A Simple Love (Return to Richton #2)

1. Oliver

OLIVER

Istopped at the top of the stairs, taking a deep breath for courage before walking into my agent’s office.

Annie Stillwell was etched in faded lettering on the upper glass of the door. I knew without a doubt she was inside, waiting at her desk, impatient and growing more so every minute that passed while I chose to hang out in the hallway.

If I were brave enough, I would run.

But she’d find me.

I plastered a smile on my face and walked in, her assistant, Carmen looking up from her computer.

The inside of the office looked like a set from a 1950s movie.

An old wooden coffee table, piled high with out-of-date magazines, sat in the middle of a grouping of lumpy chairs where hopefuls would wait to see if Annie would accept them as a client and help launch their careers.

Worn wallpaper, holding years of smoke and witness to many tears, disappointments, and deals.

It never changed and was in total contrast to the sleek desk and computers where Carmen sat on the other side of the room.

Behind her, file cabinets stuffed with contracts, scripts, proposals, and God only knew what else, burst the seams, some of the drawers barely shutting, while others were open, their chaotic contents visible.

I met Carmen’s eyes. “Hey, beautiful.”

“Stow it, pretty boy. You’re late, and she’s already in a mood.”

“It’s barely past seven in the morning,” I protested. “Why the hell I had to be here so early is beyond me.”

She shook her head. “So clueless.”

“I could come back at another time,” I offered. “Meet her for lunch at her club, maybe.”

Martinis usually put Annie in a better mood.

“Nope.” Carmen popped the word decisively. “She’s waiting. Get in there.”

I sighed and headed toward a heavy wooden door. Annie had had it installed specially—plus had the office soundproofed. She liked her privacy when doing a deal or ripping her talent a new one.

I had a feeling today’s meeting was the latter.

I knocked and waited for the usual “In!” growled in her signature pit bull voice.

I stepped in, shutting the door behind me.

“You called and requested my presence?” I quipped, hoping to keep things light.

Annie glanced up, observing me over her thick tortoiseshell glasses.

I had no idea exactly how old she was. Late sixties, I assumed from her history.

Gossipers insisted she was much older. Some whispered the words “ancient” and “deal with Satan” that kept her alive and thriving.

If that was the case, Satan was no doubt exhausted having to handle her.

I’d given up trying to find out. When it came to her private life, she was a vault.

Her dark eyes were shrewd and sharp. They regarded me as if seeing a bug she wanted to squash under her no-nonsense pumps. Her stares were legendary. Rumors were she often made Hollywood execs cry with her silent glares. God knew how many wannabes left here in tears.

She refused to comment.

Her silver hair was pulled back in her usual thick knot on the top of her head.

I had never seen it in any other fashion.

Nor, I believed, had another living person.

Her makeup was minimal, except her lips, which were scarlet red—another signature for her.

She had a surprisingly sexy mouth, with full, pouty lips that rarely smiled and belied the words that often spilled from them.

There was nothing soft about those.

And hanging from the right side of her mouth was a cigarette holder.

No actual cigarette since she’d given them up, but only the holder.

It was always there. I found it impressive that she could talk, eat, and drink without removing it.

I’d tried to imitate her actions for a role once and failed miserably.

Food fell out. Liquid spewed forth. My voice sounded as if I had a speech impediment.

But it was part of her, and her favorite trick was inhaling her vape and letting the mist out through the cigarette holder, swirling around her head as she glared at you.

Or, currently, me.

“Finally showed up,” she huffed.

“It’s barely dawn.”

“In your little world. I’ve been at this since five.”

I sat down, waiting.

She studied me, inhaling another lungful of her e-cig. I’d warned her again and again they were as bad for her as cigarettes, but she refused to listen. And once Annie made up her mind, there was no changing it.

“What the fuck is going on with you, Oliver?”

I cleared my throat, but she carried on. She stood, rounding the desk and leaning on the old wooden edge, worn from years of being a prop.

“My golden boy, suddenly gone rogue.”

I scoffed. “Hardly.”

She held up her hand. “Two flops. Arthouse films I told you not to work on.”

“I wanted to do something different,” I argued. “And I believed in them. I had no idea what was going to happen.”

She shook her head. “You are a rom-com leading man. That is what you do, and you do it well.” She paused, the cigarette holder vibrating in irritation. “Or you used to.”

“It gets tiring.”

“It made you a star and a very rich man.”

“You didn’t do so badly yourself,” I retorted. She’d made millions on my paychecks.

