it sounds antisocial, but—”
“Not strange at all. This is a long haul. Whatever self-care looks like for you, do that.” She looks at me speculatively. “Tell you what. There’s a great little family restaurant in Topanga Canyon that does a crazy-good Thanksgiving dinner. Fantastic view. You’d love it. I always try to convince my family that we should go, but every year I end up slaving over an undercooked bird.”
“I don’t actually eat turkey.”
“This place serves faux turkey, or you eat fish? They do a smoked salmon crepe that’s to die for.”
“Now that sounds incredible, but do you think they’d have a table this late with Thanksgiving only two days away?”
“My agent knows one of the managers. I bet I could get him to reserve a spot for you.”
She digs through the Post-its and mangled scripts cluttering the table until she finds a notepad and pen.
“Honestly, the scenery is as good as the food,” she says, jotting down the name of the restaurant. “If I can swing this table, promise me you’ll try it.”
“Promise. I’m actually really looking forward to it. Thank you.”
“Good. You won’t regret it.”
Her smile is almost sly, secretive, but I’m probably paranoid and take her kindness at face value. The only thing I plan to cook is Mama’s apple cobbler because even though I don’t often go back to Clearview for the holidays, it makes me feel a little closer to home. Letting someone else handle the rest sounds good to me.
27
Canon
I’m not sure this was a good idea.
A little sign out front boasted this place is LA’s most romantic restaurant. A man dining alone for Thanksgiving doesn’t exactly scream romance, but I trust Jill. It’s the only way I could get her to stop harassing me to eat dinner with her family. I asked what part of alone did she not understand, but finally caved and agreed to give this place a try. Why not? It’s just a meal. Since I’m in the thick of filming, today is just another day.
The holidays held less significance after my mom died. I do have extended family still in Lemon Grove—Mama’s people. I keep somewhat in touch and typically spend the holidays there. I’ll see them at Christmas, but I invest more time in the family I’ve found through the years. I’ve collected some of my best friends working on sets, like-minded storytellers and dreamers.
I’ve barely spent a string of hours by myself since Dessi Blue started production, and for someone like me, I need the time alone. It’s how I recharge. I’m not at my creative best if I don’t get it. So before we enter what will be the toughest stretch of production, I’m taking advantage of this tiny reprieve, and not crowding it with a bunch of people and football.
I mean, I’ll watch football when I get home, but in peace. In quiet, with just me and my Macallan 25.
“Mr. Holt,” the hostess says with a warm smile. “We have your table ready.”
“Thanks.”
I follow her through the restaurant and outdoors, where a white tent strung with twinkling lights and flowers oversees a sprawling patio. So this is the romantic part. Just show me the turkey. I don’t need romance. I shoot down the image of Neevah, her smile equal parts sweet and seduction. I got too much shit to do. The last thing I need to think about is the actress starring in the biggest movie of my career. I’m not screwing this up. The only thing that derails a movie faster than ego is feelings and fucking, and I suspect with Neevah, you don’t get one without the other.
That I cannot afford.
The hostess picks her way carefully past the tented tables and down a steep flight of stone steps. I look back and up at the other diners. Where the hell is she taking me? Do they annex the singles? Shunt them away from the couples and the families gathered around their festive five-course meals?
Fine with me. No one wants to see that anyway.
We reach a clearing with two gazebos. A creek gurgles close by and in the distance, there’s the rush of a waterfall.
“Uh, is this me?” I ask skeptically. “I didn’t ask for—”
“Your friend Jill thought you might like privacy,” the hostess replies, her smile and tone conciliatory. “Would you prefer—”
“Oh. No, it’s fine. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t . . . it’s fine.”
“Right this way then.” Gesturing to the gazebo housing an elegantly set table, she leaves me