small-town Jewish boy from Hoboken, New Jersey. T.K. liked that about him.
“We’ll only be working together, not getting married,” T.K. joked. “Yeah, I’ll be there.”
“Did you get the chance to watch those movies I sent over?” Mark asked skeptically.
“I did,” T.K. answered, surprising Mark. “The camera definitely loves her, and she can actually act.”
Mark laughed. They often joked about the recent crop of actresses who were beautiful but vapid and couldn’t act their way out of a paper bag, as Mark had put it.
“Yes, yes,” he said now. “Patrice Sutton has it all—looks, talent and just a touch of fearlessness. I like her.”
“I can tell,” T.K. said, laughing softly. “What exactly do you mean by fearlessness?”
“Her agent phoned to confirm that Patrice would be at the meeting, and you’ll never guess what Ms. Sutton was doing today.”
T.K. hated it when someone wanted him to guess anything. He laughed. “Don’t keep me in suspense!”
After Mark told him, he laughed even harder. “A sistuh?”
“That’s what I said,” Mark told him. “It was as unbelievable as it would have been if it were one of my sisters or cousins. I can’t imagine one of those princesses in the dust and dirt chasing after a calf on horseback and jumping off said horse to throw the calf to the ground and tie its legs together. My nana would have a stroke.”
“I can’t wait to meet her,” T.K. said sincerely.
Mark laughed. “It should be interesting.”
Chapter 2
The same driver who had picked Patrice up at the airport last night drove her to Mark Greenberg’s office in downtown L.A. Friday morning. The day was fairly clear, and the temperature was in the high seventies.
As she climbed from the backseat, the driver—a good-looking, tall, broad-shouldered brother with a nice ’fro and a goatee—offered her a hand out of the car. Patrice couldn’t see his eyes behind his dark sunglasses as she accepted his help, but she saw his head tip downward when her skirt hitched up. He smiled. “Would you like me to wait, Ms. Sutton?”
Patrice straightened and looked up at the tall building. “No, I’ll call a cab when I’m ready to leave,” she told him. “Thank you.”
“It’s been my pleasure,” he said.
Patrice smoothed the skirt of her off-white sleeveless A-line dress. It’s hem fell about three inches above her shapely knees, and the bodice didn’t reveal a great deal of cleavage. Brown leather designer pumps and a shoulder bag completed her ensemble. She looked smart and sexy all at once. Tinted glass concealed the lobby from outside eyes, so she was pleasantly surprised by the understated elegance of Italian tile on the lobby’s floor, contemporary furnishings that looked welcoming instead of intimidating and gleaming black granite on the reception desk. The woman behind the desk was a brunette in her mid-thirties. People milled about the lobby, but there was no one presently at the desk. Patrice stepped up to it. “Good morning, I have an appointment to see Mark Greenberg.”
The woman looked her up and down, her light-colored brown eyes openly assessing her and appearing to find her wanting. She wrinkled her nose as if she smelled something bad. “What is your name, please?”
“Patrice Sutton,” said Patrice with a warm smile. Over the years she’d been dismissed by so many receptionists that the woman’s attitude didn’t faze her. Half the time, even if they knew exactly who you were, they would still make you wait—or at the very least, draw out the time you had to stand there while they verified your identity.
Patrice had run two miles that morning, though, and she was still feeling the endorphins coursing through her. They were a wonderful mood-enhancing drug. A receptionist wasn’t going to rain on her parade today.
The receptionist took her time putting on a stylish pair of reading glasses and perusing her computer screen. “Ah, yes, you’re to go right up.” She gave Patrice the office number and pointed in the direction of the bank of elevators. “Hurry, you’re going to be late in five minutes.”
“Thank you,” said Patrice, rolling her eyes when her back was to the woman.
Power trips were so ugly.
A few minutes later, she walked into the reception area of Mark Greenberg’s office and had to face another receptionist. This one was male, African-American and perfectly turned out in a dark blue suit and tie. There was no one else in the office. He rose when he saw her and grinned broadly. “Wow, Ms. Sutton, it’s really you, in the flesh!” His outburst must have been unintentional because he suddenly looked stricken. “Sorry,” he said, chagrined.
Patrice liked him immediately.
She offered him her hand in greeting. He took it and held it in both of his as he smiled at her. “I loved you in Amsterdam Avenue.”
Patrice smiled at the mention of her now-canceled sitcom. She had portrayed—what else—an out-of-work actress, in the well-received situation comedy. The show had been called Amsterdam Avenue because of the prevalence of creative people like actors, dancers and singers living in that part of Manhattan.
“You’re a Kym fan, huh?” she said. “Thanks, I had a lot of fun on that show.”
“I couldn’t wait to see what kind of trouble Kym would get into from week to week,” he said. “Oh, I’ve seen your movies, too.”
“That was you?” Patrice joked. “I hear they sold about two tickets. You must have taken a date with you.”
He laughed uproariously. He laughed so loudly that Mark Greenberg came out of his office to see what all the fuss was about.
“Patrice, you’re here,” he exclaimed upon seeing her. “T.K. and I have been waiting for you.” He laughed shortly when he saw that his assistant still had a grip on Patrice’s hand. “Calvin, if you’ll let go of Ms. Sutton, we’ll get the meeting started.”
Calvin looked embarrassed and abruptly let go of her. “I’m sorry, Ms. Sutton.”
Patrice smiled at him. “It’s been a pleasure chatting with you, Calvin.”
He followed them to the door of Mark’s office. “Can I get you anything? Coffee, tea, bottled water, a muffin? I can go out and get you something if we don’t have it.”
“No, thank you. I’m fine,” said Patrice as Mark grabbed her by the arm and gently pulled her inside his office, whereupon he firmly, if not rudely, shut the door in Calvin’s face.
“I apologize for that,” he said softly as they walked into his spacious office. “Calvin is usually not as effusive when he meets celebrities. I suppose he’s a really big fan of yours. I should have known something was up when he arrived at work this morning looking like a GQ model. We’re usually more casual around here.”
He was wearing jeans and a button-down shirt with a pair of expensive athletic shoes—the same sort of clothing he’d been wearing when
