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“Yes,” I reply with an embarrassed grimace.
“Didn’t your mom bake when you were a kid?”
The caffeine and sweets must have loosened my tongue, as I pour out the details of my childhood, telling Brady an abbreviated version of how acting became a grind and how my mom became more addicted to acting—and the money—than me.
“By the time I was fifteen, I struggled with burnout, but my mom insisted that I keep chasing the next part. Like a hamster on a wheel, I was on an endless loop.”
He gives me a sympathetic look. “Where are your parents now?”
The innocent question brings a stab of remorse to my heart. Deciding to yank off the Band-Aid, I share the unvarnished truth with him. In the short time I’ve known Brady he’s become a friend and I don’t want to hide my real life from him.
“My parents and I are estranged. They retired to Florida several years ago.” I clear my throat as the next part of the story causes emotions to bubble back to the surface—emotions I thought I had buried long ago.
“When I was sixteen, I filed for emancipation from the people who raised me—as that’s all my parents were at that point. The action allowed me to keep all the earnings from my acting roles for myself. I fired my mom as my agent and hired Evelyn. I became more selective of the roles I took and for a while was happy and satisfied with my career. But after eighteen years in the business, I need a break. Coming to the Christmas Inn was my attempt to relive the happier days of my childhood while taking that much needed break.”
Brady moves close to me, quickly eliminating the distance between us. He folds me into a tight hug, tucking my body against his, the embrace instantly making my world a better place again. “Gee Lexi, I’m sorry.”
Cuddled in his embrace, I shrug against his broad chest. “It is what it is.”
He tilts my chin up, so I’m looking directly into his chocolate brown eyes. “What else is on your list to relive? Let’s get cracking on doing all those things before you have to leave.”
His sweet offer makes tears spring to my eyes. I blink to hold them back. Our gazes lock and Brady looks like he’s going to kiss me, but the moment is interrupted as a noisy group of tourists pass beside us, their laugher bursting our intimate bubble.
With the spell broken, I pull out of his embrace and nod towards the inn. “I’ll take you up on that offer to address my Christmas Inn bucket list after you fix that leaky faucet.”
He laughs. “Today I’m installing a new toilet in one of the rooms. That’s my glamorous life as a maintenance man,” he says with a self-deprecating smirk.
We walk the rest of the way in silence as Zeus dances around our feet. Does Brady ever want to be more than a maintenance man at a quaint country inn? I bite my tongue and don’t ask because that question makes me sound like a snob, and I don’t care what his occupation is. Do I?
Although I haven’t been to church for months, a Bible verse that our minister included in one of his sermons snaps into my head. ‘Stop judging by mere appearances, but instead judge correctly.’ I’m judging Brady for what he does, rather than who he is—exactly like most people judge me by the image my agent and PR people carefully craft for me or the photos that appear of me on the internet.
The high-maintenance actress falling for the maintenance man. Wouldn’t the tabloids have a field day with that story?