She closed one eye, regarding me through yet another lungful of vapor. “Your latest stunt could be a career-ender.”

“Jesus, Annie. You know as well as I do that the tabloids make something out of nothing.”

She reached behind her, opening the latest rag and holding it up. I averted my eyes. I had seen it, and I knew what it looked like.

“Nothing happened. We went for dinner, and Vic had a few too many. She was being playful and jumped into the fountain. I went in after her to try to stop her. But she splashed me, and I splashed her back.”

One eyebrow rose.

“She pulled me in, and the next thing I knew, I slipped and fell. She came with me.”

Annie turned the paper toward herself and looked at it.

“And you end up with her straddling you, how exactly? With your tie gripped in her hand? You know this looks like you’re about to throw down right there.”

I sighed. “We were just having fun. It was nothing.”

“Just fun. Nothing,” she repeated. Then she shook the paper.

“The wife of the producer who was going to use you on the film meant to restore your reputation! Have you any sense in that goddamn head of yours? You know what this looks like. My phone has been ringing off the hook since last night. Mike is furious.”

“Vic and I have been friends forever. There’s nothing going on. You know that.”

“Tell that to her very jealous husband. Who has decided to go in another direction with his leading man.”

I groaned. I had hoped to go see him and make him realize it was just a picture, capturing a split second before Vic dunked me and laughed, then pushed me off her and stood.

She had eyes for no one but Mike—and the idiot knew that.

Or I thought he did. I had zero interest in her other than friendship.

She had been my first friend when I’d arrived on the scene a dozen years ago.

“I’ll talk to Mike.”

She shook her head. “Too late. Decision is made. Consider yourself lucky he vented to me and didn’t rearrange that pretty face of yours.”

“Fuck.”

She studied me, taking another puff on her vape. I could tell how upset she was from the number of hits she was taking. “You’ve been acting out. This. The fight with your last costar. The stunt with the motorcycle. The bungee jumping incident. You’re drinking more.”

I shifted in my seat. She was right on all counts.

“Are you done?” she asked.

I shrugged, unsure what to say.

“This is what is going to happen,” she said, pushing off the desk and sitting. “You need to think, and I need a break from you.”

“You’re dropping me?” I asked, aghast.

“I’m saving you,” she replied. “You’re taking a sort of hiatus. Leaving LA for a while. There’s a movie being shot in Canada, and you’re going to be in it. Not the leading role, but a good sidekick. A meaty part.”

“I haven’t heard about this role.”

“I accepted on your behalf.”

I grunted as she handed me a script.

“You’re heading home. It’s being shot in Toronto and a place you’re familiar with. Richton.”

My head shot up. “Richton?”

“Yep. Your old hometown. I’ve rented you a place for the next month.

You can decide whether to stay or move elsewhere.

You are going to do some heavy thinking.

Shoot this movie. Decide what your future holds.

Pull yourself up by your bootstraps and get back in the game, or move on.

If this isn’t the life you want anymore, Oliver, stop wasting my time.

Or yours. Find what you love and do it.”

“I love being an actor.”

“You did. I’m not sure you do anymore.”

“What else would I do?”

She sat back and pursed her lips. “You have enough money you can do whatever you want. Direct. Produce. Buy a farm. Travel. Get married and have a bunch of kids. Whatever you want.”

I grimaced. “I don’t want kids.”

“Then find out what you do want.”

“Couldn’t I stay in Toronto? Richton is in the middle of nowhere. No bars, restaurants, or entertainment.”

“Exactly. You need to concentrate. Stop this excessive drinking. Get your head straight.”

Her tone changed, becoming more personal and warmer. A rare happening for Annie. “Whatever makes you happy.”

“And if I don’t do this?” I challenged.

Her all-business manager tone returned in an instant. “We’re done.”

My shoulders fell. I tried one last time.

“This will blow over, Annie. It always does.”

She stood and went over to the window. “You think?”

I joined her, gaping at the paparazzi gathered outside.

“They’re out for blood. Yours.”

“Dammit.”

“You’re going out the back while I go down there and make a statement. Get home before they crowd your gates. A car will be there tonight to pick you up. Be ready.”

She looked at me, serious and firm. “Unless you refuse and we part ways today.”

I ran a hand through my hair, frustrated. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“You are going to be invisible for the next while. I hear that you are fucking around, I will fly there, kick your ass, and tear up your contract. Understood?”

“Understood.”

She handed me a file. “Everything you need to know.” She sat back behind her desk, indicating our time was done. “Go and find yourself again. I don’t want to see you until you do.”