Reel: A Forbidden Hollywood Romance

“So what’d you think of Trey during the screen test?” Canon’s production partner, Evan, asks.

“He was great.” I sip my virgin mojito. “I mean, I thought so. What’d you think?”

“Totally agree.” Evan glances around the incredible rooftop restaurant, Open Air, where we’re having drinks and an early dinner. The Olympic-size pool is positioned as the aquamarine centerpiece of the roof, accessorized by lounge chairs and VIP curtained pods offering additional privacy. “Galaxy loves him, too. I’m not the one who needs convincing.”

“Let me guess. Canon.”

“You got it. It took him forever to cast your part. I don’t expect him to be that picky on Cal’s role, but it’s Canon, so . . .”

He leaves the comment unfinished like it’s self-explanatory, and I guess it is. Canon’s reputation for being exacting precedes him and makes him casting me, an unknown, that much more miraculous.

“He’s en route, by the way.” Evan glances at his phone. “He had to speak across town at this event where he was being honored.”

My heartbeat hiccups.

Stop doing that.

This crush, attraction—whatever it is—has to be put down before it causes any awkwardness and costs me this opportunity.

“I, um, don’t want him to feel like he has to rush to get here,” I say, twirling the miniature umbrella from my drink. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to entertain me either, hanging out tonight.”

“You kidding me? I need the break and you fly back tomorrow. It’s a chance for us to get to know each other. Besides, I love this place. I don’t come here enough.”

Graham booked me in The V, a boutique hotel in the heart of downtown LA. It screams class and money like a dog whistle. The rooftop restaurant is the cherry on the literal top of the spectacular building.

“This place is something else.” I take in the crowded outdoor dining space, which resembles a high-fashion photo shoot. “Does everyone in this town look like a supermodel?”

“It’s LA and this is a popular spot to be seen, so everyone always looks their best. You never know when you might be ‘discovered.’”

With my hair scraped back, wearing only light makeup and a simple sundress, I feel a little underdressed compared to everyone else on the roof. I expect Tyra Banks to pop up out from behind a potted palm tree any minute and order me to smize. I work in theater, in New York, so there are always beautiful people around, of course. These people, though, set against the balmy glamor of the LA skyline, glitter like a tray full of diamonds, everyone in on a beauty secret that makes them glow.

“Monk’s on his way, too,” Evan says, glancing up from his phone. “He texted me. He was in a session, but he wants to see you.”

“I wouldn’t be sitting here if it weren’t for Monk dragging Canon to see me in Splendor.”

“Things happen like they should, I guess.”

I’m not sure I’ve believed that in a long time. The things that hurt you most—it’s sometimes hard to accept that those are the result of fate or a deity’s deliberation. Much easier to believe the universe means us good, and good will prevail. Either way, I’ll always be grateful for Monk’s role in getting me here.

“This is actually my sister’s place,” Evan continues. “Well, stepsister.”

“This place belongs to your sister? Uh, stepsister?”

“Her family owns the hotel and the rooftop is kind of her pet project.”

“Some pet. This place is gorgeous.”

“It’s even better when it’s empty. It doesn’t open ’til five, so occasionally she lets us up here before the madness starts. Can’t beat a gorgeous view of the city and the best mimosas in town.”

“Nice. You said she’s your stepsister. How long have your parents been married?”

“Oh, they’re not anymore. That particular marriage only lasted about nine months. My father is, shall we say, indecisive. He just remarried again.” Evan raps his knuckles against the table. “Knock on wood, sixth time’s the charm.”

“Six? Wow. Is she your only stepsibling?”

“I have . . .” He counts on his fingers and squints. “Twelve.”

I laugh and gape at him. “How do you keep up?”

“I just start calling them by reindeer names,” Evan says, flashing an unabashed grin. “Growing up, there were only a few I actually lived with or got to know. Arietta and I stayed in touch even after our parents parted ways. I’m closest to her.”

“No blood siblings?”

“One half-brother. My father wasn’t married to my mother much longer than he was to Ari’s.” He grins over my shoulder. “Look who’s here.”

