Why did I ever think the internet would provide me with any information? Stupid. Trying to weed out the reliable information from the junk? Impossible. Who comes up with this shit? Better yet, who believes it?
Although Vanessa was fairly certain that Riley Tate did not have a love child with Cloris Leachman or that he kept John Lennon’s brain in an underground shrine beneath his house, she was more confused than ever. She was no closer to getting a line on who Riley Tate was. The Google search was ridiculous; there were tons of fan sites, each claiming to be official, but none contained the same information. The actors’ database reported his every movie and TV appearance, but revealed no personal facts other than his birthday. Funny how other actors’ whole lives were exposed to everyone, but Mr. Riley Tate’s remained an enigma. He apparently wasn’t, nor had he ever been, married. He had no surprising or upsetting scandals. He just acted. That’s all she found.
She watched archived videos of interviews with various talk show hosts, but all he talked about were his latest projects while cooking with the celebrity chef or helping demonstrate something stupid, so zero joy. She finally resorted to reading his Facebook page and his Tweets, both of which offered little insight into the man, just small superficial updates, which had abruptly stopped five months ago, leaving an anguished mass of followers wondering why.
She looked at the clock on the bottom right hand side of her computer and had to blink to read it correctly – 3:45 a.m. Shit. All I need for meeting him in the morning is bags under my eyes. Lovely.
After tossing and turning most of the morning, she arose at 8:45 a.m., forty-five minutes later than she planned, knowing she would have her work cut out for her. Shower, hair, makeup, all important today, and the lack of both sleep and time would make all these tasks harder. She wore the essentials for makeup, a touch of shadow, eyeliner and mascara, with an extra couple of swipes for good measure. She pulled her hair back into a tight-twisting, no-nonsense bun. Also, she had to pick out the right outfit, something professional and understated but one that would show off her curves. She went with a fitted white button up blouse, the one that showed barely a hint cleavage (professional cleavage, not slutty cleavage). She decided to go with a little help from the plunging demi-bra she special ordered from England. She rounded out the outfit with black slacks and black patent heels, her staple power-outfit as a UCLA post-grad student. Her inner self was more a tank-top, flip-flop kind of girl, but she had to fit the part of woman-with-a-doctorate. She hated heels, but she felt they were necessary to add height. It was her experience that most everyone she met had a hard time taking her seriously; she blamed her shortness, her blonde hair and her big boobs. The heels gave her courage, as well as an extra three inches, so she suffered through the discomfort.
People thought that anything bigger than a modest C cup meant bimbo, apparently, and her breasts measured a bit further down the alphabet. Therefore, she went through a short-lived phase in her life where she hid her large breasts with baggy clothes. She had a flat stomach and hated that in order to hide her big boobs, everything she wore was unflattering, to say the least. The change in wardrobe really didn’t help much, either. First of all, people didn’t treat her any differently. They still didn’t seem to take her seriously. Secondly, she realized, after about the hundredth person who asked, that guys staring at her chest when they talked to her was worth not having to deal with the questions about when the baby was due.
Although she hated being the subject of leering and ogling (it made her feel uneasy), she realized she could occasionally use it to her advantage. She could put up with a little uneasiness to get what she wanted. Not that she was using her body to purposely manipulate anyone. Well, yeah, she was. She realized the hypocritical nature of what she did and hated herself for sending women back a few decades. How can she complain about people not taking her seriously if she was exploiting the very things that she felt caused her to not be taken seriously? She wasn’t proud of it, but it didn’t stop her from doing it, either. She didn’t do it in her professional life, so not too terrible, right? “Playing to her strengths,” is what Emily called it. Whatever. It’s still wrong. But if men are stupid enough to fall for it. . .
At 9:40, she sat in her car with her head resting on the steering wheel. Panic threatened to well in her chest if she sat there much longer. She looked at her hands. Shit, I forgot about my nails. Too late now. I’ll just have to hide my hands somehow. She started the car and backed out of the space.
