You're Not Broken (26 page)

Chapter Twelve
Jessa

              “I saw the script but I told Davy no more scripts from Paulson. He is just too sappy of a writer,” I said as I juggled the phone with one shoulder as I finished up an email.

              “And change the rehearsal date for
Best Friend’s Lover
. I talked with Alicia and I’ll probably be in London that week for press,” I said as I hit send on the email. I brought up the calendar for my next month. Every single square was jampacked with a list of things to do.

              But that was normal. I usually never spent more than a week or two home. Since buying this house, I had yet to spend more than two weeks at a time at home. A month in my own bed sounded like a crazy dream that could never come true. I was just too busy.

              After getting off the phone, I sent another email and read through another script that had been sent over as a potential project, if I was interested of course. Sometimes I still marveled at how far I had come. I remembered when I jumped at any audition, thankful for the chance to land a role. But now, after having shown I was a bankable actress, scripts were sent to me for
my
consideration. It was certainly a luxury and I appreciated it.

              Then another two hours were spent in phone conferences with a studio head and a producer for one of my upcoming projects. I had felt the sun shining on my desk, making my screen glare, but before I knew it, I was looking out the window at the waning orange light. The day had flown by and I was still on the phone.

              “Yes, I’m listening,” I assured the producer who wanted to talk to me about another romantic comedy he was working on.

             
Knock knock!

              I looked up in surprise. Rowan stood in the doorway with a tray in his arms. I looked out the window and saw that the early evening sky was glinting above me. The day was done. And I had hardly left my office chair throughout any of it.

              Rowan came in and set the tray down on a square of empty space on my large desk. A sandwich and a glass of grapefruit juice.

              “You made me food,” I said, feeling my voice grow husky with surprise. I was shocked. And touched.

              Rowan leaned a hip against the desk as he gave me a slightly amazed and irritated look. “You didn’t leave your office once for food,” he said in a slightly scolding voice. “You came out for coffee in the morning and that was it.”

              He pushed the plate near me. “You need to eat,” he said firmly.

              I stared at the sandwich.

              When had someone last made me food? Or even better, when had someone last even remembered if I had eaten or not? I remembered a year ago fainting in Madrid after an interview because I had gone nearly a whole day without once eating or drinking. Everyone had made sure that my hair and blush was perfect but no one had thought to see if I had been hungry or thirsty. And being so busy, I hadn’t thought of it either.

              Looking at the sandwich, I was touched. I felt like he had ripped open a band-aid and kissed a wound I didn’t know I had to make it better. But the action had been so sudden, so unexpected, I was left breathless and emotional.

              “Eat,” Rowan said again.

              I picked up the sandwich and took a big bite. Roast beef. It was delicious too. Just the right amount of mustard and mayo, and the perfect balance of lettuce and tomato and onions.

              “Good?” he asked.

              I nodded, unable to respond from the mouthful of food and the lump in my throat. Instead, I just nodded and felt my eyes water.

              He saw my tears before I could turn my head away. I could see the perplexed expression cross his face before a large thumb brushed against my eyes, wiping away the tears.

              “That good, huh?” he asked, grinning. Instead of trying to make me talk through my choked emotions, he teased, “See? Keep listening to me like a good girl and you can get more of my world famous sammies.”

              I stuck out my tongue, which was still covered in food.

              “Oh gross!” he said with mock disgust as he shoved my head away.

              I tried not to choke on my food as I laughed and chewed at the same time. Rowan seemed to just know that I couldn’t handle talking right now. I marveled at the man as I ate. How did he know to lighten the mood like that instead?

              After eating the entire sandwich and draining the glass of juice, I sat back in my chair, sighing with repletion. “Now I feel alive again,” I said contented.

              Rowan, still sitting on the edge of the desk, looked over my office. He saw my busy desk with scripts scattered across it. He glanced up at the computer screen that still held the calendar for my next month.

              He crossed his arms. “I thought this was supposed to be a break for you,” he said. He sounded confused and a little put out.

              I put a hand over my mouth to cover up my smile. “It is,” I insisted. “I’m home after all.”

              He jerked his chin at the messy desk and my empty tray. “What kind of break has you cooped up in an office all day, working with no food?” he demanded.

              This time I let myself laugh out loud. “You sound so offended,” I teased.

              Rowan made a grumbling noise as if he had been caught. “Well, it just shows how little you know in taking care of yourself. You forgot to eat all day,” he said, looking at me reproachfully.

              I gave a contrite smile and nodded my head. “I’m very sorry, sir,” I said with mock solemnity.

              Rowan gave me a pointed look, clearly not amused. I laughed again. “You need a personal assistant or something,” he said. “If you can’t be trusted to feed yourself, someone else should be.”

