Famously Bad: (A Movie Star Romance Novella)

by Katana Collins

  Famously Bad

  Katana Collins

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Epilogue

  Bonus Chapter

  Afterword

  1

  Or maybe you love a good Small Town Romance?

  Prologue

  Other Books by Katana Collins

  About the Author

  1

  Note to self: Dramamine and champagne don’t mix.

  The boat swayed back and forth, and with it my stomach lurched. The ferry was a solid three-and-a-half-hour trip, and it hadn’t even left the dock yet.

  The dread of a bad mistake roiled my gut—although, that could have been the lurch of the boat. I wasn’t supposed to be here alone. Maybe I wasn’t supposed to be here at all. My eyes fluttered closed and my lashes tickled the tops of my cheeks as I rested my forehead to the cool window.

  Maybe it’s not too late? Maybe I could get off this damn boat, hop on an airplane and be back in Los Angeles by tomorrow morning. I pulled out my phone to check how much a last-minute plane ticket from Croatia back to the United States would cost when my best friend Lainey’s message was flashing on the screen. It was as if she could read my thoughts and anticipate that I was going to turn and run in the opposite direction of adventure.

  Girl, you’ve got this. Have SO much fun on your honeymoan sexcation! I wish I could have gone with you.

  I cringed, reading her text and responded quickly, letting her know I had made it on the ferry. Why in the hell did I ever admit to my best friend that I’d never had the big ‘O’ with a man. Yes, I can make it happen myself, especially if I had my battery-operated boyfriend with me. But that same reliable vibrator was worthless when I was with a man. It was like, my brain locked up and I wasn’t able to release.

  She had just assumed after I’d gotten engaged that the first orgasm came and went… no pun intended. But when James called off our wedding, I admitted the truth to her. While I was laying in her lap, still in my wedding gown, I said the words: six years with the man, and I had faked it every damn time.

  That’s when she concocted this plan—my Honeymoon—or honeymoan as it became affectionately coined. Since I had maxed out my credit cards to pay for it as my wedding gift to James, Lainey convinced me there was no reason I shouldn’t take the trip. Alone.

  And not come home until I’d had my first orgasm.

  It was a stupid idea. The freaking worst idea that Lainey had ever had. And for whatever ridiculous reason, this weekend, I found myself boarding a plane to Croatia with a Costco sized box of condoms and my trusty vibrator in tow. Lainey had me convinced that this was my version of Eat, Pray, Love. Or in my case, Eat, Weep, Fuck.

  It was hard to believe that just last weekend, James and I had been standing under an arch of roses, holding hands in front of a pastor and every friend and family member I’ve met since birth as he released his hold on my fingers and shook his head saying, “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”

  I’m sorry. I can’t do this. What in the ever-living hell? Who does that to someone? Who goes through four years together, plus a two-year engagement, only to call it off the moment you’re supposed to say I do?

  My seasickness was overtaken with a whole other sort of sick. Pain and embarrassment twisted in my gut.

  His parents had insisted on paying for everything throughout the planning process. Every flower. Every caterer. Which was for the best because just about every wedding idea I’d had was vetoed by them. It hadn’t even felt like my wedding by the time I was preparing to walk down the aisle. There are expectations of a Langley wedding, I was told. And my rustic chic barn wedding with a pig-pickin’ wasn’t going to cut it for the attorney general’s son.

  But my honeymoon… that was mine. And I was determined to pay for it. The Langley’s could have their garden wedding. They could have their seven-tiered cake with fondant. I was paying for my own damn honeymoon.

  And God was I ever paying for it—and not only with the credit card I had maxed out, but with blood, sweat, and tears. So many tears… mostly in private. Even still, I wasn’t about to let the non-refundable reservations go to waste. And maybe that was why Lainey had been able to convince me of this sexcation idea. Letting three thousand dollars of reservations flush down the toilet was too much for me to stomach.

  Now here I was, the only person in the first-class cabin on a ferry, alone. Sans husband. Vibrator tucked neatly into the outer pocket of my luggage. Sipping a bottle of champagne and toasting to my loneliness as I ventured across the Adriatic Sea to the small island of Korcula, Croatia.

  No one understood why Croatia was my choice for a honeymoon. But if they had seen the photos I had seen and heard the stories from my parents about how magical this little country was? I touched the two wedding bands I had soldered together and linked to a chain necklace. Even if I couldn’t have my parents with me at my wedding, my honeymoon was my homage to them. My dad had died when I was a teenager—Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Just a couple years ago, my mother joined him after getting hit head on by a drunk driver. My throat clogged up and I took another sip of champagne, hoping it would settle my stomach and calm my emotions.

  Spoiler alert: It didn’t. When was I going to learn? Booze does not help seasickness.

  There was a small knock on the first-class cabin door and an attendant entered.

  “Mrs. Langley?” he said in a heavily accented voice.

  I groaned. “Actually, it’s Ms. Cochran.”

  “Oh,” he said with a quick glance at his clipboard, which no doubt said Mrs. Langley on it. Thankfully, he let it go. “I’m just coming in to tell you that we have one other first class guest coming in just a moment. I hope this is satisfactory.”

  I nodded, doing my best to give him a smile. “Of course.”

  “Right this way, Mr. Whitley,” he said. Rolling Burberry luggage, a man entered behind him—no, not a man - a freaking god. He had long, light-brown wavy hair that looked about three weeks due for a haircut and muscles that strained against a soft looking army green t-shirt. And crystal blue eyes that immediately locked onto mine.

  Eyes that made my breath push from my lungs.

  Eyes that made my stomach tight.

  Eyes that made my breasts tingly and made my heart do some little skip thing in my chest.

