The Love Script, page 2
“Then thank you very much for taking time to look after her.” He smiled.
“Anytime.” I walked out of the kitchen before I lost my composure. Surely, I had some kind of paper in my styling case that had space for a Lamont Booker signature.
“Oh, I saw your case upstairs. Let me grab that for you.”
Right. I nodded. As soon as he was out of sight, I internalized a scream and fanned my face. Thank the Lord I didn’t have to talk to that man on a regular basis. I was better than this. I saw A-list actors and celebrities all the time. Just the other day, I was behind one at a stop sign. I probably wouldn’t have even realized it if it hadn’t been for the vanity plate on his BMW.
The sound of pattering steps greeted my ears, and I blew out a breath. “Thanks for grabbing that.” Time to exit stage left while my inner fan’s mouth remained sealed with duct tape.
“Sure. I’ll walk you out.”
I barely kept my brow from rising. Since when did he walk me out? Was this when he’d lean in close and tell me never to step foot in his kitchen again? To leave his glorious gas range stove to him?
Instead, we walked in silence until he opened the front door. “Thanks again, Nevaeh.”
“Of course. I hope Ms. Rosie feels better.” Would it be impertinent for me to ask him to text me an update on her?
“Me too.” For a moment, his mouth drew down and deep groves appeared, and my earlier thoughts on cancer returned, flooding my brain.
“She’ll be okay, right?” I asked softly.
His gaze met mine, and he nodded. “She will.”
I gulped and turned away. My foot slipped off the step that had existed since the house was built, but apparently my brain had forgotten, despite the many times I’d stepped down before. My mouth opened to let out a panicked squeal, only a strong arm swooped around my stomach and tugged me close.
“You okay?” he murmured.
“Yeah,” I breathed, heart hammering against my overalls.
He let me go, and my face heated as he lowered the suitcase. Obviously if I couldn’t see a step, I couldn’t drag a rolling suitcase behind me. Instead of thanking him for keeping my face from kissing the pavement, I pulled the handle up and walked away in embarrassment.
No wonder he was the Sexiest Man Alive. Even my pulse had reacted on instinct, and my stomach felt branded by his touch. Once again, I thanked God that I didn’t have to see him on a daily basis. I’d be an absolute wreck.
Two
Lamont rested his forehead against the pantry door. His mom was sick.
He straightened, gaze going up the stairs as if he had X-ray vision and could see if she lay perfectly still in her bed. He hadn’t been prepared to see her ill, even though Nevaeh had tried to warn him. His panic had been instantaneous, and the urge to diagnose his mom’s need for care swift.
Only he wasn’t a doctor, despite what IMDb credits might mention. He’d played one for a season on a Hulu show, and that had been as a pediatrician, not an oncologist. Still, he knew enough terminology thanks to his mother’s bout with breast cancer. He slipped his cell out of his back pocket and pressed the speed dial for her doctor.
“Doctor Langley’s office. How may I help you?”
“Hi, this is Lamont Booker calling on behalf of my mother, Rosie Booker.” He started pacing around the kitchen island.
“Give me a moment to see if the doctor is available for your call, Mr. Booker.”
“Thank you.” Sometimes it paid to be famous in Beverly Hills. Instead of waiting for a doctor to call him back, he often jumped the queue and was automatically connected to the doctor’s private line.
“Mr. Booker, Dr. Langley is on another call but assures me he’ll get right back to you. Same number?”
“Same number.”
“Then have a great day.”
His mouth flattened. Great. Now he’d have to wait, which meant plenty of time for his mind to conjure up possibilities that would end with his mom severely ill and him pacing hospital hallways. Maybe if he ladled some of the soup Nevaeh had made for his mother into a bowl it would keep his mind from spiraling.
He shook his head. He still couldn’t believe the hair stylist had taken the time to make soup from scratch. Before he’d made his presence known, he had taken a couple of seconds to try to recall if he’d ever given her leave to make herself at home. She’d made quite the picture in his kitchen. As she’d stirred the pot, her eyes had danced with delight. And once he’d confirmed his mom was indeed sick, the thoughtfulness of Nevaeh Richards had reminded him there was good in the world.
Before she’d left, concern for his mom had etched itself on every feature of her face. Since his eyes were fixed there, he’d realized for the first time she had dimples. Not that dimples were so unusual—plenty of women had them in Hollywood. He’d just never realized the hair stylist had two perfect divots in her cheeks. Unlike other women in the business, she didn’t have the physique of someone one step away from checking into a “resort,” which everyone in town knew meant a rehab for drugs or eating disorders. Or even recovery after plastic surgery.
He ladled up two scoops of the soup, and his stomach rumbled. Okay, so he’d fix himself a bowl as well. His current role as a horse trainer was whipping him into shape. Six months into filming, and he still didn’t know how his friend Tucker Hale did it. He’d met Tuck a year ago to get advice on the horse trainer role since the man actually performed the job in real life.
They’d easily formed a friendship, so Lamont had also introduced Tuck to his other consultant friend, Christian Gamble. Chris had helped Lamont with a wildlife conservationist role a couple of years back. Now Lamont regularly kept in contact with the guys—mostly through texts. He pulled out his cell and typed up a quick text, asking for prayer for his mom.