I glance toward the door, my stomach flipping at the sight of Canon. I was braced for standard fine-ass Canon, but wearing a dark gray suit with a slate blue button-up open at the collar, he is not playing fair tonight. The sun is not quite gone for the evening, so he still wears sunglasses as he scours the rooftop for us.

What in the GQ is happening right now?

I’m not sure what to do with this buzz transported through my blood like oxygen and dispatched to my tingling extremities. This low hum of attraction that thickens the air when I’m around him under the best of circumstances. Him showing up looking like this? Not optimal.

And then I notice her.

Accompanying him is a woman beside whom every one of these glittering diamonds appears a little dull. Large, dark soulful eyes and long black hair that clings to her bare arms and shoulders. The kind of breakneck curves you find on a race track and a white, wide smile revealed when she laughs up at Canon, her arm looped through his elbow.

Heifer.

I have no right to this auto-petty response, and seeing that impossibly beautiful woman with Canon . . . it shouldn’t affect me. We have nothing more than a business relationship. He hasn’t given me reason to think differently. There are a hundred obvious reasons why me plus him would equal bad, but I don’t like seeing him with her. I’ll have to sort through this on my own time in the privacy of my hotel room. For now, let me paint on a plastic smile and pretend I don’t want to pull this woman’s hair out.

Again, I. Have. No. Right.

“Look who I found,” the woman practically purrs when they reach our table.

I hate her voice. It’s all deep and sexy and pleasant. Yuck.

“About time,” Evan says, standing and hugging her. “We were starting to worry.”

“Event went a little over,” Canon says. “Sorry I’m late.” His eyes meet mine briefly then flick away. “Enjoying yourself, Neevah?”

“I am,” I reply, my voice sounding unnaturally high and breathy, a la Marilyn Monroe.

“The place is jumping tonight.” Evan kisses her cheek and sits back down.

“I know,” she says with a slight accent. “I need to check in with the staff, but I had to meet the woman who finally managed to satisfy Canon.”

She turns those beautiful dark eyes on me and extends her hand. “I’m Arietta, Evan’s sister. I’m so glad they finally found you. So nice to meet you.”

Evan’s sister. Of course.

“Hi.” I shake her hand, maybe a little too vigorously. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

Canon and Arietta take their seats and I remind myself I cannot stare at this man all night. Not any part of the night actually. I train my eyes on my drink and try to become invisible.

“So, Neevah, what was your impression of Trey?” Canon asks.

Well, that didn’t work.

“I thought he was great,” I say.

“You guys had amazing chemistry,” Evan interjects.

“Yeah, I guess so,” Canon says. “But I want to see the tape.”

“It was so weird interacting with him as an adult,” I admit, giggling a little. “I remember watching him on TV when he was like twelve years old.”

“So do I!” Arietta laughs, widening her eyes. “They used to pour goop all over him every episode of that show.”

“And he had that thing where he always rang the doorbell that made the goose-honk sound,” I add.

“I didn’t watch this show,” Canon says. “But it sounds pathetic.”

“First of all,” Arietta teases breezily. “You’re older than we are.”

“How much older?” I ask before I can stop myself, and then regret it when his dark, assessing gaze lands on me.

“You’re what?” he asks. “Thirty?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“Same as me,” Arietta squeals, giving me a high five across the table.

“I’m thirty-seven,” Canon offers.

“Same as me.” Evan imitates Arietta’s squeal and goes for a high five, which Canon deflects with an eye roll. We all laugh and Canon allows a small twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“You were probably in college or something by the time that show was popular,” Arietta continues. “So that’s first of all. And B of all, your mother wouldn’t have let you watch it anyways.”

“Now that’s true,” Evan says. “I’ve heard you say Mama Holt was strict about that stuff.”

“You didn’t watch television growing up?” I ask him.

“Some on the weekends.” Canon signals for a waiter before looking back to me. “She wasn’t a big fan of TV.”

“And I thought our television was a relative until I was like five years old.” I laugh. “I don’t remember a babysitter, but I remember our TV.”

“Movies were different,” Canon says. “She’d take me out of school so we could see a new movie together. She took me to see Forest Gump the day it released. That movie still gets me.”

