much I wish I could, Faith.”
* * *
“Zander, you’ve not heard a word we’ve said, have you?”
Olivia’s cool, calm inquiry gently pulled Zander from his warm memories of Faith Wheeler. “Forgive me,” he said quietly. “I was thinking.”
“I would ask what has you so completely absorbed, but I believe I already know,” Olivia said. “The very person we’ve been talking about for the past twenty minutes.”
“Faith just might expose me for a fraud,” Zander said. And I wouldn’t blame her for one second.
“Don’t underestimate your publicist,” Olivia said. “There’s nothing I can’t spin. Alexander Brannon’s story is far better than Zander Baron’s.”
“I don’t ever want anyone to know who I really am!” he stated with a bit too much vehemence. “If it gets out, I’ll disappear again. For good.”
“There’s obviously more to your past than you’ve told us,” Brent said. “What are you hiding?”
“Your mother did a very thorough background check on me before I moved into your house,” Zander said. “You don’t have to worry about any skeletons falling out of any closets.”
Zander took his earlobe between his thumb and forefinger—the nervous mannerism Entertainment Express magazine recently credited with stealing the heart of every female moviegoer in America over the age of nine. The motion had no effect on Brent, other than letting him know that Zander wasn’t ready or willing to supply new revelations about his past as Alexander Brannon.
“There it is, then,” Olivia said lightly.
“So we’re in agreement?” Brent said.
“Yes. I’ll phone Personality! now, and then I’ll call you with a date and time.”
“Hold on,” Zander said, raising a hand. “Who are you calling? What are you up to?”
“I’m saving your career,” Olivia said, clipping her phone headset onto her right ear. She spun her chair to face her glorious mountain view, effectively dismissing both her only son and favorite client.
“Paula,” she said, speaking to her assistant through the headset, “conference me in to Magda Pierson at Personality! ”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Zander said, stepping toward the desk.
Brent caught his arm and silenced him with a wave.
“Tell them that I’d like to set up a tête-a-tête with Faith Wheeler and one of my clients, Zander Baron,” Olivia continued. “Off the record, of course.”
Brent signaled for Zander to follow him as he exited his mother’s office. Olivia’s entire house had been decorated in her signature snow queen shades of white, faded blues, greys and silver. Zander had done some amazing drops and car chase stunts in his films, but nothing daunted him more than navigating his way down Olivia’s “floating” spiral staircase. Constructed of narrow six-foot planks of silvery-white marble, the gently spiraling staircase had no visible means of solid support.
Zander always felt as though he were hovering in midair when he went down the stairs.
“What does she hope to accomplish by shoving me right under Faith Wheeler’s nose?” he asked once both feet were safe on the gleaming white marble floor of the foyer.
“Mom is worried,” Brent said, grabbing the long, stylized chrome handle of the frosted glass front door. He swung it open for Zander. “She’s managed every detail of Zander Baron’s life and choreographed his rise flawlessly. That Personality! reporter really threw her for a loop.”
“Yeah, she kinda surprised me, too,” Zander admitted, stepping into the bright February sunshine.
“You’re doing it again,” Brent said in a warning tone.
“Doin’ what?”
“Your Appalachia is creeping in.”
Zander grinned. Of all the things Brent policed him on, his native accent was the one Brent monitored most closely. When he got tired or stressed, two years of diction coaching gave way to his West Virginia origins.
“Sorry,” Zander replied in the Midwestern accent Olivia had paid for.
* * *
“Zander, you’ve not heard a word we’ve said, have you?”
Olivia’s cool, calm inquiry gently pulled Zander from his warm memories of Faith Wheeler. “Forgive me,” he said quietly. “I was thinking.”
“I would ask what has you so completely absorbed, but I believe I already know,” Olivia said. “The very person we’ve been talking about for the past twenty minutes.”
“Faith just might expose me for a fraud,” Zander said. And I wouldn’t blame her for one second.
“Don’t underestimate your publicist,” Olivia said. “There’s nothing I can’t spin. Alexander Brannon’s story is far better than Zander Baron’s.”
“I don’t ever want anyone to know who I really am!” he stated with a bit too much vehemence. “If it gets out, I’ll disappear again. For good.”
“There’s obviously more to your past than you’ve told us,” Brent said. “What are you hiding?”
“Your mother did a very thorough background check on me before I moved into your house,” Zander said. “You don’t have to worry about any skeletons falling out of any closets.”
Zander took his earlobe between his thumb and forefinger—the nervous mannerism Entertainment Express magazine recently credited with stealing the heart of every female moviegoer in America over the age of nine. The motion had no effect on Brent, other than letting him know that Zander wasn’t ready or willing to supply new revelations about his past as Alexander Brannon.
“There it is, then,” Olivia said lightly.
“So we’re in agreement?” Brent said.
“Yes. I’ll phone Personality! now, and then I’ll call you with a date and time.”
“Hold on,” Zander said, raising a hand. “Who are you calling? What are you up to?”
“I’m saving your career,” Olivia said, clipping her phone headset onto her right ear. She spun her chair to face her glorious mountain view, effectively dismissing both her only son and favorite client.
“Paula,” she said, speaking to her assistant through the headset, “conference me in to Magda Pierson at Personality! ”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” Zander said, stepping toward the desk.
Brent caught his arm and silenced him with a wave.
“Tell them that I’d like to set up a tête-a-tête with Faith Wheeler and one of my clients, Zander Baron,” Olivia continued. “Off the record, of course.”
Brent signaled for Zander to follow him as he exited his mother’s office. Olivia’s entire house had been decorated in her signature snow queen shades of white, faded blues, greys and silver. Zander had done some amazing drops and car chase stunts in his films, but nothing daunted him more than navigating his way down Olivia’s “floating” spiral staircase. Constructed of narrow six-foot planks of silvery-white marble, the gently spiraling staircase had no visible means of solid support.
Zander always felt as though he were hovering in midair when he went down the stairs.
“What does she hope to accomplish by shoving me right under Faith Wheeler’s nose?” he asked once both feet were safe on the gleaming white marble floor of the foyer.
“Mom is worried,” Brent said, grabbing the long, stylized chrome handle of the frosted glass front door. He swung it open for Zander. “She’s managed every detail of Zander Baron’s life and choreographed his rise flawlessly. That Personality! reporter really threw her for a loop.”
“Yeah, she kinda surprised me, too,” Zander admitted, stepping into the bright February sunshine.
“You’re doing it again,” Brent said in a warning tone.
“Doin’ what?”
“Your Appalachia is creeping in.”
Zander grinned. Of all the things Brent policed him on, his native accent was the one Brent monitored most closely. When he got tired or stressed, two years of diction coaching gave way to his West Virginia origins.
“Sorry,” Zander replied in the Midwestern accent Olivia had paid for.
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