“Oh, that’s good. If I’m on set and Laura needs something, she can call Jamie or you, Bill, and they can contact you, Doc?” Ford looked at me for approval.
Billy could call me anytime, but I wasn’t going to say that. I wasn’t sure how this moment felt in comparison to a normal situation. The people standing in front of me had more Academy Awards combined than most, and now they were discussing phone chains including me. Not to mention I felt some kind of way at Ford calling his sister “Bill.” I wanted to hold all her nicknames, which I recognized as a bit off-base.
I’d delivered several high-profile babies, but this was the first with a surrogate and a famous aunt-to-be. This was different.
In any case, I rambled off my number to Billy and she typed it into an iPhone. I was mesmerized by her lithe fingers and red manicured nails, the way she managed her own affairs, and the small pout on her face while she did it all seemingly with ease. I was pretty certain her assistant had an assistant.
“Thank you,” she said and walked out with her brother, never looking back.
Billy
Later, when I was settled at the Ritz, after checking in with Frank—who was on the trip and holding a grudge at being left out of the doctor’s visit—I texted Callum. Frank could be a sentimental sap who hid behind brooding.
It’s me. Will-m-a. Hopefully you can figure out the clue. I’m sure you understand not to share this number with anyone. It is my personal line. I’m looking forward to dinner. Does 7 work?
I’d been checking into hotels as Wilma Rubble for years. Yeah, many people knew my name was Willa, but they never really associated it with me. Sometimes I used Barney Rubble just to mix it up. Frank was Fred Flintstone, which tickled me, but not him so much. As I sat down on the love seat and sipped a sparkling water Frank had set out for me, I worried what to do about him and my upcoming date. He wouldn’t be jealous; he’d slip into ultra-protective, big-brother mode.
Frank had been with me for a decade. He was in love with his partner, Michael, who sometimes tagged along with him when traveling with me. Both of them were friends of mine, especially since they were a few of the only people allowed in or around me most times. We’d had many dinners and adventures in strange cities. Problem was Frank was protective. He’d seen me hurt or heartbroken one too many times, and he would be watching Callum Rand with suspicious eyes.
No way I could explain to Frank how I liked the way Cal had taken initiative and asked me out. It would be admitting I wanted a man to pursue me. I also secretly loved how under Cal’s formal and masculine surface he treated Laura and Jamie like precious cargo. He had a sweet side, and I only hoped Frank wouldn’t scare him off.
Thankfully my phone pinged, taking me away from my thoughts.
It’s me. Cal. Get the name? Of course, no sharing yours. I took some sort of oath I’m sure applies to this. Saved you as Ms. Rubble in my contacts.
All of this made me smile. Even though I was certain Ford wouldn’t like me dating his doctor—and yes, he was Ford’s doctor because if there was one scratch on that baby, Ford would lose his shit—I wanted to do this dinner. I liked Cal. He was kind, gentle, sincere, and gorgeous. Dark brown hair worn a little shaggy, probably reminiscent of his college days or maybe because he didn’t make time for a haircut; caring eyes with small crow’s feet representing the life he’d experienced. I wanted to learn more about him. Basically, he was nothing like the men I knew. Sure they were gorgeous, but fake. Nothing about him suggested he was consumed with himself.
7 works. Want me to grab you?I texted him the name of the club and said I would meet him there. Then I added,Frank will be with me. I don’t want you to be put off, but it’s a formality and part of my life.
Being the guy he was, he replied:No problem.
Now all I had to do was tell Frank, and make sure he didn’t tell my brother.
We walked into the hoity-toity country club of my childhood, the same one my brother and Jamie were married at on the tenth hole in the middle of a blustery snowstorm. Those two were getting their “back nine,” as Ford liked to call it, and I wondered if I would have a chance at the same. I hadn’t really had a front nine.
It was twenty after seven when we arrived, and Frank led me to the hostess in the front of the restaurant like he always did, arm around my lower back, half a step ahead of me. He whispered to the hostess, letting her know we were meeting someone for dinner. “I spoke with Jeffrey earlier to confirm,” Frank went on while the young girl nodded and stared at me.
“The other person in your party arrived and they’re seated at your table. We have you at a semiprivate table in the back, facing the window.”
“Thank you,” I said, grateful my family belonged here. The place was accustomed to welcoming dignitaries and political figures for decades. A high-maintenance Hollywood socialite was nothing for them.
As we started to head toward the table, the hostess asked, “Would you mind taking a picture with me? I won’t post it. My sister is a huge fan, and she would go nuts to see it.”
Frank started to speak, presumably to say no, but this young girl was so sweet and harmless. At least, I felt as if she was.
“Of course we can. And posting tomorrow without location tags is fine. If it captures my good side.” I half joked, but you have no idea how much criticism occurs from one bad photo online. I could feel Frank scowl at me saying she could post the pic. He hated photos or videos of me floating around.
We took the picture off to the side and then moved toward the table. I knew I was running late but putting off fans never made anything better.
As we neared the back of the restaurant, a four-top had been turned catty-corner to face the vast window, with two seats set to look out the glass panels. Candles burned in the center of the table and the chandelier glowed overhead. Outside, the sky was moving from day to dusk, lilac bleeding into orange. Callum sat in the chair farthest from me, contemplating the view. As soon as we neared, he turned, rising from his chair, waiting to greet me. Between the twentysomething hostess, Frank, Callum, and me, the situation felt less than ideal.
“Hi,” came from Cal and I repeated the short sentiment before turning toward the hostess.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t even get your name. That was rude,” I admitted, thinking we’d taken pictures before making it to the table without introductions.
“Brittany,” she said with a big smile.
“Well, thank you, Brittany. I appreciate everything, and it was great meeting you.” I took in Callum watching all of this and wondered if he might hightail it out of there.
