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Chris reluctantly opened the door wider for Pattie to enter the house. Once inside, she took the casserole and walked into the kitchen, knowing her way around. She pressed a few buttons and slid the food into the oven. “It has to be reheated for a few minutes.”
He leaned against the counter, eyeing the woman. “So, Mrs. Hollinger, how do you know Wes?”
“Pattie,” she corrected him, waving her hands in the air. “I’ve known Wes for a long time. Wes and my son were good friends growing up. He practically lived in my house. They were always getting into trouble,” she said with a laugh as she rolled her eyes. “Once got suspended in high school for stealing a sign as a senior prank.”
He watched as she opened a cabinet for a plate. “Wes was like one of the family, huh?”
“Oh yes. That’s why he called me.” She pointed to the table. “Well, come on, have a seat.” Setting a place at the table, she continued, “Listen, honey, I may know you’re CJ Cunningham, but I’m not going to treat you any differently.” She pushed him toward the chair. “No wild parties, no speeding around the neighborhood, no big-time celebrity act. Got it?”
He blinked, taken aback by her motherly tone. “Right, yeah, of course.” He sat down and looked up at her. “And since I’m not a big-time celebrity, can you call me Chris?”
She patted his shoulder, and he surprised himself by enjoying the touch. His relationship with his own mother was nonexistent, but Pattie seemed to slip so easily into the role. Even if it was only for a dinner. She scooped him out a big serving of the potato casserole, and he dug in, scarfing down the mix of cheesy hash browns and crunchy flakes.
“This is so good,” he told her between bites.
“Good, I’m glad you like it.” She fixed her glasses on her nose. “I’ll leave you to get settled, but let me know if you need anything.”
Chris nodded, his mouth full.
“You’re welcome to come on over whenever.” She waved and saw herself out of the house.
After Chris finished another helping of the casserole, he cleaned up the kitchen and headed upstairs to the bedroom.
The house was perfectly nice, but the silence was uncomfortable. He threw himself on the bed, his eyes on the ceiling as he thought back to earlier in the day. His work had taken him all over the world, and he’d met lots of people, but fame was insular. Especially in LA. Once a person “made it,” there really wasn’t anywhere else for them to go. Chris only ever saw the same people, worked within the Hollywood sphere of actors, directors, and producers. It wasn’t often he could meet someone who truly didn’t care that he was CJ Cunningham.
He didn’t know what it was about Bronte—as if there was something inside him that knew he needed something inside her—that excited him so much. A kind of dangerous, heart-stuttering excitement. He’d never experienced that before.
And probably never would again.