Lamont placed the bowls of soup on a tray, then climbed the stairs. Balancing the wooden platter on his forearm, he twisted the knob gently with his other hand. “Mom?”
“Hmm?” She shifted in bed.
“How are you feeling?”
“I think that tea helped some.” Her voice sounded feeble.
He forced a neutral expression. “You throw up again?”
She shook her head, placing a palm to her forehead.
“Fever?”
“No. I’m a little clammy though.”
“Want me to open the balcony door?” Each bedroom on the second floor had its own private balcony. Maybe she just needed some fresh air.
“No, thanks, baby.”
“I brought you a bowl of soup that Nevaeh made.”
“She’s such a sweet girl.”
“Hmm.” Hopefully that noise was enough to keep her talking. Her voice sounded stronger already, and he didn’t feel so tense with worry as long as she kept talking. “Soup?”
“Help me sit.”
Lamont reached for her forearm, gently lifting her as he fluffed the pillows behind her. “Room spinning?”
“A little.” She looked at the tray. “You going to eat with me?”
“If that’s okay.”
“Of course.”
Phew. If she wanted company, surely she wasn’t at death’s door. He pulled the nearest chair toward her bed, then sat with his bowl. “Want me to say grace?”
“Yes, please.”
After he prayed, they ate in silence. Or rather, Mom did as he watched her carefully. He blew on a single spoonful while she took three bites. After her fourth, he finally ate. Wow. This is pretty good.
“Make sure you send Nevaeh flowers or something as a thank-you.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Or maybe he’d just send her the usual payment. Though she’d been adamant about not being paid for helping. Isn’t that how she’d put it?
His phone rang, breaking the silence. “Hello?”
“Mr. Booker, this is Dr. Langley returning your call.”
Thank You, Lord! “Yes, my mom’s been pretty sick today. Vomiting earlier and dizzy. I just wanted to check with you on if this could be a simple bug or . . . or something else.” His voice trailed off.
Though his mom had been given a clean bill of health six months ago, Lamont hadn’t been able to relax just yet. He watched over her as if he were the parent and she the child.
“Can you bring her in for some tests, or is she pretty weak still?”
Lamont glanced at her, ignoring the exasperated expression drawing her lips into a pinched scowl. “I think it’s too soon for that. I’m trying to see if she’ll keep some soup down.”
“All right, then. Shall I make a house call this evening?”
“Please.” Relief flooded him at the offer.
“Then I’ll see you at seven. How’s that sound?”
Lamont glanced at the clock on his mother’s nightstand. Three more hours of waiting? Would his sanity survive until then? Do I have a choice? “That’ll work, Doc.” He hung up.
“Really, Lamont? You called Dr. Langley?” His mom raised an eyebrow.
“What else am I supposed to do?”
“Let me puke like everyone else who gets a stomach bug. Supply me with electrolytes and call it a day.”
His cheeks heated under her scrutiny. “I just wanted to make sure it was a one-day virus versus . . .”
“Versus what? Cancer? Is that what you’re tiptoeing around?”
He sighed, rubbing the back of his head. She was so touchy about his concern these days.
“I’m not going to die anytime soon, son.”
“Yet every time someone says that in the movies, they’re dead in the next few minutes.”
She rolled her eyes. “Life’s not a movie set. Or even a reality TV show.”
Point for her . . . “But people die every day. No one makes it out alive.” One thing this past year had shown him was that waking up wasn’t guaranteed. Life was precarious, and he knew the Lord could take her home whether Lamont was ready for it or not.
Her lips twitched in humor. “I think being around me has made you morbid.”
“Or served me a heavy dose of realism. You know nothing else in this town has.”
“I think you need a vacation.”
He snorted and took another bite. He wasn’t going down this road again. His mother thought he worked too hard. Sure, days like today when he’d been on set at four in the morning getting hair and makeup done before filming for eight hours were a bit much. But he also had the rest of the day off. Since he had no evening commitments, he could go to bed right now if he wanted. Not that he would. He’d probably work out until the doctor arrived. Unfortunately, tomorrow morning came with another four o’clock start with an event to attend in Hollywood at sunset.
Running the itinerary in his mind had him forcing back a yawn. “Maybe I’ll take a vacation after this movie is done filming.”
“You said that the last time.”
He said it every time, but no use mentioning that. “I think I took a week off.”
“If doing various interviews instead of acting ten to twelve hours a day is relaxing, then sure.”
Lamont drained his soup, making a show of enjoying the chicken noodle creation.
“Are you ignoring me?”
“Choosing not to argue. I can’t win.”
She grinned, the first smile since he’d walked into her room. “You really can’t.”
“Mom, acting is my dream job. How many people get to say that?” He studied her, willing her to understand.
“Not many.”
“Exactly, so why should I rest?”
“God commands it. Don’t forget that.” She shook a finger at him.
“I take at least one day off a week. It’s even written in my contract.”