The Magic Hour, Canon’s highly personal documentary about his mother’s journey with MS, was the first work of his I ever saw. It’s surreal that I’m sitting here with him now.

“That’s when you knew you wanted to be a director?” Arietta asks.

“It was a hundred movies that probably showed me that.” Canon tips his chin in thanks when the server sets a drink down in front of him. “The Godfather, Glory, Taxi Driver, Do the Right Thing. The list is endless, but I definitely knew very early on.”

“Did your mother ever want you to be a photographer like her?” I ask.

He doesn’t seem surprised that I already know this much about his background, his family, and I’m struck anew by fame and how it cracks open the book of your life for people to read before they’ve even met you or know anything about the person behind the stories they’ve heard.

“Never.” Canon shakes his head, affection softening the line of his mouth. “She wanted me to be whatever I decided—to be true to that.”

“What we doing?”

I turn at the deep voice, delighted to see Monk standing by our table. Without thinking, I stand and give him a tight hug. He rocks me a little and kisses my cheek.

“Hey, superstar,” he says, taking the empty seat by Canon. “How you liking LA?”

“It’s great,” I reply, sitting back down. “I’m glad I got to see you before I leave tomorrow.”

“You know I wouldn’t miss seeing the next big thing before she blows all the way up.” Monk grins. “I haven’t gotten the chance to personally congratulate you on landing Dessi. It’s a big deal.”

“I have you to thank,” I tell him. “If you hadn’t put me on Canon’s radar, none of this would have happened for me.”

“I knew at that gig when I heard you sing there was something special about you,” Monk says, his usual easygoing expression serious. “I know talent when I see it, and I love when I meet someone before they really take off.” He tosses a glance at Canon, the cocksure grin returning to his lips. “Take Canon for instance.”

“I knew this was coming,” Canon groans, swiping one big hand over his face. “He tells this story every chance he gets.”

“What story?” Arietta leans forward, her face animated. “I haven’t heard this.”

“I have.” Evan stands. “I’m going to the little boys’ room. Be right back.”

“So I was on the set of this music video,” Monk says.

“Half his stories start this way,” Canon interrupts. “In case you’re wondering.”

I laugh, enjoying the dynamic of their friendship.

“It was a video for a song I co-wrote.” Monk grimaces. “Not my proudest moment.”

“Tell it all,” Canon says. “If you’re gonna tell it.”

“It was ‘Grind Up On Me, Girl,’” Monk admits, his smile chagrined.

“Ew,” Arietta murmurs. “You wrote that?”

“Co-wrote, thank you very much.” Monk tips his head toward Canon. “And guess who directed the video?”

“No way!” I screech before I remember not to be rude. “You did that?”

“In my defense,” Canon says, his full lips spread in a self-deprecating smile, “I was twenty-two years old and had bills to pay. A Grand Jury prize does not pay your rent.”

“Seriously?” Arietta asks. “I can’t imagine you struggling after all the accolades you got for The Magic Hour.”

“Hype is not money,” Canon says, sobering. “And buzz doesn’t keep the lights on. Truth be told, I took all those prizes and awards for a documentary, and it was great, but nobody was beating my door down. It’s a haul for anyone in Hollywood, but a young brother like myself fifteen years ago? Man, I was grateful when they asked me to direct the video for that cheesy song Monk wrote.”

“Alright now,” Monk protests. “I can talk shit about my songs. You can’t.”

“Bruh, it was bad.” Canon laughs. “I think it’s not your tits, but your wits was my favorite line, and by favorite, I mean made me cringe the most.”

Monk almost spits out his drink. “I said I co-wrote. I do not take responsibility for that line and begged them not to keep it. Don’t you put that on me, motherfucker.”

“You did win a Soul Train award for it,” Canon says.

“So did you, though I at least showed up to accept mine.”

“By then I was making another documentary.” Canon takes a long swallow of his Macallan. “I was in South America during that awards show. I meant no disrespect. Hell, I may have gotten more mileage out of the Soul Train award than I did from Sundance in some ways. I just had to be more discriminating about what I accepted.”

“What part of South America?” Arietta asks. “My neck of the woods?”

“Not Venezuela, no. I’ve never been there actually. It was Brazil.”