She arrived to the gate of Riley Tate’s Malibu beachfront property at 9:55 a.m. and felt a little wary of the place. Charles assured her she could use his code to open the gate, but a guilty uneasiness washed through her as if she was breaking and entering. Traveling slowly up the driveway, paranoia caused her to look in her rearview for the cops who would arrest her for stalking. She shook it off and realized the actor’s place was not at all what she expected. The usual Spanish-style architecture of the house didn’t throw her; it was the quiet. No cars. No gardeners. No staff. No bimbos. No drunk guys throwing up on the lawn. No party. Nothing. No evidence of life anywhere. Not sure what you expected, Nessa. A friggin’ 40 piece orchestra or a banner with Welcome Dr. Taylor? Stupid.
She found the walkway to the front door, a rather ominous long, closed in walkway, framed on both sides by the white walls of the house. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Once she opened her eyes, facing the carved double wooden doors with intricate carvings, she rang the doorbell and waited. And waited.
After about two minutes, she rang the doorbell again. An older Hispanic gentleman dressed in a white button down and blue jeans opened the door and stared at her curiously. Suddenly afraid she didn’t have the right house, she cleared her throat.
“Hello. I’m Dr. Vanessa Taylor. I have an appointment with Riley Tate?” Was that right? Should I have said appointment? Meeting? Date? Oh, what the hell did I just do?
The older gentleman stepped back and waved his arm Vanna White style into the house. She stepped through into the atrium of a beautiful white, bright and airy home. The entire bottom floor was open-concept style. To the right, a large chef’s kitchen with an island, marble countertops and brushed steel appliances and a dining room. To her left, a large open living room with overstuffed furniture and a large fireplace with a wrought-iron-lined loft overlooking the room. The entire back wall of the house, minus a stairwell that led up to the loft and another separate floor, was windowed, showcasing the beautiful view of the beach and ocean. The view was breathtaking.
She felt a hand grab her elbow to nudge her in the direction of the stairs to the left.
“This way,” he urged, heavily accented.
The stairs led to the loft, which was really an oversized landing that had been converted into a game room. The same breathtaking view awaited her, and she assumed the entire back side of the house was the same. Damn good architect. This is the most romantic house I’ve ever seen. It’s so beautiful.
She turned the corner to see the older gentleman point to the couch in the corner. There on the wall, which she realized was a television screen covering the entire wall, explosions and guts decorated the screen. On the couch with a game controller in his hand, shirtless and focused, rested Riley Tate. Once the older gentleman headed back down the stairs, she automatically moved into the space, gravitationally pulled toward the freshly-showered sculpted perfection lying on the couch, feet crossed at the opposite end. She almost squealed like a little girl. While he was occupied, she took a minute to soak in all that was Riley Tate – the damp, sandy blonde hair, the high cheek bones, the sun-kissed broad shoulders. The scruff on his face and too-long-since-the-last haircut only made him look even more dangerously sexy. She had to bite down on both lips to resist the urge to lick them, and she planted her feet to keep them from running to him so she could drag her tongue up and down his solid yet bumpy chest and ridged stomach.
She stood there for a few minutes, simultaneously enjoying the view and calming her hormones, while waiting for him to notice her in the room. When he didn’t, she cleared her throat.
Nothing.
“Mr. Tate?”
Nothing.
When she carefully stepped forward to move into his line of vision, she saw the earbuds in his ears. She waved, and he looked up. He startled, his head flying backward, and she smiled. His eyes dragged her body for a few moments, but instead of causing that all-too-familiar uneasiness, she felt a little coy. He sat up, swung his feet to the floor, took the buds out of his ears and placed the controller on the table in front of him.
“Mr. Tate, I’m. . .”
“You’re not what I expected,” he interrupted quietly. “Very nice, but not at all what I expected.” He looked her up and down again, confusion coloring his features. Something else flashed on his face, as if he was contemplating something, but he shook his head. Then, he smiled, a full-on, dimpled smile. “But as I told Charles, thanks but no thanks. I don’t think I need your services.”
“Really? Because Mr. Pickney said he would call. . .”
“I told him I would tell you in person. He kind of insisted that I meet you first. I’m sorry, but I just don’t feel comfortable. . .”
“I understand that, but if we could just talk. . .”
“I appreciate what he is trying to do for me,” he said as he ran his hand through his hair looking down at the table, “but I think it’s a little over the top for him to go and hire you to help me.”
