Page 33 of The Holiday Fakers
“Sure,” she says, moving back and framing the shot.
The toddler notices me and pulls a face. Obviously, I’m a threat to his one-on-one time with a Hollywood star. His little hand comes up and smashes into my face, pushing me away.
Brody and I crack up laughing as the parents apologize, horrified.
“I hope you got that,” Brody says to the receptionist.
“Sure did!” She hands the phone back to him, and we all crowd around it like we’ve known each other for years as he goes through the photos from the start.
There’s one of all of us, beaming smiles on our faces. Then one where the toddler notices the interloper. Another with me being pushed away, while the parents have comical looks of horror on their faces, and then one of Brody and me laughing, with the toddler looking put out that I’m still there.
“I think that’s the best one of the lot,” Brody says. “If you give me your email, I’ll make sure they’re sent to you.”
“Thank you! That would be … awesome!” the woman says, utterly starstruck.
The receptionist produces a pad and pen as Brody hands the infant back to his mom, and the dad scribbles on a piece of paper, then gives it to Brody.
“Thank you, Mr King. You’ve made our Christmas.”
“Your little one just made ours.”
Ours… As if we’re a real couple.
Brody must have a sixth sense for fans, because he turns to the receptionist and grins. “Want a selfie?”
She nods so fast I’m worried her head might fall off, and Brody moves closer.
“Here, let me,” he says, taking her phone. “I’ve got a longer arm, and we need the distance for my enormous ego, I mean, head.”
Thisis the Brody I remember. So kind even strangers feel at home with him.
A few more photos, then Brody says his goodbyes and we walk back to the SUV in silence.
Inside, I face him. “That was really sweet of you. You were amazing with them.”
He lets out a slow breath. “It’s the least I could do. Remind me to kill Marv when I see him next, would you?”
“You don’t know?—”
He gives me a look.
“Well, anyway, you made their whole life back there.”
He fishes his phone from his pocket and sends them an email with the photos the receptionist took.
“I don’t mind fans like that at all,” he says. “They’re nice. It’s the other ones. Like from this morning. They’re not so pleasant.”
I nod. I was scared witless by the woman trying to get in the car.
“I’ll make some calls,” he continues. “Try to find somewhere else we can stay.”
Finding a place this close to Christmas in Hideaway, which is famous for being the only place in New England to celebrate the season when the Puritans banned it in the 1600s? Not likely.
“I’ll find something,” he continues with determination, tapping on his phone.
I sit in silence, waiting for the inevitable.
Sure enough, after five minutes, he tosses the phone into his lap.
