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“Did you eat my Cheez-Its?” I accused Jaxson over the phone. “I know it wasn’t Rosario because she’s gluten intolerant.”
Rosario was my housekeeper, but she pretty much ran my whole house. If it were the nineteenth century, she’d be the one jangling keys at her waist and shouting orders at all the downstairs staff. Since it wasn’t the nineteenth century, and I didn’t employ a small commune of servants, I was the one always on the receiving end of her squawking.
“They’re bad for you, Emma.”
Jaxson’s reply was less than an apology.
“And yet you ate them anyway.” I protested in a failed attempt to convince him his reasoning was not sound. He didn’t answer, but I knew him well enough to sense he’d shrugged his shoulders and was ready to move the conversation on. He wasn't one to linger on a subject if he considered the topic mute. I had a feeling he’d lost interest in my Cheez-It dilemma before I’d even brought it up. He obviously had no qualms about stealing my midnight snacks. Let’s not even talk about the liberties he took with the spare key I’d given him. I was convinced the man spent more time at my house than his own. He claimed he preferred my ocean view. Sometimes I’d come home to find him tanning on my deck. His sun-kissed skin would still be glistening with beads of salt water from a recent dip in the waves. After all these years, I was still not accustomed to the sight of Jaxson in nothing but board shorts.
“Now what am I supposed to eat?” I whined. I looked forward to late night noshing after a long day on set—usually accompanied by beating Jax on Fortnite.
“I picked up some organic popcorn,” he said with a mouthful of food. “It’s in the small pantry.”
I thought I heard a muffled crunching sound on his end of the line.
“Are you . . . are you eating my Cheez-Its right now?”
A length of silence was followed by a half-baked “No.”
I raised my eyes to the ceiling. It was a pointless argument. Next time, I’d get the Costco value pack and hide them in my bedroom.
“Just boot up your X-box while I microwave Rosario’s leftovers,” I said with resignation. Rosario always left something for me in the fridge. Usually something freakish—like ratatouille.
“Okay,” he said, “but before we start I wanted to tell you something.”
“You finally got that tattoo of Jeff Goldblum?” It was a running joke because Jeff turned down roles in two of Jaxson’s films.
“Ha ha. No,” he deadpanned. “I spoke with Randall today. He said he talks to you all the time.”
“He did?” I really didn’t remember that. “I mean he does.”
“So why do you need me to give you an introduction?”
He had a point there. I wasn’t a young lady at a debutante ball. I was a strong independent woman with a lucrative career. The truth was, I wanted Jaxson there as a sort of confidant. Someone to help me with my matchmaking efforts, even if he didn’t realize he was doing it.
“Okay, Jax, here’s the thing,” I sighed, still thinking about what I might say—considering the fact I was a secret agent and all.
“I’m shy.”
“You are not shy,” he laughed.
“Yes I am. I just work hard to hide it. And Randall makes me nervous. So could you just bring him to my trailer tomorrow morning?”
I couldn’t very well invite the man to my trailer myself. The Motion Picture Designers Guild had wonky rules which I didn’t want to cross. I was sure there was a clause somewhere that frowned upon trailer hopping. I shrugged. Trailer hopping was a thing, wasn’t it?
I needed Randall to come while Annie was working on my hair so he could fall madly in love with her and I knew he probably wouldn’t make the trek all the way to the other side of the studio unless Jaxson asked him to. Life was made up of all these little types of opportunities. Even if it took some sneaky tactics to make them happen.
“Fine,” Jaxson huffed after some deliberation. “But consider it an even trade for those Cheez-Its.”
I smiled at this small victory. “Deal.”
Also, Jaxson was so busted.
***
IT WASN’T UNTIL VERY LATE the following day, and after another lunch alone, that Jaxson finally arranged a meeting with Randall — but not in my trailer, with Annie there, as I had very plainly requested. Instead, he took me to the scene shop where Randall was constructing a Victorian grandfather clock with revolving hinges we were to use as an escape portal into another dimension. The workmanship was stunning. As he lovingly caressed the grooves of the wood and metal, I took the opportunity to observe him and noted the contagious magnetism diffused from his pores. He loved his work.
“I imagine this is what Jaxson meant when he told me of your concerns moving through the set pieces,” he said.
“Concerns?” I blinked. “Oh. Yes. Right.” I suppose I did say something to that effect. It was rubbish of course.
“As you can see, there’s plenty of room to get through. Even wearing a bustle. I work very closely with the costume designer on these things.”
