Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Sophia
“Cal! Help your sister! I’m going to throw her hockey stuff in the car,” I scream as I walk to the front door. After shoveling food into the kids’ mouths, I almost forgot that their summer hockey league starts tonight. And the door into my garage from the kitchen somehow got reverse locked, so I need to use my spare garage door opener to get inside. But of course, it’s no one’s fault here. Or at least, that’s what the kids swore. I groan to myself as I grab the opener from the table by the door. As I reach for the doorknob and begin opening it, the doorbell rings, and I scream.
Everything that happens in the next ten seconds will forever be burned into my brain like a CD-ROM circa nineteen ninety-nine.
In my fright over the doorbell ringing, I toss the garage door opener and it goes sailing somewhere in the living room. My eyes take in large feet, long legs, an extremely, like ridiculously fit torso and chest, and then my vision is clouded by a face, a very, very familiar face.
Tate Anders is standing at my door. Holy shitballs! Tate Fucking Anders, the Hollywood heartthrob, is standing at my door! I blink several times as if he’s a mirage and will disappear. But he doesn’t. No, he’s very much standing here.
“Uh, hi,” he says after a beat, holding up his hand in some sort of waving motion. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he adds with a sheepish smile as he takes in my appearance. Oh, God! My appearance. I probably look like a lunatic. I’m wearing…I look down. What am I wearing? Oh, my cleaning clothes. Why did I decide to put these on early tonight? Oh right, because I was cleaning. I’m wearing old leggings with a black-on-black unicorn pattern on them and a cotton t-shirt that says, “I brake for mythical creatures.” My hair probably looks like a rat’s nest on top of my head. And the nail polish I applied last weekend is most definitely chipped. Why am I even caring about that right now? I internally groan. Because Tate is staring down at me as if he just encountered a rare animal in the wild. I certainly look like one.
I close my eyes for a second in hopes that this is a nightmare, and when I reopen them, I will be getting up to take the kids to their hockey camp’s evening program. In three…two…one…
I open my eyes and find Tate Anders giving me a curious look. Fuck.
“Hi,” I finally manage.
“Mom! I can’t find Lizzie’s tape!” Cal yells loud enough for even the Fitzsimmonses next door to hear. How he already got upstairs, I have no idea.
Tate’s eyes widen as he looks up at the top of my stairs.
He grimaces. “I’m sorry. I…should have called first, but Carol only got your address, not your phone number. I sent an email earlier today but maybe it went to your spam?”
Well, well, well, I guess Marti is in for the shock of her life, as soon as I jump-start my own heart. So much for just wanting an autographed copy of my book.
Cal rushes down the stairs. “Found it!” He stops in his tracks mid-step, maybe even more shocked than I am. “Mom?” he asks. “Why is Tate Anders here?”
I look from Cal to Tate and back to Cal. “That’s an excellent question, Cal.” I turn to Tate. “Uh, why are you here?” I ask. Then, I give my head a little shake. Where the fuck have my manners gone? “Sorry, please come in. Pardon the mess. We are just heading out to hockey practice, well, hockey camp.”
“Oh?” His eyes light up. “You play hockey?” he asks Cal.
“Yep. It’s OK. I’m more into baseball, but Lizzie loves hockey,” he explains.
“Give me my…” Lizzie comes bounding down the stairs and runs into Cal. Seriously, are my kids ninjas? How did they both get upstairs when grabbing the garage door opener only took me five seconds. I watch her open her mouth to yell at him and then her gaze lands on Tate. Her eyes widen. “Harkin Rowan!” she exclaims, saying one of his characters’ names.
I glance back to Tate who smiles warmly at her. “I do play Harkin in the movies. You must be Lizzie?” he asks.
Her mouth falls open and she nods.
“I’m sorry, but we have to go. We’re already late and it’s the first night. You know how the first time is, right? They are excited and Lizzie’s nervous,” I fumble over my words trying to explain.
“I am not!” Lizzie yells.
“I need to get them in the car. What can I do you for?” I ask and immediately I feel my cheeks heat. You know how the first time is? What can I do you for? The innuendos are endless. What am I even saying here?
Tate chuckles and runs his hand through that thick dark hair. Fuck me! I mean really, fuck me. What it must be like to be fucked by that man. Oh my God! Why am I thinking about that? I feel the heat intensify in my cheeks.
“I know this probably sounds crazy. I…had sort of a crazy bad week and I have been wanting to talk to you about your book and just needed to get away. So, I maybe sort of hopped on a plane and came out here to talk to you,” he says, his words coming out in a rush.
My eyes widen.
“You read my mom’s book!” Cal asks from behind me.
“I did read one of them and I loved it,” he admits. This time it’s his cheeks that pinken.
“Mom? We’re going to be late. Coach Lester is gonna be so mad,” Lizzie pouts.
“I…uh…do you want to come with us? We can chat while the kids do whatever they are going to do,” I suggest. I just invited the world’s biggest movie star to a little kids’ hockey camp. I couldn’t make up this meet-cute if I tried.
“Sure. That sounds like fun. I mean, if you don’t mind me tagging along,” he replies.
