her want to prove them all wrong, moving her to consider investing her own money into the project. A prospect her attorneys, financial advisers and friends were adamantly against.
Doing what she loved shouldn’t be so hard, she mused. But Hollywood was ruled by a patriarchy with black women existing only along the sidelines of the industry. Although perceived as a liberal, diverse space that welcomed creativity and difference, the film industry was still overwhelmingly white and male—a good ol’ boys club in full control. It made it difficult at best for Dahlia to do what she loved.
Despite women making films for more than one hundred years, Kathryn Bigelow had been the first woman to win an Academy Award for directing, taking home the prize. Dahlia was the first woman of color to claim the honor and, at the age of twenty-eight, also the youngest filmmaker, male or female, to be honored. But women filmmakers of any race or age had yet to experience the same levels of success as their male counterparts, and Dahlia was intent on changing that. Wanting more than anything to just tell good stories, she had to be diligent and persistent and, like every black woman who was making films, she had to be resilient.
Dahlia took a sip of her bottled springwater, tapping heavily against the tabletop with the pen that rested between her fingers. She glanced down at the diamond-encrusted watch that adorned her slim wrist. She’d arrived early for her casting, and she still had a few minutes before the actor she was meeting was due to arrive.
The casting agency had scheduled this appointment. If she’d been able, Dahlia would have canceled without giving it a second thought. But she needed to stay on schedule, and staying on schedule meant finding a male lead and locking him into contract as quickly as possible. So canceling hadn’t been a real option for her.
Dahlia looked down at the IMDB résumé the casting agency had faxed over to her. She was meeting one of Hollywood’s golden boys, the infamous Guy Boudreaux. His professional résumé was a plethora of some very big box office successes; his recent portrayal of the new James Bond authenticated a career that would surely go down in the history books. Having spent the past evening watching two of his independent films, Dahlia could not deny the man’s talent. His ability to capture the essence of his characters and breathe life into them surpassed his youthful twenty-eight years and made him exactly what Dahlia was looking for in her male lead.
A commotion at the restaurant’s entrance drew her attention. She looked up to see Guy Boudreaux as he was accosted by an eager female fan. He stopped to sign an autograph, and there was no missing his welcoming demeanor as he posed for a picture with a family of five, chatting with the group as if they were old friends.
Dahlia’s eyes widened with interest. Guy Boudreaux was imposing in stature, standing just over six feet tall. Dressed in a black silk suit and white dress shirt opened at the collar, he was quite the male specimen. His chest was broad, flanked by wide shoulders. His legs were long, and the slacks he wore nicely complemented the hard, full curves of a very high backside. His complexion was dark caramel with the faintest undertone of buttercream, warm and delectable as it stretched taut over clearly defined muscles. A crown of black dreadlocks hung past his shoulders, and just a hint of facial hair, the beginnings of a neatly trimmed mustache and goatee, complemented his chiseled facial features. He was a Greek Adonis with an artistic aura, his look a nice blend of bohemian flair and classic styling. It was clear that he wore his confidence like a neon blanket draped over his torso, bright and abundant. The man was handsome beyond words, and Dahlia felt her breath catch in her throat as he crossed the room in her direction.
“Ms. Morrow, Guy Boudreaux,” he said as he extended a large hand in greeting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Dahlia lifted her gaze to meet his, feeling overwhelmingly starstruck as words failed her. She nodded as he clasped her hand beneath his, shaking it firmly. His palm was silky smooth as it glided over hers like a sensual kiss.
“May I sit down?” Guy asked, amusement crossing his expression, her hand still trapped beneath his.
Dahlia took a deep breath as she nodded her head, slowly pulling her hand from his. Her fingers tingled, the sensation sweeping like wildfire through her body. It was intense and disturbing, and she tried to stall the feelings by clasping both of her hands together in her lap. “Excuse me,” she said, clearing her throat. “Of course, have a seat, Mr. Boudreaux.”
She eyed him keenly as he slid into the leather-covered booth beside her.
“Please, call me Guy. I hope I’m not late,” he said, his gaze still locked with hers, a brilliant smile of pearl-white teeth beaming at her.
She shook her head, desperate to clear the cloud that had mysteriously consumed her. “No, you’re right on time actually,” she finally answered. “And it’s definitely a pleasure to meet you. Your reputation has preceded you.”
“Yours, as well,” Guy said with a light chuckle. “Congratulations on your recent victory.”
Dahlia smiled sweetly. “Thank you. I hope you know that I’m looking to do that again with this new project.”
Guy gestured ever so slightly with his head, a warm smile filling his face. “I’m thinking that won’t be a problem. It’s a great story, the script is on point and with me as the lead character, it can’t help but be a success,” he said teasingly.
Dahlia chuckled warmly. “So, tell me what you really think,” she said.
“Seriously, this project has great potential, and I think I’d be a wonderful asset to your vision. But if I can ask you one question?”
“Of course.”
“Tell me more about the story. When I read it I got the sense that there was some background history there that wasn’t being told.”
Dahlia smiled, her eyes locking with his. She nodded her head slowly, her thoughts drifting ever so briefly. Guy was right, and his intuition gave her reason to pause.
“There is history there. My history. The lead characters are modeled after my grandparents. They met in 1935 when my grandmother was barely fourteen and my grandfather was sixteen. They were inseparable from that moment on. Both of their parents had forbidden them to be together and they were defiant, doing exactly what they wanted instead. And when Granny became pregnant at a young age, it set off a chain of events that neither of them were really prepared for.”
“And they really did meet in a dance hall?”
Dahlia nodded her head. “My grandmother was an extraordinary dancer. She loved the music and being out on a dance floor. And my grandfather loved her and whatever it was that she loved.”
“Your grandparents, are they still living?”
She took a deep breath, a hint of tears misting her eyes. “No. He passed on when I was just a little girl, and my grandmother died last year. She was ninety-one.”
“I’m so sorry.”
Dahlia shrugged her shoulders as she took another deep breath. The memory of losing her beloved grandmother still haunted her. The woman’s passing had been expected; the family had sat vigil for almost a week in one of the best hospice facilities in the city. But even the knowing hadn’t been able to minimize the tremendous hurt that had completely devastated Dahlia when the moment had come.
There was no missing the emotion that passed over Dahlia’s face. Guy found himself taken aback by her expression. The pain of it felt like a needle prick through his heart, and in that moment he would have done anything to take the hurt from her eyes and make everything well again. He resisted the temptation to reach out and touch her, to strum his fingers against the back of her hand and down the length of her arm.
As if reading his thoughts, Dahlia pulled her hands back into her lap. She met his gaze, and his stare was like a soothing balm. Guy smiled. The warmth of it seared through her like a bolt of lightning. She gasped lightly.
Clearing her throat, she finally said, “I am still fine-tuning the script. I’ve also felt like there was something that was missing in the story line, something