Her reviews weren’t good because her dad’s name was on those scripts, although that may have helped. The films with her name as co-screenwriter had a quality her father’s lone projects missed. And Robert Knight was no slacker. He’d established his foothold in film while Beau was still in braces.
She sighed. “Reviews don’t pay salaries.”
Beau twirled his almost empty cup. “Can’t you go to another studio? One where you’d be appreciated for your talent?”
“I am appreciated—by the people who matter to me. If I leave, the company would crumble under Patricia’s management style. I take her crap to keep it from landing on everyone else and stinking up the place.”
Beau wanted to sink under the table or crawl under a rock somewhere. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked out for the little guy or cared about anyone—well, besides his closest friends, Mark and Anthony. But if he were honest, they didn’t ask much of him. “What’s in it for you?” asked Beau.
“Excuse me?” Cindy pushed her drink aside.
“Nobody gets something for nothing—what do you get out of this?”
“I get to seeEgypt’s Goldon the big screen. Daddy died before he had a chance to read it. I guess I feel like, if it’s projected out there, he might get to see it somehow.”
Beau covered her hand with his. “I’m honored to be a part of it.”
Her pinkie finger twitched and then she flipped her hand over and grasped his. “Thank you.” They held one another’s gaze, and that feeling of looking into one another’s hearts was back.
“What are you really doing here?” she asked with a grin.
“I need a wedding gift for Mark and Allie.”
She looked at him dubiously. “And you came to the mall?”
“What?” He shrugged.
“You are such a guy. Wait—you weren’t shopping for them at Vicky’s Hush-Hush, were you?”
“What? No! Give me a little credit.”
“All right, where were you planning to look?”
He ran his hand through his hair. “I hadn’t thought much about it, and then I saw you.” He nudged the pink bag. “And I got a little sidetracked.”
“Uh-huh.” Her cheeks dusted pink.
“What do you recommend?”
“Where are they registered?”
He lifted both his hands. “How would I know?”
“You could ask.”
“Right.” He snorted. “‘Hey Mark, would you like the ruffles on your towels to coordinate with your bedspread?’ No way. He’d take away my man card.”
“Oh my gosh! Just ask.” She slapped his arm. “It’s a perfectly normal question.”
He made a gagging noise. “Not for a guy.”
“Pah-leeze!” She swiped up his phone.
“What are you doing?” He reached for his phone, worried she was calling Mark. Not that he didn’t want the two of them to meet. Cindy would meld into his small social group better than he did. But he wasn’t about to have her paint him as a girlie-man.
She pulled the phone just out of his grasp. “I’m Googling it.”
“Good luck—Mark’s never in the press.” The lucky son of a gun.
