From Fake to Forever (2 page)

“Thank goodness for that, and that she was there to help you and Todd.”

He snorted in disgust. “Help? Are you kidding? She ran off like I was Ted Bundy.”

Denise turned away from the sink and gave him a stern look. “Well, I don’t blame her one bit.”

Ben gaped and turned to her husband for support. Frank, being the pacifist he was, stood, shrugged, and followed Todd out of the room. Eyes rolling toward the ceiling, Ben turned back to his agent. “You actually forgive her for not stopping to help a movie star, let alone a fellow citizen? Last time I checked, we live in a benevolent society.”

“Come on, Ben, stop playing the movie-star card. She wouldn’t have recognized you if her life depended on it. I wouldn’t have stopped to throw a quarter in a cup for you. It’s your own fault, parading around like you do. This look did nothing for Brad Pitt, either.”

Ben’s anger dissipated as he rubbed the palm of his hand over his long beard and hair. He’d never counted on his appearance going as far as scaring a mother and her small child. He’d grown the hair and mustache almost a year ago for a part in a biker movie—then decided to keep them for a while for kicks.

“What do I really look like?” he asked.

“A hermit.”

He wiggled his eyebrows up and down. “A
handsome
hermit?”

She laughed. “Honey, you could be tarred and feathered and still be voted one of the most beautiful people in Hollywood—and you can act. That’s why you’re one of my favorite clients.”

“And you’re one of my favorite agents,” he said with a grin. “Thanks for pulling those magical strings of yours and landing me the lead in
Heaven Sent
.”

Denise walked over and handed him a piece of paper. “You don’t have the part yet. We’ll know in a few more weeks.” She gestured toward the paper. “That’s to make sure you’re ready for it when you do.”

He looked down at the slip in his hand. Besides the name “Storybook Land,” it had an address and directions. “What’s this, an amusement park?” he asked.

“No, a preschool. Actually, it’s more like research.”

“Research? What kind of research can I do around a bunch of little runny noses at a preschool?”

Denise’s eyes narrowed. She planted herself in front of him and leaned in. “Look, Ben, you’re a fantastic actor, but this is our big chance to showcase your stuff. You’ll need to get a feel for what it’s like to be around young children—care for them.” She hesitated, drumming her fingers on the table. “Something like that isn’t always…”

“Innate?” But Ben knew what she was really getting at. She was worried he wouldn’t have it in him to act like a father, since he’d never had one of his own—much less a real family.

She raised a finger in the air. “I didn’t say that. I just meant that sometimes what you think caring for a child means isn’t at all like actually doing it.”

“Yeah, translated means you don’t think I can act,” he shot back, banking down the hurt he felt at her lack of confidence in him. Family or no family, he’d bet he could convince the best skeptic that he was one of the Duggars.

“Oh, stop taking it so personally. I’d do the exact same thing for George Clooney—if he were a client. Honestly, I want this role for you. It’ll mean a lot for both our careers. So listen, even though the preschool has done a background check and you don’t even have so much as an unpaid parking ticket in your file, rest assured you won’t be allowed to be alone with the children. But you’ll at least be able to observe the class and interact as a teacher. How does that sound?”

He stroked his beard for a moment, mulling it over. “I don’t know. If I do something like that, there’s going to be a media circus around me.”

She gave him an all-too-confident grin. “There won’t be. This preschool is perfect. Very small. Owned and run by two sisters. They only have one other teacher on staff with them. The sisters have agreed not to alert the media until after you’re long gone.”

Ben eyed her skeptically for a minute, glanced at the slip of paper again, and decided she had a point. What did he know about being around little kids, anyway? He didn’t like them. What did he know about being a father? He’d never had one. The research certainly couldn’t hurt, and if it meant it would help his career, even better. So what the hell?

“Okay,” he said with a slight shrug. “I’ll look into it after my vacation.”

She shook her head, amusement in her eyes. “Baby, this
is
your vacation. You report there tomorrow morning at nine.”

…

Sandra arrived for work the next morning already in full-blown stressed-out mode. Hannah was cranky and battling a case of the sniffles, there was no coffee in the house, Sandra’s favorite lipstick had gone MIA, and to top it all off, she was late. Late for her, anyway.