So that’s the accent I hear, and it accounts for her beautiful coloring. “You’re from Venezuela?” I ask.

“Yes.” She waves her hand to encompass the rooftop. “Thus The V. When my father arrived in America, his business associates called him the Venezuelan. He bristled at first, but then embraced it and has turned it into a brand, The V.”

“The hotel is amazing,” I tell her. “I’m glad Graham booked me here. Can’t wait to meet her.”

“She’d be here tonight, but had a family commitment. You’ll meet her soon. She keeps the ship running,” Evan says, taking a seat and joining us at the table again. “Speaking of running, I’m on empty. Can we order some actual food?”

“Agreed,” Canon says. “That event had nothing to eat and I need more than this drink.”

He slips his suit jacket off and hangs it on the back of his seat. This man’s shoulders and the width of his chest . . . damn. The silvery-blue open collar against the rich hue of his skin is criminal. Some imp inside my head, conspiring with my vagina, obviously, telegraphs an image of me biting into the corded muscle of his throat. When my eyes roam farther up, I meet his gaze, my breath catching. Him watching me watching him. Mortified, I grab one of the menus, using it as a shield while I grapple for my composure.

I’m a professional.

I can sit at a table with the sexiest, most brilliant man I’ve ever encountered without lusting all over him.

I think I can.

I think I can.

I think I can.

When I slowly lower the menu, I’m glad no one seems to have noticed my lust-lapse. Just as I think I’ve safely disguised my fascination with Canon, I feel the weight of his stare on me, and when I look up, there is an undeniable knowledge in those dark eyes. A recognition. An awareness. That same pull I felt sitting with him on the bed in Alabama, riffling through Dessi’s memories, resurfaces between us, doubling my heartbeat. I cannot look away, and we may as well be on this roof alone, the darkening sky an awning covering just us two.

“Neevah, what looks good?” Monk asks, snapping my focus back to the table and the other people seated here.

“Um, let me see,” I say, actually reading the menu this time. “Maybe something with shrimp.”

His question dispels the mist fogging my brain and I force myself to concentrate. Everyone discusses their orders, and the easy camaraderie provides cover while I pull my proverbial shit together and suppress the carnal urges the sight of this man in a suit stirs.

I’m a professional.

I chant it in my head a hundred times during the course of the delicious meal. It’s a night I’ll treasure. These are remarkable people, powerful people in the entertainment industry, but so comfortable with one another in a way that comes with time. It’s hard to believe I’ll be telling Dessi’s incredible story with them.

“It was so nice to meet you, Neevah,” Ari says once the plates are being cleared. “These two were so picky about casting Dessi, so I knew you had to be special when I heard they’d found you.”

“Canon,” Evan coughs into his hand, and then grins across the table at his partner.

“It was great meeting you, too,” I tell Arietta. “Your rooftop is amazing. I hope I can come back when I get out here.”

“For sure!” Arietta’s eyes light up. “We’ll hang once you get settled. When do you start shooting?”

“Fall,” Canon says, a frown knitting his brows. “September or October. If it works out with Trey, we need to confirm his schedule.”

That’s still a few months away, and I’m in limbo, suspended between the simple grind I’m living now in New York as an understudy, singing in small clubs, and the great demands of starring in one of the most epic biopics to come along in years.

“I’ll walk out with you, Ari,” Evan says, standing. “I need to ask you something.”

He reaches down to hug me and I squeeze back.

“It was great meeting you, Neevah,” he says. “And I can’t wait to get started. You’ll be a fantastic Dessi.”

He’s movie-star handsome, and from what I can tell, the definition of rich and privileged, but he also seems grounded by his relationships, the friendships represented at this table. He and Canon definitely have a lot in common, but also seem to provide counter perspectives. I can see how their personalities would blend well in a partnership.

“We’ll talk tomorrow about Trey,” Canon says, knocking back the last of his drink.

Evan nods, says his final goodbyes, and leaves with Arietta.

“And I actually have a recording session starting in an hour,” Monk says. “So Imma pull, too.”

I glance at the time on my phone. Nearly ten o’clock. The night is just beginning for studio rats. Recording is such a nocturnal scene.

