Page 3 of Yours To Take
“Hi.” I drop a peck on her perfectly made-up cheek. No matter where she is, no matter the time of day, she always has a full face of makeup on and wears the latest clothes from the top designers.
Today’s feather jacket seems a touch out of place, but I’ve never been one to comment on what she wears. T-shirts and jeans cut it for me.
“Blake, dear. You’re looking too thin. You really need to make time to eat.”
Linking her arm with mine, Mom drags me out of my office. “I have a sandwich I can eat.”
“That will not cut it. Besides, the new cafe opened and I hear everyone is buzzing about it.”
As we make our way out of the office building that’s centered on the studio lot, people gape at the woman on my arm.
Growing up, it was always weird to have a model/superstar for a mother. Everywhere we went, she was bombarded with people wanting to take a picture with her.
When you’re a spitting image of her—brown hair and bright green eyes—people want a piece of you too.
“I only have thirty minutes.”
“You really should make time for your mother.”
Ironic that she tells me to make time for her now, when I was carted around by her when I was a kid and sent off with nannies while she worked.
“Excuse me, but do you mind if we step in front? We are on a time crunch.”
“Oh, absolutely, Miss Travers.”
My mother is also not beneath using her name to get ahead. Like beating the long column of workers standing in line for lunch break.
“We’ll take two endive salads and sparkling waters.”
“Mom, I can order for myself,” I growl.
She ignores me. “Go find us a table.”
I stalk off, like a toddler throwing a tantrum.
First Clint and now my mother. This isn’t the best start to my day.
It’s always been like this. My mother makes me absolutely crazy sometimes. Do I love her? Sure. About as much as anyone can when they hardly know them.
As much as I’ve made a name for myself, it still feels like I live in her shadow. And that I’ll continue to live in her shadow for the rest of my life.
“The service here is incredible. Hardly had to wait at all.” Mom walks up to the table, a haggard-looking worker following behind her with a tray.
“Thanks, man.” I grab it from him and set it down before pulling out Mom’s chair.
“Tell me about the projects you’re working on.”
Bangles clink on her arms as she opens her water and demurely sips from the bottle.
“Clint came by today to tell me I need to start working on a family drama.”
“You?” Her face screws up. Or screws up as much as a woman with too much Botox can. “You don’t have any idea about family drama. Clint really should just let you work.”
I ignore her comment. Never mind the fact that she ran my dad off when I was little. “Doesn’t matter. The exec’s haven’t been liking my ideas, so I need to come up with something. And fast.”
“I’m sure you will, dear.” She flicks her hand as if brushing away my concern, her rings flashing on her perfectly manicured hand. “I’ll be off filming for the next few months.”
And right back to her. Only took point-two seconds.