Cal hoots and I turn to find him fist-pumping. “Yes! My friends are gonna be so jealous,” he says happily as he continues down the stairs. “Where’s the garage door opener? I can open it for you.”
I look around and point to where it landed. He frowns but walks over and grabs it before hurrying out the door. Lizzie walks down and stands in front of Tate. “You’re tall,” she says, raising an eyebrow as she takes in his height. She’s not wrong. And my heart gives a little flutter looking at my petite daughter standing next to the behemoth of a man.
His grin spreads across his face. “You’re short. I have a feeling you are very good at hockey. Like a secret weapon the other team doesn’t see coming,” he states as he looks down at her.
Her giggle erupts as she turns to go to the inside garage door. “You’re funny, Mr. Tate,” she says as she turns the corner, leaving me alone with him.
“Your kids are adorable,” he says quietly.
“Thank you, Mr. Anders,” I reply.
“Tate, please call me Tate.”
I swallow as I look up into those famous eyes. You really could get lost in them.
“Mom!” Cal’s voice comes from the garage.
“I’ll pull out front. You can meet there, if you can just close the door behind you, that would be great,” I say as I turn and head to the car.
Cal and Lizzie are already buckled into their booster seats. Cal just started complaining about his booster seat this year, but he has three more inches to grow before we get rid of his. I can already tell he hates that Tate is seeing him in a “baby chair” as he calls it.
It’s as if Tate can read the room when he climbs into my car. I grimace as his feet push aside some bottles. “Sorry, the car is a mess,” I apologize as I realize he looks big even in my SUV.
“No worries. I mean, I’d be more comfy if I had a cool chair like Cal and Lizzie, but it’ll do,” he says. I glance in the rearview mirror and both kids are looking at him with awe.
Our eyes meet for a second and I mouth, “Thank you.” He nods as I reverse the car and drive us the three miles to the ice rink.
He wastes no time in asking the kids all about their hockey camp. By the time we arrive seven minutes later, my children are behaving like Tate is a long-lost relative they’ve missed for years, while I’m still trying to process his presence in my vehicle.
We get inside and I sign them in and ask them not to talk about Mr. Tate yet with their friends before turning to Tate. “We can go sit in the bleachers. They’ll meet with their coaches and maybe do a few drills for fun.”
“But, Mom,” Cal whines as he looks between us.
“Please, Cal. I know this is cool, but Mr. Tate needs his privacy for a little longer, alright?” I plead.
“Fine,” he grumbles as he joins Lizzie to go over to where the other kids are sitting.
I notice Tate lower his cap as I intentionally take him to sit at the top of the bleachers away from the rest of the parents.
“So, how can I help you, Mr.…I mean, Tate?” I correct myself as I glance over at him. He looks forward, watching the kids gathering in groups on the ice.
“I want to buy the film rights to your latest book,” he says as casually as one might say they want to go get ice cream.
My mouth opens but no words come out as I stare at him. That was definitely a hallucination.
His head slowly turns to me, and he chuckles. “Why do you look so shocked?”
“I’m sorry. Did you just say you want to option the movie rights to my book?” I ask after a beat.
His eyes find mine and I swear to God I feel electricity crackle in the air. His face is only a few inches from mine. He swallows and so do I. What the fuck is happening? Do all women respond to him like this? Ugh. I need to behave professionally. I’m being ridiculous. I look down and watch his hand twitch in his lap as if he wants to move it and then he balls it into a fist. I frown, wondering what that is about, but immediately look back into his eyes.
“Yes, Sophia. I want to produce and direct the film adaptation of your last book. I love it. I can’t explain it; I just know it’s the story I need to direct,” he replies.
My eyes widen. “I didn’t know you directed,” I state as my mind tries to process why he loves my book so much.
I watch as his brows furrow. “I don’t, yet. But I want your book to be my first,” he says in a low, gravelly voice, and I feel goose bumps dot my skin at his words.
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. And then I can’t help my childish mind. “You want me to be your first?” I ask with a smirk.
His eyes dance at my humor and he laughs. “I do. You up for popping my director cherry?” he asks.
I know I should think about this. I should ask a million questions. I should call Marti. I should get a contract to review. I should do so many things that I’m not doing. But for reasons I’ll never understand, I hold out my hand.
“I’ve clearly lost my mind, but OK. Let’s do this thing. I will gladly take your director virginity,” I answer, grinning.
His lips turn up into a giant smile. He looks relieved and I wonder why. But then he speaks. “Wow, I didn’t think you’d agree to it that easily.”
I blush. “I guess I’m just a ho for film adaptations,” I tease.
He furrows his brow as if he doesn’t like my statement. I swallow. Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken it that far.
“Well, I’ll get you a contract soon and then you can make a final decision,” he offers.
“Sounds like a plan,” I reply, my hand still hanging in the air between us.
I’m about to put my hand back in my lap, but a moment later, he grips my outstretched hand, and again I feel that current between us as his fingers lightly squeeze mine and we shake. I can’t help thinking that we’re agreeing to so much more than a film adaptation.