“Great seeing you again, Neevah,” Monk says. I stand to hug him and give him an extra squeeze.

“Thank you again for everything,” I tell him, feeling unreasonably emotional as I realize none of this would have been possible had we not met, had he not seen my potential.

“You got the goods.” He kisses my cheek. “Can’t wait for you to get out here to Cali.”

My stomach knots when it’s clear Canon and I will be the only ones left once Monk bounces. When I look down at him, still seated, it feels like we are borrowing each other’s thoughts—simultaneously realizing that we will be alone if we stay. A muscle tics along his jaw and he reaches for the well-tailored jacket on the back of his chair.

“I’ll walk out with you,” he tells Monk, standing, towering over me. I tip my head back to catch his eyes as they drop no lower than my face. “Neevah, you’re staying here, right? At The V?”

“Uh, yeah.” I grab my wristlet from the table. “I’m headed to my room now. I have an early flight back to New York.”

As the three of us cross the rooftop and walk to the bank of elevators, I’m cognizant of the heads turning, the attention they draw. I’m flanked by two famous, tall, powerfully built, fine-ass men cloaked in melanin, but only one of them inspires acrobatic insides, makes my belly turn flips with nothing more than a glance.

Monk’s phone rings, and he answers, but continues walking with us.

“I guess you should get used to the attention,” Canon murmurs as we exit the restaurant and enter the rooftop lobby.

“What?” I look up, my chest tightening when our stares collide. “What attention?”

“When we walked through the restaurant, all eyes were on you.”

I release a startled peal of laughter. “I thought they were all looking at you, not me.”

“I wonder how long you’ll be able to keep that,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “That humility. Once everyone starts telling you how beautiful you are, how amazing you are, it’s hard to hold onto.”

“Is it hard for you?” I ask softly.

That could be taken in some really pervy ways, but I’m glad that when he looks at me, his eyes sober, he seems to consider the question exactly as I meant it.

“Sometimes you start believing your own press, yeah.” He slides his hands into the pockets of his impeccably fitted slacks. “And forget what matters most.”

“What matters most?” I ask.

Dear elevator, if you could just not come until he answers this one question, that’d be great.

“The story matters most. Always the story.” He looks back to the rooftop, still packed with patrons, now bathed in star glow. “And if you’re lucky, you find people along the way who keep your feet on the ground—who remind you that real life matters, too.”

I know he’s referring to his tight inner circle, people like the coterie we just spent the evening with, and some audacious voice inside wonders if I could one day be one of them . . . to him. Someone who reminds a force like this that he’s also just a man.

Our elevator comes too soon, and I savor the last few moments around him. Once I return to New York, I probably won’t see him again before we start production. My senses hoard the last of him. His clean, masculine scent. The rich timbre of his voice and the compelling landscape of his features. The intellect and curiosity mingled in his dark eyes. The rare, bright flash of his smile.

I have no right to think I’ll miss him, and yet I know I will.

Monk is still on the phone when we board, and neither Canon nor I speak once we’re in motion. I sneak a peripheral glance at him from beneath my lashes, watching the shift of his shoulders under the jacket. I think about how I felt when I saw him with Arietta—the unreasonable jealousy. I wonder if he’s got a girl, some woman he goes home to or finds solace in or who merely slakes his physical needs. And the thought of it embeds a burning thorn in my heart. How can someone you’ve known for such a short time inspire this visceral response?

I don’t have much time to wonder because we reach my floor and it’s time to say goodbye. Still on the phone, Monk whispers see you soon. Canon holds the elevator door with one hand, waiting for me to get off.

“Uh, well, I guess I’ll see you in a few months,” I say, leaving the elevator car. I don’t wait for a response but take the first steps toward my room.

“Neevah,” Canon calls.

I look over my shoulder, committing his face and the way I feel when I’m around him to memory.

He stares back, his expression enigmatic, but alert.

“Yeah?” I ask, my voice pitched low. Waiting. Breath held.

“Nothing.” He frowns, clears his throat. “Good to see you again. Thanks for flying out.”

Before I can respond, he releases the door, letting it close between us.