Score (Hollywood Renaissance #2)

Prelude

Verity

“Art is our weapon. Culture is a form of resistance.”

Present Day

Opportunity doesn’t always knock. Sometimes it invites you to lunch on a sunny afternoon.

I scan the tables in the rooftop restaurant, pushing past my nerves and searching for the man I’m supposed to meet.

Open Air sits atop one of LA’s most luxurious boutique hotels, The V.

It’s always a who’s who crowd, with everyone that’s supposed to be someone doing deals and eating meals up here.

This high there’s a cool breeze even in the spring, so I pull the light cardigan a little closer around my shoulders and scour the diners one more time in case I’ve missed him.

“Looking for someone?”

Living in LA for nearly the last decade, I should be used to gorgeous women.

This one, though, with her long-lashed brown eyes, thick curtain of dark hair hanging to her waist, and miles of smooth tanned skin on display in a minidress that barely hits mid-thigh, is still so breathtaking I find myself stammering.

“Um, y-yeah. I’m meeting someone. We should have a reservation.” I drag my eyes away from her to search the rooftop dining area again. “But I don’t see him yet.”

She steps behind the podium and touches the tablet screen, her thick brows furrowing. “Which name would the reservation be under?”

“Holt. Canon Holt.”

Just saying the famous director’s name triggers a full-body flush of anxiety.

He’s one of the most critically and commercially successful Black filmmakers of the past decade, and when my agent told me he requested a meeting, I nearly expired on the spot.

I’m still trying to shake off the who me?

energy and find the bad bitch bravado needed to conduct myself like the confident professional I’m supposed to be.

“Oh, Canon!” She looks up with a beatific smile so dazzling I almost say, Canon who? and ask for her number on the spot. “He’s already here. They’re in one of our private pods.”

She gestures to the discreet, striped-curtained enclosures lining the azure swimming pool at the rooftop’s center and starts walking.

“They?” I follow her, distracted by the swish of long hair and the jiggle of her ass.

Damn.

God took His time with this one.

Time well spent, Sir. Time well spent.

“My brother’s with him.” She glances over her shoulder, flashing me a knowing grin when my eyes have to bounce up to meet hers.

“Your brother?” I ask, trying to recover some of my dignity.

“Well, my stepbrother. Evan Bancroft. This is my place, and they come here all the time.”

“Open Air is your restaurant?”

“Yeah, my father owns the V hotels, but the restaurant is mine to play with.”

“It’s gorgeous,” I say, skirting the tables draped in white and set with fresh flowers.

The closer we get to the tent with one flap pulled back at the far end of the pool, the more anxious I become. This is a huge meeting, and I hope I can keep my shit together long enough to impress Canon Holt.

“Gentlemen,” she says when we reach the tent. “I believe you’re expecting…”

She turns to me with brows lifted. “I didn’t even ask. What’s your name?”

“Verity Hill.” I ping a glance between the two men, who stand from the table to greet me.

“Nice to meet you, Verity,” she says. “I’m Arietta.”

“Thanks for your help.” I give her a grateful smile, then turn to accept the hand Canon Holt extends. “So nice to meet you, Mr. Holt.”

“Please call me Canon. Thanks for taking time to chat.” He nods to the other guy. “I hope you don’t mind my producing partner, Evan Bancroft, sitting in.”

“Of course not,” I say, shaking Evan’s hand, too. “Nice meeting you.”

Side by side, the two men cut an impressive picture.

Canon—brown-skinned, broad-chested, and just over six feet tall—wears a sports jacket with a white T-shirt and dark jeans.

He has a reputation for being austere and hard to read, and his impassive expression seems to confirm it.

Matching Canon in height and breadth, Evan looks like the quintessential Southern California boy, his bronze- and gold-streaked hair falling in those waves only achieved with an expensive haircut.

He has a charming smile that says he’s trying to be one of the guys, but he can’t disguise the aura of wealth and privilege he wears as easily as his black V-neck sweater and flawlessly tailored slacks.

“You guys haven’t ordered anything yet?” Arietta asks once the three of us are seated.

“We thought we’d wait for our guest,” Evan replies. “Have you eaten here before, Verity?”

“No.” I pick up one of the glossy menus and open it, overwhelmed by the number of options. “Wow. This menu feels like a test I should have studied for.”

“I recommend the prawns to start,” Arietta suggests, smiling at me warmly.

“That sounds great.” I set the menu down, needing a moment to settle myself for this conversation and not really caring what we eat.

