by Monroe, Max
“I might’ve been out of the game for a while now, but I still have a few connections in Hollywood.”
More like, a beautiful, crazy woman tracked me down and, instead of just trying to talk me into making a comeback, she ended up changing my entire life’s course by making me fall in love with her.
But he doesn’t need to know the details of what—who—truly brought me here.
“I see.” He runs his fingers across his smooth chin. “So, what you’re telling me is that you’re here because you want to play the part of Finn Slate?”
“Yes, that screenplay, that role, is so good, it brought me all the way back to a city I swore I’d never return to.”
I’m bullshitting a little since the main reason I’m back is Billie, but that’s okay. Bullshit is practically Hollywood’s love language.
“You have that much faith in it?”
“I do.” Two words. Zero hesitation.
William takes a moment to let my words sink in, his eyes meeting mine, but his gaze somewhere off in the distance. Surely, he’s weighing out his options, thinking through every possible scenario. He’s trying to decide if I’m genuine or full of shit. If I’m another flight risk or his next big commodity.
“And you think you can live up to Serena Koontz’s expectations?” His question doesn’t alter my path. Fear of expectations wasn’t what made me leave this town. I can live up to expectations. Back then, though, I just couldn’t handle letting other people live my life for me.
I was just a kid when I’d gotten my big break, and by the time I was old enough to make my decisions, the damage had already been done. The only way to repair it was to distance myself from everything and everyone and start from scratch.
“I know I can.”
“And what about mine?” he asks. “Do you think you can live up to my expectations?”
“What are your expectations?”
“No bullshit,” he says. “You do your fucking job, and you finish this movie.”
“I can handle those. And I hope you’re not going to give Serena’s team a hard time with the budget,” I state firmly. “I know you have a tendency to do shit like that halfway through production.”
William chuckles. “You leave Hollywood for eight years, and you come back with demands?”
“I’ve been gone for eight years, and my agent has still never run out of jobs and scripts to send me.” Seeing as I hardly kept in touch with my agent while I was gone, I might be stretching the truth a bit, but you have to be willing to play hardball with men like William Capo. “And everyone loves a comeback. Especially when that comeback is the bad boy of Hollywood.”
William stares at me for a long moment.
“You’re sure you’re ready for this?”
“Yes.”
“No bullshit? No fucking around? No leaving sets and not coming back?”
“I’m all in.”
“Who is your agent?”
“Adele Lang.”
“And Heidi Morris? Is she still your manager?”
“Fuck no. I left that evil piranha over ten years ago.”
When my sister and I started to make it really big, our mom stopped being our manager and hired Heidi Morris, otherwise known as the woman without a soul. She is all of the money-hungry, evil, conniving things I refuse to be around.
Two years before I left this town, I fired everyone on my team—manager, agent, publicist, every-fucking-one, and Heidi Morris was first on that list.
Sadly, though, I hired a new team that was the opposite of the old.
Instead of being on my ass every second of every day, they let me do whatever the hell I wanted. It was a recipe for disaster for a guy who was already on a downward spiral.
Thankfully, Adele Lang ended up being the one person I could trust, and that’s why she’s still technically my agent, even while I was off the grid in Alaska.
“Then who is your manager?”
“Adele Lang is playing both roles. She’s been in the business practically longer than I’ve been alive. She is about the only person I trust wholeheartedly.”
“What about a publicist?”
“I’m not currently working with anyone.” I shake my head. “But if it makes you feel any better, I know the studio has plenty of publicists to offer me guidance.”
He quirks a brow. “And what will you do with that guidance?”
“You have my word that I will follow it. I’m not the loose-cannon asshole I once was.”
He stays quiet for another long moment, turning in his chair and looking out the window. And I just sit there, patiently. My cards are out on the table, and it’s up to him to decide.
He turns back around to meet my eyes, searching my face before he eventually gives me his decision. “Okay,” he says and sets both elbows on top of his desk. “Let’s get Serena Koontz on the line and get the ball rolling. I want production to start on this movie in a month.”
“Yeah? You’re on board with me playing the lead?”
He nods. “Congrats, Luca Weaver. You are officially Finn Slate. Don’t make me fucking regret this.”
I’m certain this is the first time I’ve ever truly felt excited about a movie.
But I am—especially the love story I’m hoping to get to play out behind the scenes.
And now it looks like I need to do the one thing I thought I would never do—get myself settled in LA again.
Billie
This shit is no emoji; this shit is real. Four weeks ago, I found out Luca Weaver was coming to LA. He wanted to do Espionage and, of course, Serena Koontz was more than on board with him playing the lead.
Two days after that, I found out Capo Brothers Studios was also on board with him doing the movie, and things would be moving quickly from here on out.
The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of getting everything and everyone ready to start production.
And somehow, I’ve managed to avoid Luca for the past month.
Whenever I knew he was at Serena’s offices, I found other jobs that took me elsewhere. Even when she needed us to get in contact with his agent, I let Charles take the reins, and I ran errands I would’ve fought hard to dodge mere months ago.