              I stood up and raised my arms in the air, giving myself a good long stretch. I sighed in pleasure. Taking up the empty tray, I walked out of the office towards the kitchen. Rowan followed.

              “
That
I don’t do,” I said.

              “What?”

              “Personal assistants,” I said, as I put the empty plates into the sink. I turned around and leaned over the marble island. Rowan sat on one of the stools on the other side.

              “Why not?” he asked. “Doesn’t every celebrity have assistants?”

              I nodded. “Oh I have assistants. But they work at an office I have in Santa Monica. They do most of the coordination and planning for my work schedule. And then they call or email me all the information. I just don’t do
personal
assistants.”

              Rowan’s eyes carefully roamed over me. I could feel him digging gently into my mind. Again, I marveled at his intuitive behavior. It was alarmingly good.

              “Can’t trust them?” he asked softly.

              I nodded. “It’s a shame too because I’d like to have one. Kind of like a built-in friend,” I said without thinking. Then, realizing what I said and not wanting to sound lonesome or pathetic, I quickly added, “You know, because I fly all the time so I don’t get time to spend with my real friends at home.”

              Rowan simply nodded, not saying anything.

              “But I can’t trust them,” I continued. “I’ve had a few before but they always sold stories to the first gossip magazine that got in contact with them. Or they manipulated my schedule so I’d see their buddy who was an ‘aspiring’ screenwriter or ‘next big thing’ director. It’s just easier not to have them.”

              I shrugged. “So that means I have to do some hands on work when I’m home. But it’s not too bad. Today was a lot just because it was my first day home.” I smiled.

              Rowan’s stormy gray eyes looked at me with a kind of knowing warmth that made me fidget. He seemed to hear every unspoken word I didn’t say. Perhaps he could even imagine the nights I had spent crying in those early years when another personal photo or story covered every magazine and news channel. Perhaps he could see the small little deaths of trust I endured as assistant after assistant tried to use my career to their advantage.

              “What about Marsha?” he asked. “She certainly spent enough time with you during the press junket. She could be more of an assistant type, if given the chance.”

              I shuddered. “Definitely no,” I said. “Marsha is great at what she does. My make up never looks better than when she does it but that woman has ears the size of the Empire State Building and a mouth that moves faster than a hummingbird. I keep her at a professional distance.”

              I found a bit of a twist tie from probably a bag of fruit. I played with it, twisting it this way and that. “It’s funny,” I said quietly, as if talking to myself. “I know other actresses who have great personal assistants and great stylists. They don’t ever seem to have any kind of trust issues. I had a costar whose personal assistant is godmother to her baby.” I sighed, the old familiar hurt aching within me again. “I don’t know why I’m the exception.”

              A silence fell between us. And I began to feel awkward as I realized what I had just admitted. It was too personal. I didn’t want Rowan to think I was this poor lonely celebrity who had no life. I didn’t want his pity.

              But when I looked up, I didn’t see pity. I saw recognition. I saw him see in me another equal. Another…friend? I saw familiarity. I saw warmth.

              My chest eased a little.

              “So then,” he said, breaking the silence. “If work is done for the day, what do you do for fun?”

              “Fun?” I asked, surprised by the question.

              “You know, amusement?” he said, teasingly. “Don’t tell me. You like to make spreadsheets and do your taxes. That’s it, isn’t it?”

              I gave an exasperated sigh before laughing. “Well you pegged me! And how do
you
have fun, Mr. Bodyguard? Tackle a few photographers and then river dance on their cameras?”

              Rowan leaned back in his seat and gave the kitchen a serious considering look. “Have a deck of cards?” he asked.

              I quirked a brow. Rummaging through one of the kitchen drawers, I pulled out a new deck of cards, the plastic wrap still intact. I slid it towards him.

              “We’re playing cards?” I asked, a little incredulous. This man constantly was throwing me off. But in a really, really good way.

              Rowan quickly unwrapped the box and then pulled out the cards. He then began shuffling them with an expertise that made me raise both brows. The cards came alive in his hands. The soft thwapping sounds of the cards rhythmically hit each other as he shuffled them from hand to hand. He then did a one handed cut and then laid the shuffled deck between us.

              “Well,
I’ll
probably be playing.
You’ll
probably be getting robbed,” he said with a glint in his eyes.

              “Oh yeah?” I said, rising to his challenge. “What are we playing?”

              “What do you know?”

              I crossed my arms and pinned him with a deadly look. “I’ll have you know that I am the absolute champion, three time Vegas winner of Go Fish.”

              I could see Rowan fighting his grin. “Never saw a Go Fish table at Vegas before.”

              I sighed, as if disgusted. “Amateur.”