“Yet you still do other things. I mean a true rest, son.” She laid a hand on his. “One where you’re floating on a boat somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, and your cell phone has no reception. You won’t be able to receive any Google notifications of any articles or social media posts with you in them. Where your agent won’t call and rope you into another movie or show before you’ve relaxed from the last one. Where even your own mother—though she is the best—can’t reach you. A true vacation.”
Lamont couldn’t argue. She was merely stating facts, but if he responded with the “I’ll rest when I’m dead” comment floating around his mind, his mom would Gibbs-slap him—he’d be forever grateful for NCIS adding that reference to his brain—and reprimand him for having a smart mouth. Just because he was thirty-one years old didn’t mean his mom didn’t deserve his respect, so he stood and grabbed his bowl and hers, though it was still half-full.
“One day, Mom.” He kissed her forehead and straightened. “That food settle okay?”
“Yeah. I’ll get another catnap in. Wake me when the doctor arrives.”
“I will.”
He headed back down the stairs and set the bowls in the dishwasher. What was he going to do if Dr. Langley told him the cancer was back and had spread? That could be the reason for her upset stomach, right? He tapped on the internet browser on his phone and typed stomach cancer symptoms into the search bar.
Hmm. He should have asked her if she’d vomited blood. Was her poor appetite a checkmark for another symptom or the result of throwing up earlier? And why couldn’t he make the doctor get here any faster? What good was money if people didn’t bow to the demands of it?
Lamont groaned, rubbing his face. Sorry, Lord. That was extremely entitled and obviously a mark against my faith and trusting in You. I promise I know You heal. After all, his mom had been healed from breast cancer.
I’m just worried. Please let it only be a stomach bug.
There was nothing he could do until the doctor showed up. So he could work out, swim in his pool, or maybe hang out in the sauna. Yeah, that sounded like the better idea. He grabbed the duffel bag he’d left near the front entry and headed upstairs to his room.
The primary bedroom was separate from all the other rooms. It even had a separate entry to the rooftop deck that gave him a bird’s-eye view of Beverly Hills and the LA skyline. The deck was his favorite place to sit and read his Bible. Something he hadn’t done this morning due to the early on-set time. Maybe instead of some time in the sauna, he’d spend some time with the Lord. Because he seriously needed God to eradicate the fear that gripped him the moment Nevaeh had said his mother was ill.
His phone buzzed.
Tuck
Praying for Ms. Rosie.
Chris
Same. Is it serious?
Lamont
She claims it’s a stomach bug.
Chris
Maybe it is.
Tuck
They do go around.
Lamont
Yeah. I’m about to sit down and pray that’s all it is.
Tuck
I’ll echo your prayer.
Chris
Likewise, man.
Lamont
Thanks, fellas.
Three
Nevaeh!” my roommate shouted.
I shot up in bed, head swiveling faster than my mind could catch up. Had the noise been part of my dream?
“Nevaeh, get in here now!”
So not a dream. I flung my bedspread back and trotted from my doorway to the living room.
“You’re on TV.” Nora gestured frantically to the small flat-screen on the entertainment center.
“What are you talking about?” I hid a yawn behind my hand but grimaced as morning breath slapped me in the face.
She grabbed my arm and pulled me onto the threadbare couch next to her, then took a bite of beef jerky. Nora was in the middle of some fad high-protein diet, hoping to bulk up and get the role of a superhero I couldn’t even remember the name of.
“You’re on StarGazer.”
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, trying to focus on what the talking heads were gossiping about. “That’s not possible.” I wasn’t a celebrity.
“They’re talking about you and Lamont Booker.” She looked over at me, her eyes wide in her olive-tone face. “They have a picture of the two of you.”
“What?” I whispered, voice trailing as said photo popped on-screen. I gasped. “Turn up the volume.”
Nora pressed the button on the remote as the picture of me and Lamont Booker fell from the screen and the host, LJ Watt, resumed speaking. “No one knows who the mysterious woman in the photo is, but it’s obvious she’s more than acquainted with People’s ‘Sexiest Man Alive,’ Lamont Booker. Don’t believe me? Sources confirm this photo was taken”—he leaned toward the camera as if spilling the tea on the latest scandal—“at his house.”
“No, no, no.” I dropped my head into my hands at Watt’s insinuation.
Instead of a broad-view picture of me about to tumble down the stairs and Lamont Booker saving me from breaking a bone, some paparazzo had framed us close together with his arm around my waist while he whispered something in my ear. Only from whatever angle that photographer must have been at—I was guessing trees, and yes, I’d put nothing past these folks—it looked like I was reluctant to leave the warmth of Mr. SMA’s arms. Somehow, they’d managed to make it appear he felt the exact same way.
“Kill me now.” My arms fell at my sides as I tried to rasp the enormity of the situation. Was this something that would blow over by noon, or would it wreak havoc for a few days?
“Girl, you’re famous. Let’s see you get that key stylist spot now.” Nora grinned, rubbing her hands gleefully.
“It’s not what it looks like,” I snapped.
“Who cares?” She flipped her long brown hair over her shoulders. “I’d capitalize on it if I were you.”
I didn’t bother responding and instead listened closer as LJ Watt went on to speculate more about our supposed relationship.