You name it, and I’m avoiding it if Luca Weaver is involved.
But today, there is no evading.
This is the first day the cast will be doing a table read of the script, and I am stuck here, at the studio, in the same freaking building as him.
Everyone takes their seats at the long table in the center of the room, and my eyes have laser beam focus, spotting him out of the crowd. Stupid eyes. It’s like they have a mind of their own.
Ugh.
He sits in between two of his costars—Lucy Larson and Frank Howard.
Lucy will play Katarina, Finn Slate’s love interest.
And Frank will play Mac McCoy, his best friend who will eventually turn into his nemesis halfway through the movie.
While the three of them chat quietly between one another, I stand there, in the background, wishing Luca were a repulsive sight.
But to my dismay, one month isn’t enough time for someone to morph from devastatingly handsome to disgusting.
That rat bastard is still as striking as ever. His beard is shorter. His eyes are still as blue as the flipping sea. And his strong jaw could still give statues a run for their money.
Stupid, good-looking jerk.
I roll my eyes at myself and distract my brain with the menial task of counting how many cups of coffee I’ve consumed since I woke up this morning. I downright refuse to think about anything related to Luca fucking Weaver. Not the time we spent together. Not what it felt like to be in his arms and in his bed. And certainly not the way he made me feel.
Bottom line, that man is a certified asshole, and outside of my job responsibilities, I will not have anything to do with him
While the cast rolls through the script, I meet the caterers at the back-door entrance and help them set u
p the craft services table.
Sandwiches, coffee, soda, water, and just about every kind of fruit and dessert you can think of are placed in a delicious display. And since it’s nearing noon and I’ve been up since five this morning, I don’t hesitate to sneak a banana and my fourth cup of coffee of the day.
A girl’s gotta eat and get her caffeine fix and all that.
Just as I’m about to shove a bite of banana into my mouth, the cast and crew take a lunch break and start to file into the room, heading straight for the food. Aware of my surroundings and just exactly who is in said surroundings, I discreetly step back into the far corner and hide behind some camera equipment.
Is this the coward’s way out? Most certainly.
But do I care? Not in the least.
I’m going to do what I have to do to keep my freaking distance.
One bite, two bites, three bites into my banana and I’m already feeling better.
But when the soft patter of paws fills my ears, I look down to see I’ve been found out.
Bailey—my Alaskan wilderness hiking buddy.
My heart practically explodes with joy when I see his sweet face.
He sits right beside my feet, his tail wagging back and forth across the ground, and a smile consumes my face.
“Aw, hey there, bubby,” I say and reach down with my free hand to scratch behind his ears. “How have you been? I’ve missed you.”
Tail still wagging, he stands on all fours and rubs the side of his body against my legs.
“You’re such a sweet boy, aren’t you?” I croon. “Just the sweetest baby boy. Would you like the rest of my banana?”
Bailey sits down immediately, mouth parted, eyes locked on my food.
I giggle. Obviously, his priorities haven’t changed.
“I guess that’s a yes, huh?” I grin down at him and hold out one hand. “Give me a paw first.”
He does. No hesitation. Where food is concerned, Bailey Bear is all business.
“That’s a good boy.” I hold out the rest of my banana in my hand. He takes it gently and stretches himself out on the ground to enjoy his treat.
“He’s always a good boy when it comes to snacks.” The deep, husky voice is painfully familiar, and it takes a Herculean effort to make myself meet his steady, blue gaze.
Oh, for the love of everything, I should’ve known I wouldn’t be able to leave here today without coming face-to-face with him.
My smiling face quickly changes, my lips turning down at the corners and my eyes narrowing.
But Luca doesn’t hesitate to close the distance between us. “How have you been, princess?”
My chest tightens, and my heart skips a fucking beat.
Princess. God, I hate that nickname. I also hate that it still has the power to affect me.
“Good,” I say, mouth set in a firm line.
“You don’t want to ask me how I’m doing?” he asks, and the hint of a smug smirk taps across his mouth.
“Nope.”
“I see you’re still walking around with all that sass, huh?” A stupid chuckle leaves his dumb, perfect lips, but when I don’t respond and my gaze moves to anything and everything around the room besides him, he adds, “So, I guess I should take it you’re pissed at me, then?”
Oh, the fucking nerve.
I look him dead in the eyes. “I’m not anything when it comes to you.”
He searches my face and I swear I can see a hint of a smile on his lips, but I can’t be sure. “Are you sure about that?” he asks, and I lift my head high in the air.
“Positive.”
“Well, if it’s anything to you, both Bailey and I have missed you since you left Alaska.”
On instinct, my heart clenches at his words, but I refuse to be that girl, the one who lets some dick walk all over her.
So, instead, I swallow back the unwanted emotion and look down at Bailey. He is still lying there at my feet, his face resting between his paws. I give him a few gentle pets across the back and then look up to meet Luca’s steady gaze. “I’ve missed him too.”
