AFTER TAKING A FEW more press photos, I rushed to my assigned dressing room. The door shut behind me, and I leaned against the wood. I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply. The show would be over in twenty minutes. Slipping off my heels, I thought about Matthew’s words.
“Don’t leave.”
“I’ll see you in few, wait for me.”
Matthew wanted me to wait for him. The same man who danced and flirted with me a little over a month ago wanted to talk to me. More than likely, he wanted to clear up the little stunt Stacy pulled. Naturally, I’d never hold him to such a silly thing. After all, I understood it was for ratings.
Straightening my back, I reached up grasping the zipper. I shimmied out of the dress with ease and then hung it back inside the garment bag.
Matthew Barber.
I’d thought about him. A lot. I’d resisted the urge to Google him over the last few weeks. I’d expected to see him again, but not here. Not on national television.
I took off my right earring and then the left. Securing the backs, I placed them back in to the jewelry pouch.
My phone pinged against the coffee table.
Johanna: Hey! I saw you on Wake up with Stacy this morning. You did well. Do you have time for lunch today?
Crap. I’d never responded to her email last night. Could I meet with Johanna today? I didn’t like leaving Holliday all alone. What if she needed me?
My thoughts scattered like marbles over a tile floor. I had a million things to do and . . . and Matthew. Okay, first things first, get dressed. As I scanned my phone, I’d missed a message from Brianne.
Brianne: Hey! Great show. I’m on my way to the studio to pick up the garments.
After texting a quick reply, I tossed my phone onto the coffee table. I pulled on a pair of charcoal leggings, a white tank top, and my favorite grey, slouchy sweater.
According to the time, they should be on the final commercial break before they wrap up the show. I shoved my feet into my leather boots, and then fluffed out the ends of my hair. Grabbing the remote, I flipped on the television, Matthew’s beautiful face came into view. He’s so damn handsome.
The suite phone rang, pulling me out of my Matthew Barber haze.
I cleared my throat. “Hello.”
“Miss Atkinson, there is a Brianne Poulsen here to see you. She says that she is here to pick up your wardrobe.”
“Yes, thank you. Please send her back.”
I barely registered what the voice on the other end said when I hung up. My cellphone buzzed with another message from Johanna.
You need to call me. We should have lunch, I have major news.
A knock at the door, applause from the television, the continual phone buzzing all at once was enough to set my nerves on edge. My life was never this busy.
“Come in,” I shouted, while reading Johanna’s text.
Johanna: If you can’t make lunch I am free for cocktails but I have a dinner this evening. Tomorrow is pretty packed, but I’d love to see you.
Brianne breezed inside. “Hey, I hope you brought an umbrella. It’s getting nasty out there.”
“I thought I heard the rumbling of thunder.” My thumbs hovered over the screen on my phone.
Brianne busied herself with the task of taking an inventory of the items I borrowed. Closing my eyes, I leaned back thinking about my schedule—lunch or cocktails?
“Well, I think I have everything,” she said, tossing the garment bag over her left arm.
“Tinley.”
We both looked up, turning our heads toward the door. Standing in the doorway, filling the space was Matthew. His hazel eyes raked over me, an eyebrow arched and for some odd reason I was nervous.
He stepped inside the room. “Hi, I’m Matthew,” he said, extending his hand to Brianne. “Are you a friend of Tinley’s?”
“Hi . . . hello, yeah,” she choked out. “Actually, I’m her stylist, Brianne.”
Brianne worked with celebrities all the time. I found it humorous that she was star struck by Matthew. She rocked back on her heels, her gaze pinging back and forth between us. When she looked at me again, I shifted my eyes towards the door.
“I should be going,” she announced, picking up on my subtle hint. “Tinley, I’ll call you. Matthew, it was nice meeting you.”
Matthew and I were alone in the room. He closed the door, and turned to face me. I inhaled deeply, his intoxicating scent of clean soap and spice filling my lungs. Why did he have to smell so good?
Matthew stepped towards me. “You didn’t tell me that you were an actress.”
“You didn’t ask,” I countered.
He raised his eyebrows, the edges of his mouth curling up. “No, I suppose I didn’t.” His thumb scratched at the stubble along his jaw. “I am going to ask you to lunch, however.”