“That’s funny. That’s just what I told him. But…”
“I’m just going through a rough patch,” he looked down and swallowed, seemingly uncomfortable with what he was about to say. “But I don’t think I need sexual healing.”
“But I’m here to help you through... wait, what did you just say?” She ran through his last statement in her mind, knowing full well she must have misheard him.
She noticed his eyes locked on her chest, but when he looked up, he quickly looked away, like a little boy embarrassed he’d been caught.
“I won’t need your services. I’m sorry if you were inconvenienced. May I offer you breakfast before you go?” He grinned without dimples, his smile not reaching even his eyes this time.
She stood before him unmoving, stunned into silence, putting the pieces together slowly.
“Hello?” he called. “Do you want breakfast? I make a mean waffle. . .”
“Just what kind of services do you think I provide, Mr. Tate?” she asked, quite snippily, folding her arms across her chest and forcing her right hip to the side. Yep, nailing the sassy stance, Dr. Taylor.
He looked her in the eye, again appearing confused. “Well, uh. . . I’m not sure how to answer that question.”
“You better think of how.” She tried to hold back the full force of her anger. “Just what did Mr. Pickney tell you about me?”
He looked at her face, she was sure, to search for a way to diffuse the situation. She could tell by the concerned look on his face that he was realizing at that moment that he jumped to the wrong conclusion. She knew he wouldn’t bring himself to admit out loud what he believed.
“He told me that he hired you to help me.” He looked down, blushing, taking a few seconds before continuing. “He said that you would pretend to be dating me when we went out in public, and that you would try to make me feel better.”
She leveled her eyes at him, not able to contain her ire much. “So you just assumed what from that?” You will admit it, you jackass.
“Well,” he looked at the table again and rested his head in his hands, then wiped his face. He looked up at her. “I obviously got it wrong.”
She smirked and softened her tone slightly. “Got what wrong, Mr. Tate?” She began to completely enjoy watching him fumble through this word volley. She stared at him, daring him to admit what she already knew. His expression grew wary.
“Wait a minute, if you aren’t what I thought, Miss. . .”
“Doctor. Dr. Vanessa Taylor. And I’m a psychologist.”
He took a minute to absorb what she said. Shock erupted on his face, then anger. He practically exploded from his couch. “I am NOT crazy!” On his last word he angrily paced back and forth. “What in the world is Charles thinking? Hiring ME a PSYCHOLOGIST? That’s the absolute last thing I need. What the heck?” He looked back at her.
She did not change her stance, but she switched to her soothing voice. “He doesn’t think you are crazy. He wants very much to help you.”
“Look Ms. Taylor. . .”
“It’s DOCTOR Taylor.”
“Okay, DOCTOR Taylor, look, I’ve had a couple of setbacks lately, but NOT enough to qualify for the loony bin. Thank you for coming, but you may leave now.” He gestured toward the stairs. “Yes, please leave, so I can find Charles and kick his…” he looked at her, almost as if he was embarrassed and added, “…butt!” He continued his vigorous pacing, maintaining his eye contact with her.
She smiled, studying his reaction. As he glared at her, she decided to try using humor, mixed with his obvious politeness (offering what he thought was a hooker breakfast told volumes about his gentlemanly nature), to diffuse the situation.
“Well, first of all, you offered me a waffle. And since I skipped breakfast because I overslept after staying up late moving into a new place, a waffle sounds very nice.”
He stopped pacing and stared at her disbelievingly. “You really think I will. . .”
She raised her eyebrow. “It’s the least you can do after accusing me of being a hooker.”
A slow, sheepish smile emerged on his face. “I never accused, I assumed incor...”
“And secondly, Mr. Tate, with all due respect, I don’t think Charles Pickney is one whose, um, butt is easily kicked. Although I think you could probably go a few rounds with him, he looks like he’s probably been in a few street tussles, unless you really do want to get hurt in the process,” she purred. “So instead, why don’t I follow you to the kitchen and watch your mean, waffle-making skills.” She smiled.
He did not move. He just stood between the couch and the table, mouth open, dumbfounded, for what felt like five minutes.
“Mr. Tate?” She waved at him and tapped her foot.
“Oh… yeah, sure. What the heck. Come on.”