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“I have every confidence it will be.” She delivered her opinion with more fluttering of her lashes.
Deep into the famed L.A. traffic, I cleared my throat and fought back my growing erection, thinking of anything to keep the conversation going. “So, any advice as I’m about to meet your father?”
“Stepfather. And other than he can be a complete asshole at times, no. You look like you can hold your own, though. You’ll be fine.”
She shifted her legs and crossed them. I imagined my hands running up their smooth, tanned surface. Easy to think about, but harder to look away from. And what was that scent? Something elegant, refined, maybe a classic like Chanel. The woman had taste, a stark contrast to the beach babes in bikinis drenched in suntan oil I’d hung with the past few years.
“You called me Baird back there. I don’t recall telling you my name,” I said.
“You got me. I did some research on you. Let’s say I was curious about the man behind the contradiction of the disheveled script and the Rolls Royce request. Baird William “Buddy” Rodgers. Son of a wealthy oil tycoon of Scottish heritage. Which screams old money. Harvard Law graduate. So you’ll be a stickler on the contracts. And a self-made millionaire several times over thanks to selling off a tech biz for a small fortune. You got lucky there.” Her elbow leaned on the door, and her manicured fingers twirled her honey hair.
I settled further into the plush seat and slipped her a smug grin. “I prefer hard work over luck. And definitely Buddy over Baird. You seem to know so much about me. Tell me what I need to know about Honey Adams.”
She chuckled. “I’m a stepdad’s girl. High-maintenance and worth every penny, sweetie. But don’t let my exterior fool you. I have a brain for business. And I know money—and a good deal—when I see it.” Our eyes locked, her intoxicating crystal sky-blues reminiscent of the ocean I loved. “And you, Buddy, are about to make me a very happy woman.”
“I can think of a dozen ways to make you happy.” In bed. Soon. Real soon.
“But it only takes one,” she purred. There’s her coy smile again, like she’s not ready to let me in on a big secret. My brows stitched together. There was something curious about her, though.
She didn’t tell me anything I didn’t already assume about her. I’d performed my own due diligence over the past week, which was basic business 101. But there was more to Honey Adams beyond her UCLA film school degree and her status as a social media and entertainment news darling.
Once labeled the Most Eligible Bachelorette of Hollywood by the Times a few years ago, every photo of her on the arm of some actor or director appeared staged to me. Like she’d been playing the game for so long, she forgot who she was.
Maybe a little luck and a good script got me here. But now that I landed, I intended to dig deep…really deep, and get the heart of Ms. Adams, who she was and what made her tick.
The Defender
HONEY
Buddy charmed me. I hated to admit it. Something about his eyes, almost as if they were backlit by blue flames. I found that intensity when he gazed upon me, enough to distract me, but I had to stay focused.
We arrived at Dream Waves Studios through a stately entrance of columns and arches reminiscent of old-world opulence. Our lot sat just down the road from Kings, Fox, and other well-established studios of our time.
With its ivory toned exteriors and brass-plated signs on the buildings, and palm trees and lush greens with tropical flowers in the beds, it always brought back memories of the days when Mom and I would walk hand-in-hand around the lot while she was on a lunch break from filming.
Those were the times in the past that always left me tearing up. But not today, not when I had my future to fight for.
The driver parked in front of our main office. Buddy exited, removing his suit coat, revealing a tight, lean body—and I tore my eyes away from his crotch right as he turned, offering his hand to me.
“What a gentleman,” I flirted. On contact with him, it proved the same spark that had lighted through me earlier in front of the airport when we posed for photos. But a spark could easily be dismissed as a onetime thing, a simple thrill at meeting someone new. If he felt it, though, that’d bode well for getting him on my hook.
“At last, here we are at the famous Dream Waves Studios. I read somewhere that your mother bought this property for a hundred thousand. Now, on history alone, it’s probably worth millions,” he spoke as if in awe. I admired his regard for the good old days. When he folded his white sleeves up to his elbows, I definitely admired his fabulous forearms.
“Let me show you around.” I took him on a tour of the studio, building to building, part walking, part riding in a golf cart. I shared some history of the films produced here. Surprisingly, he admitted to having seen a few of Mom’s shows.
“In Baja, a lot of oldies play on TV,” he explained. “I’ve been living there for the past few years, but I’m thinking of relocating back to the states.”
“And what did you do in Baja?”
“I wrote a script.” He winked at me. “And now, my fate is in your hands, Honey. By the way, that’s not your real name, is it?”
“It’s the real one I use all the time.” I smiled back, unwilling to give him an inch.
At the main office building, I led him into the elevator and pushed the button. “Cal’s likely at lunch. But I’ll show you around my casting and production office on the top floor.”
We stood so close our elbows almost touched, but the heat of him radiated, engulfing me in his warm glow.
“Are you enjoying the tour?” I asked.