I cocked my head, peering at him. “Oh sorry, I have lunch plans, a meeting actually,” I said, hauling my handbag over my shoulder. Look, he was handsome and I desperately wanted to spend time with him, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to make him work for it.
“An afternoon cocktail, then?” he asked, moving to stand in front of me. “I know a great place for appetizers.”
“I have to work this afternoon, as you know I am hosting a gala soon.” I sidestepped him reaching for the door handle.
His chest pressed to my back, and his hand settled on the door. “Tinley, have dinner with me tonight,” he whispered into my hair.
I inhaled a shaky breath, looking down at his right hand. He was so close to me, as close as we were the night we danced. Except that night we were in a room full of people, now it was only the two of us.
Shifting on my heel, he stepped back giving me room to turn around and face him. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out. Not even an excuse, or a witty quip. I wasn’t sure that I knew how to breathe anymore.
“So, what do you say, Tinley?” His voice was low and husky. “Will you have dinner with me?”
The pad of his thumb swept over my cheek, and I desperately tried to ignore the zing in my stomach. That question. His words and my answer would change everything between the two of us.
“Yes.”
“Okay, Tinley, here’s the deal,” Johanna said, placing her napkin in her lap. “Barrington Shores . . . it’s the thirtieth anniversary of the show and they want you back.”
I laughed. “Wow, this is the last thing I expected to hear you say. I don’t believe it.”
“Well, believe it,” she said, pulling a folder from her grey Prada bag.
I grasped the file folder in my hand, wondering what in the world Barrington Shores was up to these days. Occasionally, I’d check in on the Williams, Mahoney, and Gephardt families. Sometimes out of boredom, other days out of curiosity. It was an itch I seldom needed to scratch—wanting to see if my character’s name was mentioned or if they resurrected my storyline with another actress. Silly girl, you haven’t been an actress in over a decade.
“They want to sign you to a one-year contract.” She fingered the peter-pan collar on her white dress. I felt completely underdressed, but for some reason they allowed me inside.
“This is your offer and your contract—pending, of course. Everything is negotiable.”
I opened the folder and scanned the contents. The salary was generous, almost too much for daytime television. I only knew a few actors that made this kind of money. One of them was my former daytime mom, Bianca Stockwell.
To say that I was skeptical was an understatement. “Salary seems a bit much,” I said, not looking up from the paper.
“Salaries of primetime actors are growing rapidly. It’s only fair to say that daytime needs to keep up and offer competitive salaries as well.”
“You and I both know that daytime television isn’t what it once was. Sponsors don’t want to invest and the market has completely changed,” I pointed out.
“Ladies, what can I get you today,” our server interrupted, filling up the water glasses.
Johanna ordered the roasted beet salad, while I settled on the market greens with pickled veggies, and manchego cheese.
After ordering, Johanna stepped away to take a phone call and I mulled over the idea of going back to acting. I’d left the show, and all that it held behind when I was seventeen, a few months after my mother’s death.
My character suffered SORAS—soap opera rapid aging syndrome. One day she was six-years-old and a month later she was a teenager. Mom encouraged me to attend the casting call, she said I’d be perfect for the part and she was right. Three short years, but in that time, I’d earned three Emmy nominations and won twice.
Straightening my back, and crossing my ankles, I flipped the pages.
“Barrington Shores is an American soap opera created by Linda Klein, focuses heavily on the lives of the Williams, Mahoney, and Gephardt families. In 1998, actor Blair St. James was cast in the role of Maxwell Gephardt shifting the drama’s central protagonist to reach a younger crowd. While bold, this move proved successful . . .”
My eyes shifted away from the celebration of Blair’s successes. It was without warning that he kissed me and pawed at me. Blair was twelve years my senior and an adult that I’d trusted. I’d pushed him away, and gotten the hell out of that room before anything more had happened. My pulse ticked up a notch, and I swallowed past the lump in my throat.
I never thought about that day.
What I did think about was what could have been. Did I regret leaving? No, I made the choice—out of fear, but a choice no less. I wasn’t that young girl anymore. Fear would not cripple me or be a factor in this decision. A loud cough from a patron cleared my thoughts.
My eyes scanned over the fine print of the contract. It was all very flexible. There were so many factors to consider. I blinked up at the sound of rain pelting the windows. The dining room at Ai Fiori was mostly empty only a few tables remained occupied.