Her preschool was open from nine a.m. to twelve p.m., five days a week, but she liked to be there at least an hour ahead of time to prepare snacks and go over the lesson plans. Now she felt panicky, since she only had forty-five minutes—correction, forty-four minutes—before opening.

She took out her key to open the front door, but it swung out before she could stick it in the lock. Jumping in front of Hannah, she dropped her handbag, ready to defend them both. The perpetrator bounded into view, and with pulse running wild, she stumbled back.

“Missy!” she cried. She dropped her arms from their Ronda Rousey position, thankful she wasn’t going to have to put those self-defense classes to the test. She took a moment to catch her breath. “I didn’t see your car. What are you doing here so early?”

“What do you mean?” her sister asked, wringing her hands. “We both own this preschool. Can’t I arrive early and get everything ready for the day, too?”

Sandra walked in and frowned as she bent down to unbutton her daughter’s jacket. She couldn’t help but be a tad suspicious. Her younger sister was never early for work. Missy usually had a fun, carefree attitude to most things in life, which made it even more surprising to hear the nervous tone in her voice. Sandra wondered what she was going to have to forgive her for this time.

As soon as she was set free of her coat, Hannah scurried into the playroom. Sandra watched her go, then turned back to Missy. She was about to open her mouth again when something about her sister’s appearance struck her as odd. Missy looked extremely…pretty. Not that her sister wasn’t normally attractive, but it appeared as if she’d taken more than just the average I’m-only-impressing-four-year-olds care in getting ready this morning.

With short, curly blond hair Missy usually let run wild in a young Meg Ryan style, she often gave the impression of being younger than she actually was. But today, dressed in a sensible jean skirt and maroon-colored blouse, she looked every month of her twenty-five years. She’d even managed to tame her curls quite nicely and wore lipstick—Sandra’s MIA lipstick—when she usually ran makeup-free. Missy finally looked more like a teacher and less like a student. It was a nice change of pace, so Sandra decided to keep her mouth shut about the favorite-lipstick swiping.

“You can definitely help,” Sandra said. “But this is the first time you’ve taken that initiative since we opened.”

Her sister swallowed. “Oh. Sorry. Never too late to start, right?” She glanced over her shoulder.

Sandra glanced over Missy’s shoulder, too, but didn’t see anything. “Everything okay?”

“Why wouldn’t everything be okay?”

She cocked her head. “You tell me.”

She tried to step past to get to her office, but Missy jumped in front of her. “I will,” Missy said breathlessly. “Until then—um, don’t go into your office. Yet.”

Oh, no. Tell me you didn’t just say that.

She squeezed her eyes closed and began counting to ten, but only made it to two before they sprang open again. “You didn’t do anything stupid like order new office furniture we can’t afford, did you? Or maybe have some sort of accident and ruin all our files—for the
second
time, I might add?”

Her sister smiled and shook her head, sending short curls swaying against her cheek. “Nope, nothing like that.”

She blew out a relieved breath. “Okay, then. I’m sure you have nothing to worry about. So, why can’t I go into my office yet?”

Her sister’s face lit up, looking ready to burst. “I took it upon myself to help out our business with a little publicity.”

Sandra couldn’t share her enthusiasm. Publicity cost money. They couldn’t keep up with the incoming bills as it was. “What
kind
of publicity?”

“The kind that causes a special buzz when people hear about our preschool. The kind that’s going to separate us from the rest of the preschools in the area, maybe even the state. It’s funny how it fell into our laps. You’re going to be so surprised.”

She hated surprises—and Missy darn well knew that. Why couldn’t she have a less spontaneous sibling? “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s my surprise?”

Missy couldn’t seem to contain her excitement and did a little dance in place. “It’s not
what’s
your surprise, but
who’s
your surprise.”

Sandra hated those kinds of surprises the most. “What do you mean?”

Missy finally shifted out of her way. “Take a look.”

Sandra placed her hand on the doorknob, hesitating enough to allow one more glance back at her sister. When everything appeared harmless enough, she threw open the office door. And froze. She was surprised, all right. Although “surprise” was really a mild word for the limb-numbing reaction she experienced when her eyes landed right on the ex-con—in all his hairiness—she remembered from the park.

