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Chapter 13
THE NIGHT OF THE OSCAR-NAPPING, MILLIE DUNCAN’S MANSION
AMERICA’S SWEETHEART ROBS MILLIE DUNCAN OF HER TITLE AND HER OSCAR
I had no idea that was going to be the Sunday morning headline when I stepped into the three-time Academy Award–winning actress’s mansion on Saturday night.
“I can’t believe I’m here,” I whisper to my date, the one and only Xavier McCormack. Heartthrob extraordinaire and the envy of literally every one of my friends. Especially other actors who pretend to be my friend to my face and then sneer and gossip behind my back. In Hollywood, cutthroat competition is encouraged.
I curl my hand over his tuxedoed forearm. I’m in a jade-green floor-length gown by Michael Keith, and a pair of strappy sandals by MK as well. Michael gave them to me, marveled at how beautiful they were, and that’s exactly why I’m wearing them. They’re pinching the life out of my left big toe and I haven’t been able to feel my right pinky toe since I slipped them on.
“Stick with me, baby,” Xavier leans over to say, his crisp cologne swirling around me. He’s very obviously sexy. His generous mouth forms an almost permanent smirk, his chocolate-brown eyes are expressive and have a way of caressing whatever they land on. And when they landed on me at the audition for his next film, I felt the blast of heat from them like I was standing in front of a furnace.
When he asked me out, I didn’t hesitate saying yes. Who turns down Xavier McCormack? To be totally transparent—a rare occasion in this business—I don’t feel a blip of attraction to him. General appreciation, sure. Dazzled by his obvious charm and the ability to make women worldwide green with envy just by being photographed with him, absolutely.
But as far as chemistry between us? Zip.
It’s one of the main reasons I wasn’t cast as his love interest at the audition. I was offered a smaller role that I politely turned down. It wasn’t the one I wanted and as my agent keeps telling me, the end of America’s Sweetheart doesn’t mean my career is over. She testifies that it’s just starting. Which is an exciting prospect…if she’s right.
Xavier and I stroll arm in arm toward Millie’s massive mansion, the grounds bedecked with tall manicured bushes and dotted with a billion twinkle lights. A red carpet leads to the front door, and I have the thought that maybe my agent is right.
I clutch tightly to Xavier’s arm as we’re greeted by celebrities who would make my jaw drop if I didn’t have to maintain a healthy amount of decorum. Seriously. I want to fangirl so bad right now. I spent the last ten years working my ass off on a television show that was widely lauded, but I’m also still a girl from a midsize Ohio town agog at the idea of shaking hands with the elite in this industry.
As I spot one of my biggest male idols of all time, Hank Shales, I say a silent prayer that he’s as nice as he seems. I’ve met at least one other actor who has let me down. People aren’t always who they seem to be on the screen. Hank has been a role model for as long as I can remember and working with him is on my bucket list.
Right under winning an Academy Award—every actress’s dream.
Given the difficulty of rising to the top of a mountain of other talented actors, and knowing the type of role I’d need to land to be nominated for the coveted man in gold, I probably have another ten to twenty years to go before I’m close. Even though Xavier, who’s two years younger than me, landed his with what looked like hardly trying.
He truly makes fame look easy. From the careless shag of his dark hair to the scruff on his jaw that seems permanently five hours old, to the way he handles talking to the most famous people on the planet like he’s one of their oldest friends.
He’s incredible. And incredibly safe. Which is why, when things advanced from dating to seriously dating, I stayed close. What we have may not be butterflies and heart-eye emojis, but he’s stable and normal, and as good of a prospect as a girl can hope to find in this town.
Until Xavier, I’d never been invited to parties. Awards shows, yes. America’s Sweetheart took an Emmy years ago, and I was even onstage to accept with the show’s team. But parties are for the actors on the inside of the trust circle.
My agent didn’t mince words when she said that sticking with Xavier was good for my career. My insistence of “that’s not why I’m seeing him” fell on deaf ears. It’s not why I’m seeing him…entirely. As I said before, he makes me feel safe, and I genuinely like him. Like is a huge feat, considering I haven’t found anyone remotely worth having a cup of coffee with since I moved here.
There is only one guy I’ve ever felt that deep, true, real love for. A guy back home. It didn’t work out, and that was probably for the best. This life isn’t for him. He doesn’t need the limelight or attention or people begging for his autograph. And he doesn’t wear concealer to cover up razor burn, I think as I glance up at my date.
Millie, shining in a silver sequined gown, stands in the center of her own cocktail party. She waves when we come in and rushes over to kiss Xavier on the cheeks. She played his mother in the film Legends and Bygones, which is the film for which he won the Oscar. Millie’s rumored to pave the streets with gold. It’s joked that if you work with her, one of the two of you will win an Oscar, and three times it’s been her. It’s not that funny of a joke, because it feels true.
Her sweet, famous smile lands on me and she clasps my hand in both of hers, gives me her full attention, and says to Xavier, “Do introduce us.”
“Millie, this is my girlfriend, Nina Lockhart. Nina, Millie Duncan.”
I’m starstruck so suddenly it’s almost blinding.
“Nice to meet you, Ms. Duncan.”
“Millie. Please. Let me show you around. I have to get out of this room. It’s choked with ass-kissers.”
Just like that I’m wowed. And later when she invites me to her patio for champagne and asks if I’d also like to kick off my shoes and dip my feet into the pool, I’m in love.
LATER THAT EVENING
“I’ve never had champagne that good.” I’m hanging on Xavier’s arm after enjoying one too many flutes of said good champagne. His tuxedo coat rests over his other arm, his white shirt open and his bow tie free.
“You done good, baby,” he says to me, his words slurring. I had one too many glasses, true, but he had all the rest. “When it’s that expensive and delicious, you drink all you can hold.”
