a waterfall.

“Uh, is this me?” I ask skeptically. “I didn’t ask for—”

“Your friend Jill thought you might like privacy,” the hostess replies, her smile and tone conciliatory. “Would you prefer—”

“Oh. No, it’s fine. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t . . . it’s fine.”

“Right this way then.” Gesturing to the gazebo housing an elegantly set table, she leaves me alone with my menu and the sound of rushing water. Slowly, the tension that’s been locked in my shoulders and back for the last month eases. I settle into the padded seat and let the tension drain away—let the burbling creek drown out the voices in my head reminding me of all the work waiting. Jill was right. This was exactly what I needed.

I’m gonna kiss her Monday when we get back to work.

“Right this way, Ms. Saint,” the hostess says.

My head snaps around toward her voice. Neevah carefully makes her way down the steps into the clearing, heading for the neighboring gazebo.

I’m gonna kill Jill, and I may not wait ’til Monday.

“Canon?” Neevah pulls up short, the genuine shock on her face convincing me she had nothing to do with this. I have only my matchmaking cinematographer to blame. “What are you . . .”

In addition to looking shell-shocked, she looks gorgeous. The kind of gorgeous people do everything in their power to achieve, but you can’t make it. It’s from the inside. The rich coppery hue of her skin glows in the waning sunlight. She’s scooped her cloud of textured curls into an updo, a huge flower pinned behind her ear. An emerald-green dress hugs the toned ripeness of her body, paying special attention to the full, uptilted breasts and the glory of her ass. She’s lost weight since the movie started. Lucia demanded it for the choreography. Linh prefers it for the costuming, and the studio likes it because they always think thinner is better, but I’ve been secretly hoping she wouldn’t lose that ass.

And look at God. She hasn’t.

Neevah glances back over her shoulder, up the steps, obviously as nonplussed as I am, but not as adept at hiding it. “There must be some mistake.”