The hairy man stood to his above-and-beyond-six-feet height, causing her to stumble backward and bang her elbow on the doorframe. Her breathing came to a complete stop, and, adding to her hysteria, he had the nerve to look pleased. “Wow, we meet—”

She slammed the door in his face.

Her heart felt like it was going to shoot out of her chest, and she couldn’t utter a single sound. The expression on her face must have said it all, because her sister grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her.

“Sandra, speak to me,” she said urgently. “What’s wrong?”

She had to try several times before she got back her voice. “Th-that’s the man I told you about from the park. The one who was trying to con us,” she said, rubbing her elbow.

Her sister looked puzzled. “It can’t be.”

“Trust me. It is.” She swallowed and took a deep breath, her mind racing with what to do next. “I’ll go in there and stall him while you call the police. That’ll give them plenty of time to come and arrest him. Everything will be okay.” She held her head in her hands, trying to summon enough courage to go back in there.

“Of course everything will be okay,” Missy said, patting her shoulder. “That man in your office isn’t a criminal.”

Her head popped up. “What? How do you know that?”

“Don’t you recognize him? He’s a celebrity.”

The office door swung open, shifting their attention. The bearded man took a cautious step out, then, apparently deciding it was safe, leaned his body up against the doorframe.

“You know, I wouldn’t quit your job here to work for the welcome wagon if I were you,” he said irritably. He shrugged and stuck out his hand. “Name is Ben Capshaw. Actor. Maybe you’ve seen some of my movies?”

…

The Grace Kelly blonde studied his face for almost a full minute before giving his hand a lazy glance. “Yes, I know who you are.
Now.
”

Hmm, not the reaction to which he was accustomed. The woman continued to study him with cold speculation in those baby blues of hers, and even though she said she recognized him, she still didn’t offer to take his hand. Obviously not a fan. Too bad. He’d love to be on friendlier terms with her, because he could see he’d been right at the park about her being attractive—gorgeous, even—in an unpretentious sort of way. And bonus, no ring on her finger.

He sighed inwardly at the wasted opportunity. Okay, if she wanted to give him open hostility, he’d take it on the chin like a man. Her actions might even be justified. After all, he had scared her down to her panties. Twice.

Tired of having his hand suspended in midair, he shoved it in his pocket. “I guess I gave you quite a shock.”

“Yes,” she hissed. “Yes, you did. You know, you could have said something yesterday instead of giving me heart failure like that. I thought you were a murderer.”

“Murderer?” He laughed. “Believe me, I tried to explain. You took off in a full sprint before I could get a word out.” Even though the woman seemed to have a giant stick wedged up her butt, he figured he’d extend the olive branch anyway and smother the issue. “Look, I’m sorry, okay?”

“Wow, Mr. Capshaw said he was sorry.” Missy sighed and glanced at her sister. “Isn’t that sweet?”

As blue-gray icicles began to form in the other woman’s eyes, he doubted very much she thought anything about him was sweet.

“It’s not funny,” the blonde went on. “I had my child to think of, you know. Do you get your kicks out of scaring people like that?”

“Hey, of course not. Look, Miss…”

“Moyer,” she snapped.

“Sandra,” Missy offered at the same time.

Sandra.

Naturally, her name was Sandra. Yeah, she definitely looked like a Sandra-don’t-call-me-Sandy kind of person, all coolly poised yet full of attitude—like a drama queen herself. He should know. He’d been around enough of them in his line of work. He didn’t know why, but the thought that she was like the rest of the women out there had him feeling a little disappointed.

“Okay, Miss Sandra,” he bit out. “I think you’re overreacting, big-time. I wasn’t trying to be funny or scary. I was playing with my nephew. Besides, I don’t think I look
that
bad.” His agent might have told him he looked like a hermit, but Denise hadn’t said anything about being at ax-murderer status.

She snorted. “Please. Pretending to be stuck in a slide, playing knight in distress, is a desperate way to meet women. What’s the matter, your ego bruised because your last costar didn’t fall under your spell, or has Hollywood run out of women to play up to?”