Luca smirks. “And me?”
“I haven’t thought about you once since I left.”
Is that a lie? Of course. But he doesn’t need to know that. He doesn’t need to know anything when it comes to me.
“Now, I know that’s not true.” Luca steps closer to me and reaches out to slide a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “But I understand why you’d say that.”
He understands? Pfft. He doesn’t understand shit.
“But do you really?” I ask and tilt my head to the side. “Because I don’t think you truly understand anything when it comes to someone else’s feelings.”
“I’m sorry I was an asshole,” he says, and I hate the honesty that rings out in his voice. “And, Billie, I want you to know that I’m really sorry I hurt you.”
My spine stiffens, and my pride aches with discomfort.
“You didn’t hurt me,” I lie again. “Trust me, you don’t have that much power.”
Luca just stands there for a long moment, searching my eyes. I hope and pray all he finds is apathy.
“Anyway, that’s all in the past.” I try like hell to brush it off and put a defiant hand to my hip. “Now, the only thing between us from here on out is work.”
“So, that’s how it’s going to be, then?” He quirks a brow. “All business?”
“Correct.”
Silence fills the void between us, and I’m mere seconds from walking away and doing a secret victory dance in the hall.
But Luca has other fucking plans.
“Well then, princess,” he starts with a smug little smirk on his lips. “Since we’re only business-focused, I guess now is the perfect time to chat with the PA Serena has told me is my go-to person during this movie.”
“Go-to person?” I ask, looking around the room to figure out who he’s talking about.
But when I don’t come up with any obvious options, Luca points one index finger in my direction.
“You,” he says. “You’re my go-to person.”
I’m sorry…what?
“So, I will be needing some help making sure movers can drop off all of my stuff at my new rental in Laurel Canyon,” he informs me kindly.
Movers? His new rental? What the fuck? That has nothing to do with me.
“I’m a production assistant, Luca,” I retort. “Not a personal assistant.”
His smug smile reappears. “But Serena said you would help me with anything I needed. Should I tell her that’s not the case?”
Oh, the fucking audacity of this asshole.
I want to lift my palm and slap it clear across his face.
I want to yell.
I want to scream.
I want to tell him to shove his stupid request straight up his ass.
But I can’t. And he knows I can’t.
He knows, when it comes to my job, I am the low woman on the totem pole and I have to follow through on this request. Actually, I have to follow through on all of his fucking requests.
Son of a bitch.
“When do you need me to help with that?” I ask through a clenched jaw.
“I’m not sure yet, I’m waiting to hear back from the movers,” he responds, smile growing. “But don’t worry, princess. I’ll definitely let you know when I know.”
“Great,” I lie…again.
This isn’t great. This is worse than hiking through the goddamn Alaskan wilderness in a pair of UGGs after losing your favorite pair of cowgirl boots.
This, right here, is a disaster.
My hands are tied, and this bastard is the one who brought the damn rope.
Hell’s bells, working on this movie is going to be one awful fucking ride.
Luca
After eight years, the only thing different in Hollywood is me. Word has officially gotten out that I’m back in town, and the paparazzi is hip to my game.
My stop at Alfred’s Coffee—the best
coffeehouse in this city—was met with a hundred camera flashes and even more random, bullshit questions tossed my way.
“Luca Weaver! Over here! Are you back for good?”
“Are you excited to work with Serena Koontz?”
“What do you think of your costar, Lucy Larson?”
“Is it true that Capo Brothers Studio is making you get drug tested every day on set?”
The drug testing one was a little irritating, but how can I be pissed about it? A reputation is created for a reason. Sure, I was never an actual drug addict, but I was dabbling. I was partying. I was doing all the things you shouldn’t be doing.
The old Luca would have been a fucking dick to those paps.
He would’ve flipped them the bird.
He would’ve told them to fuck off.
But I refuse to be that sad, pathetic guy again.
So, instead of threatening to toss their cameras into the street, I simply waved, said hello, and told them to have a good day.
I can be nice without giving in to their questions.
I can be nice without giving them more than I’m willing to give.
I have control of all that. I have control of everything related to my career in Hollywood.
Thank fuck.
Fresh coffee in hand, I pull into the studio’s parking lot and head inside.
This is the second day of our script run-through, and I’m trying to set a new precedent. Instead of running twenty minutes behind, I’m now twenty minutes early.
That probably has more to do with the fact that I actually feel like I’m in control of my career, but the reasons do not matter. I am early, and Hollywood’s bad boy with a penchant for tardiness is in the past.
I sit at the table, scrolling through emails on my phone, and waiting for the rest of the cast and crew to arrive.
But just as I’m scrolling through an email from Adele bitching about the fact that I have yet to hire an assistant—I don’t want a fucking assistant—a text message comes through.
Lou: Why in tarnation is some kid named Jeremy stopping by my place, wanting to make goddamn small talk?
I grin and type out a response.
Me: I’m assuming that in addition to the lovely small talk, he also brought you some supplies.
