Home Matters (A Ripple Effect Romance Novella, Book 1) (2 page)

Careful not to smudge her makeup, she lifted her lashes with one hand and pinched the rogue contact with the other. “Gotcha,” she was saying when her cell phone trilled from inside her purse.
Stupid, stupid,
she scolded herself for not remembering to turn it off while she’d been waiting, and as she pulled it out, she consulted the display.

“Hello, Momma,” she answered, setting the phone on the counter so she’d have two free hands to replace her contact.

“How’s my little superstar?” she gushed as only a Southern mother could.

Olivia replaced her contact then stood back, blinking it into place.
Puking her nerves out,
she responded in her head. She knew better than to say as much to her mother. The woman was wound tighter than a two-dollar watch and chronically prone to overreaction.

Thankfully, Olivia’s father spoke next. “Mornin’, Peach,” he said in that steady way of his.

A quiet sigh lifted the tension crushing Olivia’s chest. Her frantic heart slowed to an even pace. Two words from her father, and she was back on solid ground.

“Hey, Daddy.”

“Well, did you get it?” Her mother surged back in. “Are you the new cohost of
Home Matters
?”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “No, Momma.” She uncapped her lip-gloss and gave her smudged lips a refresher coat. “I’m still waiting for my screen test.”

“Peach, do you think it’s a good idea for you to try out for a show where you have to use power tools?” her father gently asked. “I don’t mean to be critical, but the last time you tempted fate with a pair kitchen shears, you spent a whole day in the emergency room.”

“Stan, you worry too much. That’s why they call it acting,” her mother dismissed. “Right, Sweetheart? Oh, just wait until I tell everyone down at the church. They all think their girls are so special just because they’re married and poppin’ out babies. The look on their faces is gonna be priceless when I…” she continued to gush, a faucet of expectation left wide open.

Olivia slipped her lip-gloss back into her purse. Then she busied herself with rechecking her hair, straightening her blouse and reasonably short pencil skirt, and trying to keep the undercurrent of what her mother
wasn’t
saying from pulling her further down. Olivia’s mother had always pushed her daughter to be a star, to reach for more than a house in the suburbs and a seat on the Junior League, but what they never discussed, out loud, was what would become of Olivia if—heaven forbid—fame passed her by. Good thing her mother didn’t know how close they currently were to having that conversation.

“Emma-Jean,” Olivia’s father finally cut in. “Could you just stop that dadgum chattering long enough to listen to what the girl has to say? She hasn’t even screen tested yet.”

A gasp hissed through Olivia’s phone, followed by what sounded like her mother’s hand covering the speaker on her end. “Well, I ain’t deaf yet, you know. I heard my child just fine,” her mother’s muffled voice rebuked before regaining full volume through the line again. “Have you at least met that William Blaine?” she asked, squeaking his name. “Heaven above, my baby girl starring right along next to
Reality
magazine’s Heartthrob of the Year. And he’s single too.” She clapped her hands. “You two would produce some mighty pretty grandbabies.”

Another of Olivia’s dreams was to be the better half of one of those Hollywood power couples. And William Blaine would fit the bill quite nicely. She’d even been trying out Uni-Names—Oli-iam. Wi-livia. Wi-liv. Cute, right? Never-theless, she and her mother were both getting ahead of themselves. She opened her mouth to say so, but when she felt the presence of another person, she shifted her attention through the mirror’s reflection instead.

Just inside the doorway, a man dressed in a polo shirt with a
Home Matters
logo and cargo-type pants stood staring at her. With eyes wide and unblinking, he looked as though he’d seen a ghost or some other unexplainable existence. In his right hand, he held a plunger.

With a start, Olivia whipped around to face him, her hand pressed against her hammering chest. “What in heaven’s name are you…” she began when the smell of the toilet, the wetness covering the floor, and his workman attire all added up to only one answer.

“Sweetheart, are you all right?” her mother asked. “Is someone there?”

Olivia turned back to the mirror. “Yes, Momma, it’s fine,” she said. “It’s just the janitor. This lady’s room is one hot mess, is all.”

“You sure you’re all right?” her father confirmed.

Her mother whispered, “Does he look like a rapist?” like lowering her voice would make a difference if he were. “Do I need to have your father call nine-one-one?”

Olivia glanced through the mirror at the man by the door. Casually leaning against the wall now, the confounded look he’d worn a minute ago had been replaced by a smile as if he didn’t—in the very least—have two toilets in desperate need of his attention. He didn’t appear to be a threat, but the fact that he seemed to find anything about her situation amusing had
her
mind conjuring some violent images of its own.

Turning to face him again, she jabbed a fist to her hip. “Don’t you have something better to do than eavesdrop on other people’s conversations?” she asked, her gaze deliberately landing on the plunger he had gripped in his hand.

His smile wavered, his puzzled eyes following hers down to the plunger. Understanding wiped the confusion from his face, and a different kind of smile, more devious than amused this time, pulled at his lips. “Nope.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Listening to you is far more entertaining than anything else I‘ve got going on right now.”

Olivia’s mouth dropped open an instant before she snapped it shut again. She slapped him with an exasperated look. “You mean to tell me you’re gonna just stand there, listening in on a private conversation that is, in no way, any of your business?”

He lifted a shoulder. “That’s my plan.”