“Sorry about that,” Johanna said, setting back into her chair. “So, what are you thinking?”
I took a deep breath, placing the folder onto the tabletop. “The contract is more than fair,” I admitted. “I honestly don’t know.”
“Look, I didn’t expect you’d jump on board right away. Have your lawyers comb over the contract and you take the week to the think about it, but I will need an answer by Friday.”
An answer . . . by Friday. At this point I had more questions than answers. Aunt Maggie was the only person that I could talk to about my concerns, and she was thousands of miles away in Greece on her honeymoon.
The incident, or incidents, weren’t worth mentioning to my ex or even Holliday because I never dreamed about going back to acting, which reminded me to send her a quick text.
Our server dropped off our salads and Johanna and I enjoyed our meals putting the business talk to rest. I had to make a decision and I wasn’t going to make it without thinking through everything.
Besides, I’d rather focus on my next meal—dinner with Matthew.
When I made it back to my suite at The York, I had time for a quick shower before my conference call with Greta Wallace. These days she was my left and right hand at the foundation.
I dried my hair, styling the layers in loose waves, and then put on a bit of makeup. I changed into my favorite pair of Paige Denim Hoxton jeans, a black, lace camisole and a charcoal sweater.
My phone buzzed right on schedule. “Hello, Greta.”
“Hi, Tinley,” her cheerful voice piped through the speaker. “I caught your interview on Wake Up with Stacy this morning. You should be on television more; the camera loves you.”
Drawing my knee up to my chest, I smiled. If she only knew. “Thank you. You are too kind. Now, let’s discuss those gift bags for the gala.”
After making half a dozen phone calls and finalizing the menu for the gala, my thoughts shifted to Matthew. I flipped through my wardrobe at least ten times finding nothing appropriate for dinner. Alert the record books, this would be the one time that I didn’t over pack. Wait. Where were we even going?
Settling back onto the bed, I scooped up my phone from the nightstand and then swiped the screen.
Me: Hi. Quick question: Where are we going for dinner this evening?
Me: And what time?
Matthew: Where would you like to go?
Me: Seriously? You’ve planned nothing?
Matthew: I have a plan. Actually, I have two plans.
Me: Okay, what is plan A or the first plan?
Matthew: Dinner at Emilio’s. Do you know it?
Me: Of course.
Emilio’s was a very popular Italian restaurant overlooking the Hudson. I hadn’t been there in a long time.
Matthew: So, you approve?
Me: That depends.
Matthew: On what?
Me: What is the other option?
I waited rather impatiently as the three little dots worked their magic in the text bubble.
Knock . . . knock.
I opened the door to find Matthew leaning against the doorframe wearing a blue Lacoste polo and a pair of flat front chinos. Matthew looked, dare I say, sexy? I never much cared for guys who wore khakis. The look always felt sloppy, and understated. Seeing Matthew, however, this was enough of an argument to toss that aside and climb back on board with team khakis.
“What are you doing here?”
Smiling, he shoved his phone into his pocket. “Option two, better known as plan B.”
That boyish grin was going to get him everywhere. “Which is what exactly?” I motioned for him to come inside.
“You and me, beers and Mexican food,” he answered.
“Wait, I never told you where I was staying, so how did you find me?”
His gazed darted around the suite. “Holliday told me.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “You spoke to Holliday?”
“Yes, and she was very helpful.” His fingers drummed against the bar top.
“How’d she sound? Was she okay? I mean I just haven’t talked to her since I left . . . there’s nothing . . .” Now, I was stammering like an idiot. I shouldn’t have said anything; perhaps Matthew didn’t know that Ronan and Holliday were having any troubles.
He strode toward me. “Relax, Tinley.” His hands smoothed up my arms. “Ronan called me Monday, he needed to talk. I know what’s been going on—plus, the press had them headed for a breakup.”
I stared at him for a beat. Could he read me that easily? How on Earth did he put the pieces together from my jumbled word vomit? Scrubbing my hands down my face, I laughed.
“So, they’re good?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that they’re on the way to reconciliation.”
“Good.”
“Speaking of good,” he said. “I’m starved, and I’m ready to show you a good time.”
“You know for a movie star, your material isn’t at all that original.”
He cocked a brow. “I’m an actor, not a writer. My responsibility is to be good on the delivery. And trust me, I always deliver, darlin’.”