Indulging in a proper look at him, I decided Randall was quite dashing—with deep chocolate eyes and a two-day stubble. A silver fox. He was also very charming and clever and gentlemanly. He was perfect. Unfortunately, Annie had left for the day, and my grand plan was foiled. Cue melodrama villain music and a moustache twirl. Blimey.
“Well, thank you,” I said, nodding. “It’s all quite impressive.”
With the air of a gratified docent, Randall gave me a tour of the rest of his shop, proud of his handiwork and he let me see some of the wallpaper samples for a scene we would film the following week. Once we were done with the current set, he would repurpose it to look like a different scene entirely. His drawings were exquisite. But as interesting as all that was, I decided I needed to act, and fast. Desperate times.
The words came out before the thought had fully formed in my brain. “Do you want to go out with me?”
A dazed look reached those chocolate eyes and he stared at me with a deafening silence. He opened his mouth, shut it again and blinked. I think his reply was stuck in his throat because his only reaction was to snort a stifled laugh. The exchange likely only lasted a nanosecond, but in the space of that nanosecond, I stared back mortified, looked at Jaxson, Jaxson looked at me. His eyes shifted from me to Randall and back to me again whose face turned grey, then white, then purple. Was I violating some sort of clause in my contract? Would the Motion Picture Designers Guild come after me with pitchforks?
Bullocks.
I managed to choke out, “I mean . . . with us.” I pointed between Jaxson and myself, trying to save face. “Karaoke. A bunch of us are going out to a karaoke bar. Tomorrow night.” I felt a wave of prickly heat wash over my cheeks and so I added for good measure, “Just a few mates, you know.”
“Karaoke?” He squinted, crinkling his eyes. I heard Jaxson make a soft snort through his nose. He didn’t trust where I was going with this.
Stealthy IMF agent matchmaker. That’s me.
“We’re big on karaoke,” I explained. “We go all the time. Right Jax?”
Jaxson gave me the Ricky Ricardo glare. I gave him my Lucy grin and just kept talking.
“Jax and I have this little competition going,” I said with a wink.
Jaxson eyeballed me cautiously, half amused, half reproachful. I went on.
“We always do this little number from Annie Get Your Gun. ‘Anything You Can Do’. Do you know it?”
Randall shrugged. “I’m not sure.”
I sang a couple of bars to demonstrate. I then pointed to Jaxson for him to sing the male part.
Crickets. Jaxson left me hanging. He cocked his head and crossed his arms. A warning. Lucy.
I watched enough I Love Lucy to know she had no reservations about making a fool of herself through song and dance. And so that’s exactly what I did. I danced circles around Jaxson singing both the male and female parts. I ended with a flourish of jazz hands.
Randall’s eyes lit with amusement. Jaxson put on his bored face.
“You see?” I said a little out of breath. “I won again. I always do. Anyway, we could use one extra person to get the private room. They have a minimum. Plus, Jax is tired of being the only guy.”
“I am?” he piped indignantly.
“Yes, you told me so.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes you did.”
“No—”
“Yes you did, yes you diiiiid!” I sang that last part for good measure. Jaxson rolled his eyes.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Randall said at last. “I’m not a good singer.”
“Well, then Jax won’t feel so inadequate about his own voice.”
“Whaaat?” Jaxson glared at me. The truth be told, Jaxson was one of the most glorious tenors my ears had the pleasure of hearing. He knew that I loved his voice. He started studying musical theatre at the age of four. Yes, four. He received a scholarship to the Royal Academy of Music and Drama in Sydney. But the world didn’t know him as Jaxson Knightly, Broadway star. The world knew him as Jaxson Knightly, A-list Hollywood director and screenwriter. His little secret was safe with me.
“Don’t beat yourself up over it, Jax.” I winked at him cheekily. He uncrossed his arms and placed his hands defiantly on his lean waist.
“Oh, you’re on, sister.”
That was more like it. Plus, I loved the inflection at the end of his sentences which made them sound more like questions. So I made a wager.
“Drinks on the loser?” I extended my hand to him to seal the bet. He shook it vigorously.
“You are going to curse the day you decided to take vocal lessons, Emma,” he said, holding on to my hand a little too long. “And I am going to order twenty-five-year-old single malt whiskey.” There was that smile again. That warm, cosy, dazzling smile that was part showbiz, but mostly down to earth Aussie. It derailed me on so many levels. I felt my secret agent prowess slipping and retracted my hand.
“Perfect.” I cleared my throat. “There it is. And you, Randall, can be the judge.”
