Cindy grinned. “Yeah, I think I can.”
For the first time, Patricia didn’t have an acid comeback. Instead, she lifted her shoulders. “Suit yourself.” She left, gripping the handrail on her way down the attic staircase.
“Thanks—I will.” Cindy slammed her door and danced right there in her towel. She had so much to do. If she could talk a few of her father’s friends into investing with her, she’d have a studio up and running within the month. She threw on a pair of leggings and a tunic, blow-dried her hair, and brushed on mascara before deeming herself ready to face the road ahead.
She paused in the mirror, looking at rule number 3 taped to the glass. More than anything, she wanted to share her plans with Beau. Wanted to show him the scripts in progress—ask him which one he thought would put her studio on the grid without breaking the start-up budget. She wanted to sit shoulder to shoulder and run through dialogue. She wanted him in every part of this venture—she wanted him in her life.
But she wanted the Beau she’d shopped with—the one who asked about her college days and laughed at her antics and fished for compliments. If he even existed.
Who was the real Beau Mckay? Was it the guy who growled like a bear and made her laugh, or the one who had his hands on Drusilla while they danced? She wanted to believe that her Beau was the real man behind the movie mask, that the playboy image was a blinking light meant to draw attention.
She took the stairs slowly, pondering over the dynamic in the movie world that included social obligations as much as a strong work ethic. Parties were about networking. Lunches were about pitching the next project. Clubbing was for building relationships with your coworkers. Any one of those reasons would be completely understandable, and yet Patricia had implied there was so much more to the photo than taking care of business. She insinuated Beau and Drusilla were getting down to business.
If only there was some way to tell where his heart truly lay.
The doorbell rang, bringing her gaze off her feet. The house was quiet; Patricia and her daughters gone for the day. Cindy hurried to answer the door. A delivery girl with the Cakes by Design logo on her ball cap stood on the porch. “I’m looking for Cindy Knight?”
“I’m Cindy.”
“Then this is for you.” She handed over a giant white cake box. “Happy Birthday.”
“Thanks?” Cindy stared at the box, a memory wiggling in the back of her mind. The smell of chocolate, hazelnuts, and sugar wafted up from the container, taking her back to every birthday she celebrated with her daddy. She shook her head and smiled. “Tomás.” That wonderful man.
She flipped open the card.
Happy Birthday, Princess.
Princess? Maybe the person taking the order thought he said princess. Tomás called her “peanut,” just like Daddy had.
You’ve lived thirty years on your own—I’d sure like to spend the next thirty convincing you we belong together.
Love, Beau
She flippedthe card over and looked at the back as if the words “Just kidding” would be there to explain why Beau was sending her a wonderful birthday card—and a cake! Eyeing the box, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know. There was no way he sent her a triple layer chocolate hazelnut cake. He could not have picked that cake—her cake.
She ripped off the seal and flipped up the top. Overwhelmed with the delectable goodness, she leaned over and inhaled the smell.
Beau. Was. Amazing.
She clutched the card to her chest as the pictures of Beau dancing with Drusilla flashed through her head.
Her plan for her birthday had been to visit some of her dad’s old friends and lay the groundwork for her new studio. However, if she looked in her heart, what she really wanted for her birthday was Beau. Warmth and peace flooded her soul like fairy dust pouring from a magic wand.
Praying she could trust the feeling, she headed for her car. She’d told Patricia she wouldn’t go to Knight Studios today—but she didn’t owe Patricia a thing. If she wanted to walk through the doors to the company her father built, then she was going to do just that.
Chapter 12
Beau paced the bathroom tiles. Drusilla had suctioned herself to his arm—and leg and middle—all morning long in an odd monkey-possessiveness. The men’s room was the only place he could breathe without her in his oxygen.
The trip to the club had been a joke. Cindy never appeared, and when he’d asked about her, Patricia dismissed his inquiry with a “We didn’t inviteemployees.”
An employee? Her stepdaughter. He’d coughed. “I should probably head out. I have an early gym appointment.”
Drusilla pouted. “I was hoping we could dance—just once.”
“I really don’t—”
Patricia had put her hand on his arm and spoke so only he could hear. “She’s just been dumped and it shook her. Dancing with you would bolster her self-confidence. Please. She’s my daughter.”