The sound of her parents, insisting on knowing what was going on, spilled from the speaker of her phone, but she was no longer concerned with them. This man’s behavior was reprehensible, and she was determined to make sure he knew it.

“I’ll have to get back to y’all in a bit,” she called out to her folks and hit
end
without waiting for a response.

Olivia lifted a perfectly plucked eyebrow and aimed it at the janitor. “Well, it just so happens that Ms. Hightower is a close, personal friend of mine,” she half-lied, full-on threatened. “And you can rest assured she’ll be hearing about this—”

The door popped open. The receptionist stuck her head in, a question pulling down the corners of her mouth. “Miss Pembroke?” she said, her gaze alternating between Olivia and the janitor. “They’re ready for you.”

Olivia gathered up her purse and phone, squared her shoulders, and headed for the exit. “You’re very rude,” she observed as she passed.

The door closed behind her, but not quick enough to block his reply.

“Break a leg.” He chuckled.

“Welcome, Miss Pembroke.”

Olivia squinted against the glaring set lights and focused in on the casting director. To either side of him stood a producer, Ms. Hightower to be exact, and a young woman who was most likely his assistant.

She sent the trio a demure smile. “Please, call me Olivia,” she said, adding a healthy dollop of self-confidence. Five minutes ago her nerves were attempting to regurgitate the lining of her stomach, but now in front of the camera, as always, she was in complete control. She was, after all, a professional.

“All right, Olivia. Can you turn to the left?” he asked. Knowing that directors often started a screen test by assessing an actor from every angle, she complied. “Now to the right,” he directed. She turned the other way. “Thanks,” he said sounding pleased. “How tall are you?”

She gave a quick thought to the actress she hoped to replace. The first words that sprang to mind were
tall
,
blonde
, and
goddess
. In other words, the perfect height to stand alongside William Blaine’s six-foot-two. The duo had possessed an unprecedented balance of sexual tension and competitiveness, a brand of on-air chemistry that had skyrocketed the home improvement show to the pinnacle of primetime ratings. If Olivia stood ramrod straight, she could feign five-seven. But in these heels she might get away with stretching a bit taller.

“Five-seven and a half,” she embellished.

“That’s perfect,” his voice appeared equally pleased. “Okay, let’s start with where you’re from.”

Olivia pursed her lips, portraying a wistful longing for home. “Well, I grew up in Brentwood… Tennessee, that is,” she said, allowing the overhead mike to amplify the way she drawled her home state. She always began a screen test by taking her southern twang out for a spin—testing the water, so to speak. She’d been through enough auditions to know that her natural way of speaking could be an asset as easily as a liability.

The casting director leaned into Ms. Hightower. “She’s absolutely precious,” Olivia heard him whisper. Ms. Hightower nodded in agreement. Olivia smiled on the inside. Today it looked as if her country-speak fit nicely in the asset category.

He straightened and asked, “And where did you go to college?”

Olivia shifted her weight to one foot, striking a pose that accentuated her toned thighs. “The University of Tennessee—Go Vols!” she said, slathering her twang on thick. “Graduated magna cum laude with a double major in theater and art with emphasis in design,” she added, which was mostly true. The honors, art, and theater part, at least. And though she’d perused
Home Decorating for Dummies
, cover-to-cover, she’d never had one ounce of formal design training.

But then everyone in Hollywood lied about themselves, and not only about weight, age and sexual orientation (when necessary), but regarding accomplishments as well. Except she’d been raised in a Christian, God-fearing home where honesty, along with the golden rule, had been drilled into her conscience since birth. Consequently, she had yet to grow accustomed to telling half-truths, and every time she did, she felt the dimmer switch on her countenance slip a bit more.

Sometimes she really hated this business.

The director’s assistant added a piece of paper to the stack in her boss’s hand. He quickly scanned the content. “Says here you’ve done some commercials?” he asked.

Olivia considered whether or not she wanted to elaborate. Her “starring” roles consisted of, among others, playing a young woman with a bladder control issue. Another where she’d portrayed a co-ed with a nasty toenail fungus who was viciously mocked while attending a beach party in white sneakers and athletic socks up to her knees. The one where she’d donned a furry suit in order to play a constipated dog, too miserable to even chase its ball, had been her longest running, and most humiliating. But given the prestige of cohosting a show like
Home Matters
, she was hesitant to own up to it.

“Yes, I’ve been in approximately a half-dozen,” she said, and left it at that.

“Excellent,” said the casting director. He turned to his assistant. “All right, let’s bring in William.”

If it were possible for a man to strut and swagger at the same time, William Blaine would have that particular gait down to a perfect science. With good looks that rivaled movie icon Rock Hudson, and a strong yet quiet demeanor to go along with them, it didn’t surprise Olivia that prior to his career in television, he’d earned millions buying and selling real estate. In the words of her mother: “That man could sell a cage to a lion.” And most American women would agree.

Stopping a comfortable distance from Olivia, he extended a hand. “William Blaine,” he said, the words floating over his lips in a symphony of syllables.

Olivia lifted her eyes to meet his. Fringed in a curtain of dark lashes, his brown gaze smiled back at her, his small mouth, plump with two perfect pillows for lips, twisted up at the corners. The spicy, sweet scent of his cologne drifted to her nostrils. A smidge strong for her taste. A flaw she could overlook.

Slipping her hand into his, she felt the cool smoothness of his palm against hers, his grip on the soft side of firm. “Olivia,” she responded, trying to appear in control.