“Well, I . . . “
“There’s no ifs about it. You will come, I will sing. Jax will attempt to sing, you will judge, I will win, and Bob’s your uncle.”
Poor Randall was completely nonplussed. I didn’t give him a chance, really. But if I was to get him into the same room as Annie, a little bullying was not uncalled for. It was for the greater good.
He slipped his hands into the back pocket of his jeans. “What if I vote in Jaxson’s favour?”
“Why on earth would you do that?” I cried.
He shifted his feet, clearly not trying to offend me. It was cute. “I’m just saying, if I find Jaxson to have the superior voice . . . ”
“Then you’ll have a co-judge.”
Jaxson raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Here we go.”
I ploughed through, ignoring him. “Annie will help you.”
“Who’s Annie?” Jaxson screamed in protest. I stopped myself from saying she’s my hair girl. Jaxson knew Annie quite well. She was always in my trailer waiting for me before I arrived on set. He’d spoken to her many, many times. He was just being difficult.
“Annie is my friend.” I winked at Randall. “And she is drop dead gorgeous.” I really did feel like Lucy. All I needed was a perfectly coifed 1950’s ginger hair-do and a shirtwaist dress. Randall’s face spread into a grin.
“All right,” said he after a pause. “I’ll go. On one condition.”
He had conditions?
“You name it.”
“You’ll owe me a favour.” He winked back. This guy knew how to play the game. He shifted his gaze to Jaxson. “Both of you.”
Oh, if only he knew the favour I was doing for him. If only Annie knew how her life was about to change. I got a little giddy thinking about it. I may have squealed like a teenager because Jaxson shot me a puzzled glare. Gah! Those olive eyes just got to me. I was always under his scrutiny.
Jaxson walked alongside me after we parted from Randall. He placed his hand on the small of my back to guide me through the piles of wood and masonry in Randall’s scene shop. I wondered how put-out he’d be if I told him I was perfectly capable of navigating my way out without help. But that was Jaxson. Eight years my senior, he felt the need to baby me. Take care of me. One day I would tell him I wasn’t the seventeen-year-old ingénue he discovered all those years ago. The seventeen-year-old who earned him his first Oscar. I was twenty-six; the age gap had closed between us considerably. One day I would tell him. But not today.
He slowed his pace as we neared my trailer and rounded to stall my stride.
“Emma. When have we ever gone to a karaoke bar?”
“Five years ago.”
“I don’t remember that.”
“You don’t remember singing a duet with me?”
He sighed. “No, I do not.”
“Well, I am almost offended.” I resumed my gait, walking briskly toward my trailer. His long legs kept pace with my stride with little effort.
“What was that all about back there?” His tone was accusatory.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about.”
“Singing and dancing. Making propositions to that poor man.”
“Propositions?” I reached my trailer and raised myself one step, now eye level with Jaxson. He stopped right in front of me—his face so close I could feel the warmth radiating from him. He was gruff and soft at the same time and smelled of oranges in a nostalgic way that reminded me of tea. Ah, London.
I stayed my resolve, keeping eye contact with him. Unblinking. Jaxson sighed. A patriarchal, exasperated sort of sigh. Then his eyes softened, searching my features.
“How long have we known each other, Emma?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.” Of course I knew. But that wasn’t what this was about.
“Why didn’t you tell me about your plans for tomorrow night?”
“I told you yesterday.”
“No. The only thing we discussed yesterday was your desire to meet Randall.”
I turned to open the door to avoid his gaze. “I thought I mentioned it.” I made my way in and made a beeline for the mini fridge. My mouth was suddenly dry. “Water?”
“No, thank you.”
“You just don’t listen when I speak.” I took a swig of water.
“I don’t listen to you?” he exclaimed indignantly. “Emma, I hang on your every word.”
I was in the middle of swallowing a mouthful of water when he said that. My reaction almost sent the water from my mouth through my nose. He was trying to get my goat. Tease me. It did not escape me, however, that his eyes had a certain sincerity in them and his tone was layered in his soft Australian cadence. I tried my best at a witty comeback, but I had temporarily lost the use of my tongue.
“Well then,” I managed at last, “you should be well acquainted with my subtext by now. Pay attention, dear Watson.”
He stretched the corners of his lips into a wide disarming smile and slipped his hands into his pockets. He was quite dashing. And that made me uncomfortable. Why did he make me feel like I was still a little girl? Or a feral cat?
“Come on,” he said drawing nearer and planting that patronizing kiss to my forehead. “Let's get dinner. Then you can tell me all about your subtext.”