A Reluctant Boy Toy (Men of St. Nacho's #3) - Z.A. Maxfield Page 0,4

tonight.” Her phone chimed and she scowled as she glanced at it. “Oh cripes.”

“What is it?” My unflappable PA was rarely blindsided by anything.

“Your mother. Apparently she’s been trying to reach you, and you haven’t picked up.”

“Has she?” Pleading ignorance was a go-to for me. “I didn’t notice.”

“Bullshit you didn’t. Don’t ignore her. She’s only going to keep calling me until I force you to pick up. Answer her, and put us all out of our misery. Please. And remember, whatever it is, it’s okay to tell her no.”

“Fine.” I took out my phone and returned her call.

“Finally. Oh my goodness,” my mother singsonged in her little girl voice. “Where are you, sweetheart? Your call is for seven a.m. Did you forget? I’ll make up some excuse if they call here, but it’s your first day on location. Can you at least try to be marginally responsible this time?”

“I’m here, Mom. In my trailer, on set, on time,” I said irritably. “I have been arriving early ever since I started taking responsibility away from—”

“Don’t take that tone with me, darling.” She didn’t sound relieved. “Why didn’t you let me know? I thought we said you were going to call and tell me that you were on your way so I won’t worry.”

“You said that, but I don’t report to you.” It was none of her business where I was anymore. I played high school–aged characters. I wasn’t in high school myself.

“All right, sweetheart. You don’t have to bite my head off when I’m only trying to help.”

“What else?” Because there was always something else.

“Don’t forget you have the watch ad shoot at the winery on Saturday.”

I glanced at Molly. “Transportation for the ad shoot on Saturday?”

“Taken care of.”

“I’ve got it. What else?”

The hesitation was her tell. “I hate to ask, you know I do. But this month I had to have the trees trimmed because the leaves kept clogging up the pool filters. I am absolutely tapped out by landscape expenses, and—”

“Tell Molly what you need. She’ll take it up with Dad.”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s any need to bring your father into this, is there?”

“It’s not like I can bring you a bag of cash, Mom. Dad cuts the checks. You know this.”

“Don’t you get mad money for unexpected expenses?”

“Nope. Dad no longer trusts me with cash.” This was another blatant lie—one of a hundred untruths I perpetuated to keep myself safe from people I should have been safe from in the first place.

She sighed heavily. “All right. Have Molly call me. But honestly, dear, I don’t know if you know this, but your dependence on your father is very unhealthy. Also, you give Molly far too much license. She’s not family. She’s not industry. She’ll only get a taste for the good life, and before you know it, she’ll think she deserves whatever she wants. It’s people like Molly who end up robbing us blind, you know.”

Takes one to know one. “Thanks for your advice.”

“Bastian—”

“Gotta go mom. I need breakfast before things get started here. Time is money.”

“All right. Be safe, darling. And try to work responsibly. You want people to know you’ve changed, don’t you?”

“Of course.” Not really.

“Bye, dear. I hope you know I lo—”

I disconnected the call.

“I should call her about money?” Molly guessed.

“Yes, but do it through Dad. He loves playing the heavy.”

“Your family is so fucked up.” Molly might not act like a UCLA graduate with a master’s degree with distinction in psychology but that’s what made her so good at her job.

“Is that your professional opinion?” I asked.

She simply smiled. “Want breakfast outside?”

“That’d be nice. Thanks.”

“Be out in a second.”

I stepped from the coach into the blue light of an achingly beautiful morning. The fog had begun to burn off, but the air was still palpably damp and cool against my skin. The trees dripped dew. With the rising sun, all of nature wanted to come to life. The flap of moths’ wings gave way to the hum of bees. Squirrels scrabbled in tree branches and birds sang. The air held coastal fragrances—seaweed, iodine, and where my RV had been parked, the subtle fragrance of redwood trees. They were St. Nacho’s scents. They reminded me of home.

I felt at peace, and safe, and deeply happy. I closed my eyes to listen to the waves breaking against the bluffs in the distance. Somewhere nearby, dogs barked. Or it might have been the wolfdog hybrids I’d seen that morning; their excited voices drifting on the