Page 11 of Mister Mom

“Nothing.” He jams the sword into my stomach and shit, that hurts.

I bellow and keel over.

“I’m sorry.” Layla walks over and places her hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“Max will get him next,” Payne says in a deep, mean-sounding voice.

“Stop it with Max. We talked about the invisible monsters thing.” Her hand moves off me to her son and she pulls him down the short hallway. “I’ll be right back.”

They’re in the back room but I overhear every word between them—her dictating how he should act and his consistent whining of, “But, Mom…”

She returns minutes later, minus Payne. Who, I might add, seems like a pain in the ass so it seems he was named appropriately.

“I’m so sorry.” She sighs and pulls her long, auburn hair into a ponytail and sits down on the thinly cushioned couch beside me. “Did you want something to drink?” Her body shifts forward and is half up off the couch when my hand lands on her thigh to stop her.

Her eyes narrow on my hand and I quickly retract it, feeling like a creep. “Sorry.”

She eases back down onto the most uncomfortable couch ever built.

“I hope you aren’t some sleazy scriptwriter who wants me to practice the sex scenes with him on his casting couch.” She laughs and the sound is almost musical. For some unknown reason my heart sputters over a couple of beats.

“Nah, just the kissing ones.” I keep my face stone cold and her laughter slowly stops until I smile and shake my head.

She picks up right where she left off and this time it’s her touching my shoulder. But I don’t shake her off. I like the way it feels. Too much.

She rises from the couch again and I watch her ass sway as she walks the short distance to the mini-fridge.

Christ, I’m such an asshole—I’m visualizing her naked. As if I am that guy who’s more interested in getting her spread-eagle on the casting couch than what her talent can add to my film.

“Water?” she asks over her shoulder.

I shake my head, admiring the curve of her body in the yoga pants plastered to her skin.

“Mommy!” The door at the back of the trailer opens and her head whips in that direction.

Payne stands in the doorway, his lips turned down in a frown.

“Go back in there, Payne.” She points back in the room and the little boy’s gaze moves to me. “Nope. You’ll get no sympathy from me, young man. Another nanny gone. You need to learn how to behave.”

Payne’s chest heaves with a breath and he circles around, his shoulders shake and he slowly disappears in the room, slamming the door behind him.

Layla’s chin drops forward to her chest and she inhales a deep breath before releasing it. But when she looks back up at me her face is masked with confidence.

“Let’s talk about that script.” She cracks open her water bottle and sits down on the couch again.

I wait a few seconds before I start in on my pitch. “It’s about a couple on the run. Outlaws.” I toss the script on the seat cushion between us. “You’d be playing Melanie.”

She picks it up, and I notice her fingernails are perfectly polished in a shade not unlike the color of sand. It must be natural because I bet whatever role she’s in, the audience isn’t too focused in on her hands. Not with all the other assets she’s got going for her.

“And who would be”—she thumbs through the script for a second—“Joseph?”

“If I said Ryan Gosling would you take the part?”

She focuses in on me for an uncomfortable beat before she shakes her head. “No, I like Eva. I’m rooting for them.” She shuts the script and sips her water. Damn. I realize now that she must have wiped her lipstick off when she was in the back with Payne because they’re pink now with a gloss of water over them and totally kissable. To the point of distraction.

Get your shit together, man.

I clear my throat. “Rooting for them?”

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