“Let’s add one of those iceberg wedges, too.” Evan looks at me. “To drink, Verity?”

“Water’s fine.” I hide my hands under the table and twist my thumb ring round and round, my heart racing while I wait for the real conversation to begin.

“I have to go,” Arietta says. “But I’ll put in an order for the starters and send over your server.”

She only makes it a few steps before turning around and heading back to our table. She reaches for the pen sitting beside a notepad in front of Canon. I’m shocked when she grabs my hand and writes her name and number in my palm.

“Call me,” she whispers, and winks before walking back off, that glorious ass bidding me a fond farewell.

An awkward bubble of silence hovers over the table for about five seconds before Evan pops it with a deep laugh. Canon’s lips twitch and he gives in, adding his rumbling chuckle to his partner’s amusement. My face heats, but I clear my throat and manage to laugh along.

“Wow,” Evan says, hooking one elbow over the back of his seat. “It’s not awkward at all when your sister hits on your business associate.”

“Don’t act like it’s the first time.” Canon reaches for his water, a small smile still curving his lips. It’s nice to see a crack in his famously inscrutable mask.

“Damn.” I feign disappointment. “And here I was feeling special.”

That breaks the ice, so we laugh and spend the next few minutes studying the menu to decide what else we’ll order once the server comes.

I use the time to gather my thoughts. Sheila, my agent, didn’t have much information on what Canon wanted to meet about, but who cares?

A director of Canon’s caliber reaches out, you take the meeting.

We’ve put in our orders and are waiting for the food to come when Canon broaches the subject.

“So, Verity,” Canon says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table, settling his chin on steepled hands. “I guess you’re wondering why we wanted to meet with you.”

“Dying of curiosity, since you asked,” I say, making no attempt to hide my eagerness.

Canon smiles and nods. “Evan and I, like everyone else in town, have been very impressed with your work over the last few years.”

“Congrats again,” Evan says, “on the Golden Globe. That was one of the best scripts I’ve read in years.”

“Thank you.” I make a conscious effort to relax my shoulders, which have slowly been creeping up to my ears the more nervous I’ve become.

“Have you ever heard of Dessi Blue?” Canon asks, watching me closely.

The question comes from left field, but my passion and encyclopedic knowledge of the Harlem Renaissance kick in.

“Of course,” I reply, feeling more at ease than I have since I entered the restaurant.

“I did a ton of research on the Harlem Renaissance for my thesis. Dessi is the stage name for Odessa Johnson, a fantastic singer in the thirties and beyond. She moved to Harlem during the Great Migration. Her people were from Alabama, if I’m not mistaken. ”

“Yup.” Canon nods, a grin tipping one side of his mouth. “Her parents actually moved back, but she stayed in New York.”

“Right.” I pick up where he left off. “She worked at the Savoy for a bit, where she met Cal Hampton, a trumpet player who famously dragged her onstage one night at the Radium Club to sing impromptu with his band. The rest, as they say, is history. She ended up going on the road with him, fell in love, married, and took Europe by storm.”

“So much of her career was spent abroad,” Canon interjects, “because she could never have made as much money or garnered as much respect here in the States. They stayed through the Second World War and settled in Paris with their daughter, Katherine, into the late fifties, early sixties.”

“Yeah,” Evan pipes in. “We’ve actually spoken with their daughter. Kitty’s great.”

My pulse pounds at my temples, excitement and adrenaline flooding my nervous system. I don’t want to presume, but why would Canon Holt be asking me about a relatively obscure historical figure if he didn’t have a project in mind about her?

“It’s a remarkable, uniquely American—uniquely African American, to be more precise—story,” Canon says. “We plan to tell it and wondered if you want to help us do it right.”

I can’t even play it off. My hands fly to my mouth and I’m pretty sure I squeak like a little mouse coveting a block of cheese.

“Are you for real?” I gasp. “You’re making a movie about Dessi Blue?”

“We are.” An open grin transforms Canon’s face, his excitement for the endeavor palpable. “I’m putting our team together now, and you’re the first writer I thought of.”

“I am?” I press a hand to my chest. “Thank you. I’m so flattered.”

“We think you’re uniquely qualified to write Dessi’s story,” Evan says.

“I agree,” I say, smiling to take some of the cockiness out of my statement. “But why do you think so?”

“Obviously you have an incredible background, graduating from USC film.” Canon extends a fist to bump. “Go, Trojans.”