He knew why as well as she did.
“Because if the critics are kind and the film is a success, more offers will come in. The pace will accelerate. I’ll have even less time to think. Walking away now would be cleaner and less complicated than walking away afterward.”
“Walking away.” He drummed a finger on the arm of the chair. “That’s a very final step, Katherine.”
“I know.”
“What would you do if you left Hollywood behind? Acting is all you know.”
“No, it’s not.” Her defensive hackles rose. “I have other options.”
“Like what?”
“Like . . . like making candy.” The suggestion of such a radical career change appeared to surprise him as much as it did her.
He gaped at her as if she’d said she wanted to travel to Mars. “You can’t be serious.”
Maybe she hadn’t been when that idea had tripped off her tongue—but the concept wasn’t that bizarre.
“Why not? I enjoy it, and the truffles I’ve made during my stay here have gotten rave reviews.”
Simon rose. Walked over to the railing and looked out over the sea. Ran his fingers through his hair, leaving his pricey salon cut in disarray as he pivoted back to her.
Mr. Empathy was gone. The shrewd, deal-making Hollywood agent was back.
“I’m beginning to worry about your mental state, Katherine. Why on earth would you give up an acting career poised on the brink of success to spend your days making chocolate?”
“I like doing it. It’s satisfying. And I wouldn’t always have nosy reporters in my face.”
“It’s not going to pay like acting.”
“I’ve saved my money.”
“I know.” His lips twisted in disgust. “You live like a pauper.”
“I live like someone who knows the value of a dollar—and who craves financial security. Which I have. That gives me options.”
“Are you saying you don’t like acting anymore? That you wouldn’t miss it?”
“No. I do and I would. But I don’t like what comes with it at the Hollywood level.”
“So you’re going to give up everything you’ve worked for and open a little froufrou chocolate shop.”
At his belittling tone, she bristled. “I didn’t say that. I said I could if I wanted to. You asked about my skills, and that’s one I do have.”
He began to pace again. “Listen—if you want to get involved in the chocolate business, take the movie role. Get famous. Then I’ll go find a chocolate company that will sign you as a spokesperson. You’ll have the best of both worlds.”
The man just didn’t get it.
“I’m interested in making chocolate, not endorsing it.”
She could try to explain to him how she enjoyed the physical act of tempering chunks of chocolate until they were transformed into glossy goodness, experimenting with different flavors and ingredients to produce a product that was uniquely hers, inhaling the heady and comforting aroma as she worked. She could tell him how much she cherished having total control over her creative—and personal—life.
But he wouldn’t understand.
The façade of sympathy he’d adopted for a few minutes had melted away.
“Come on, Katherine. Get real. The average chocolatier in this country earns a fraction of your current income. There are actors out there who would kill to be in your position. You already have a level of fame and fortune the average Joe can never hope to attain, and you’re on the brink of becoming a megastar. If you want to be a recluse off-screen after you reach that stage, go for it. It could add to your mystique.”
That was plausible in theory—but it didn’t always work out in reality. Even if you tried to keep your nose clean and stay under the radar, scandal could find you . . . as she’d learned the hard way. And the paparazzi were relentless under the best of circumstances.
“I’ll take everything you’ve said under consideration.” She stood too.
He gave a loud huff. “Can’t you make this easy on both of us and just say yes?”
“No.”
He threw up his hands. “Fine. Do your thinking. But hurry it up. I’ll be at the motel—but I’ll be dropping by frequently.”
As he stormed across the deck, one of the gulls cackled. Then the pair took off, circled above them—and left a calling card with her guest before winging toward the sea.
“What the . . .” As Simon took in the gooey mess splatted on the sleeve of his shirt, he spat out one of the expletives she’d insisted be removed from the movie script.
Hard as she tried to restrain it, a chuckle erupted.
He glowered at her. “You wouldn’t be laughing if a stupid bird had ruined one of your four-hundred-dollar shirts.”
“I don’t have any four-hundred-dollar shirts.” She tried to curb her mirth.
“Of course not.”
“You want to clean that off in the house?”
“No.” He unbuttoned the shirt and stripped it off, careful not to touch the bird poop. “This is going straight into the trash.” He held it at arm’s length.
“You could wash it.”
“No thanks.”
“Leave it on the deck. I’ll take care of it.”
And once it was washed, she’d donate it to the clothing drive bin in the parking lot at Grace Christian. At least someone would benefit from Simon’s misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
He dropped the soiled garment at his feet as if it was radioactive.
“You want to borrow one of my baggy T-shirts?” She motioned toward his bare chest.
“My luggage is in the car. I’ll put on a different shirt before I leave.” He continued to the steps but paused at the top. “From now on, answer my calls. Otherwise, I’m moving in here—even if I have to camp on this deck.”
Without waiting for a response, he stomped down the steps, circled the deck, and disappeared from view.
Four minutes later, a car engine revved, gravel crunched—and he was gone.
Quiet descended—in the natural world around her, if not in her mind.
What a mess.
She massaged her temples.
In five days, max, she owed Simon an answer.
Yet she was no closer to a decision than she’d been the day he’d told her about the offer.
Replaying their conversation in her mind, she wandered over to the railing and rested her palms on the flat surface.
Some of what he’d said had made sense.
It was true she was facing two decisions, not one . . . as Zach had also pointed out. The movie and her future career path didn’t have to be linked. Yes, it would be difficult to keep a successful big-screen role—and Simon’s goading—from dictating her plans going forward, but it was possible if she mustered up her moxie. She wasn’t the same desperate young woman who’d signed with him five years ago, driven to prove to the world she was somebody, hungry for the media attention she’d come to loathe.
The question was, who was she?
Or, more important, who did she want to be?
Those questions deserved thorough analysis—and required more than a few days of thought.