  When I finally forced myself to take in more than just his eyes, I realized, he wasn’t just a man in first class with me. He wasn’t just Mr. Whitley. He was Pierce Whitley. Pierce fucking Whitley who starred in every blockbuster hit for the last three years.

  He grinned at me. A friendly grin. A sexy grin. And gave a nod. “Hello,” he said, reaching out his hand to me. “I’m Pierce.”

  My phone buzzed with a text message, but I didn’t bother checking it. It had to be from Lainey… and holy hell. She’d kick me in the vagina if she knew I stopped talking to this man in order to respond to her text. Instead, I stood up to introduce myself and just as I did, the boat rocked. I lost my balance and my phone flew out of my hands, landing on the floor of the boat by his feet.

  I blushed and bent to pick it up as the boat rocked again. I gripped the railing on the wall, bracing myself and clutching my stomach as another wave of nausea hit me.

  “I got it,” Pierce said, bending to retrieve my phone. He picked it up, his eyes falling to the lit screen.

  His brows briefly dipped before a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, like he was holding back a laugh. “You must be Emma?” he said, his eyes darting briefly to t
he phone before looking back up at me.

  The sound of my name rolling off his tongue sent spirals of excitement down my spine. I cleared my throat and slid my hand into his firm grip, nodding. “That’s me,” I said. The skin on his palm was soft and his hand entirely enveloped mine, gripping my knuckles in a firm, but tender shake. Just the feel of his hand clutched around mine had my heart pounding in my chest and my stomach twisting, aching for more of that buzzing excitement surging up my arm from where his skin was pressed to mine.

  He gave me a sharp tug, pulling my body flush against his and I had to tilt my chin up to meet his eyes from that position. His smile twitched higher. “You let me know if you need any help with Operation First Orgasm.”

  My jaw went slack and I felt the color drain from my face. “What did you just say to me?”

  Instead of answering, he released my hand, stepped back and placed my phone into my palm where Lainey’s next text was blaring in my face.

  Operation Emma has her first orgasm has officially commenced! V-town is open to the public!

  I was going to kill her.

  The engines of the boat kicked on and we embarked on our ride, pushing off the dock. The sudden lurch made my stomach roll upside down on itself.

  “Oh, God,” I whispered. Heat rushed up my body and I felt like an active volcano, ready to blow at any moment. The front hull of the boat hit a wake and it sent me forward. I landed my hands on my knees.

  “Emma?” I heard him say from somewhere above me, but he sounded far away. So, so far away. And before I could rush to the bathroom, I puked all over his Burberry luggage.

  2

  To my complete and utter humiliation, Pierce didn’t jump away from me. To the contrary, he bent down and scooped my blond hair away from my shoulders, holding it away from my face as I finished emptying my stomach contents all over his belongings.

  His palm rubbed my back in circles and in a low, rumbling voice, he asked, “Are you okay?”

  “Seasickness,” I managed to say and pressed my palm to my forehead as I stood upright. Humiliated didn’t even begin to cover how I was feeling. “Oh, my god. I am so sorry.” I covered my mouth with my palm and rushed to the bathroom in the corner to grab as many towels as I could. I was unsure if it was a blessing or a curse that I hadn’t eaten anything that day, and I had upchucked mostly champagne and Dramamine. “I’ll pay for a new suitcase—”

  “It’s six-thousand dollars.” His brow arched and I gulped. Holy shit! Who in their right mind spent that kind of money on a suitcase? “Do you have six-thousand dollars?”

  I hated his tone. How he implied I didn’t have that kind of money. Even if he was one hundred percent fucking correct.

  “On me right this second? No. But give me two days to turn tricks and I could.”

  “Emma,” Pierce said, taking the towels from me and tossing them in the waste can. Then, grabbing my elbows, he pulled me to my feet and used the remaining towel to wipe my face. “It’s okay. I’ll have it cleaned when I get to Dimitri Palace.”

  I swallowed hard. “Did you say Dimitri Palace?”

  He nodded and then a knowing look eased across his face. “Is that where you’re staying, too?”

  I didn’t answer and instead backed out of his hold.

  “I take that as a yes,” he said.

  He was the sexiest person on this damn boat and I was the altar-stranded barf breath girl. There was no way he still wanted to be my honeymoan orgasm donor.

  “I’m… I’m going to go clean up,” I said, pointing to the bathroom. Then, grabbing my toothbrush and toothpaste from the outer pocket of my bag, I slipped in the bathroom to do just that.

  A couple minutes later, there was a soft knock at the bathroom door just as I was finishing brushing my teeth. I opened the door to find Pierce leaning beside it, a can of ginger ale outstretched in his hand toward me. “Here. This’ll help settle your stomach.”

  “Thank you,” I whispered, taking the ginger ale from him. Cold droplets of water formed on the outside of the can and dripped over my fingers as I took a sip. “I’m sorry for your bag.”

  “I’m sorry for your stomach,” he countered. “Bags are replaceable. But being sick on your orgasm retreat isn’t.” His smile grew wider. “So what is this? Some sort of tantric getaway? No, wait… let me guess. You’re doing the Julia Roberts Eat, Pray, Love thing.”

  This cocky mother fucker. What in the hell made him think I was going to stand here and discuss my potential sex life (or lack thereof) with him? I narrowed my eyes, glaring at him. “First of all, It’s Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love thing… not Julia Robert’s. And no, that’s not what I’m doing.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “But … you’ve never had an orgasm? Like, not even once?”

  I swallowed, my throat dryer than a sandstorm. “That’s none of your business.”

  He backed away, raising his hands into the air in defeat. Or seemingly in defeat. Because if I knew men like Pierce Whitley, and I think I did… they didn’t give up that easily. “True, true.” He sighed, taking his seat and laying one knee casually across the other in that annoying manspreading way guys do. “But if that text is true, and you are here in Croatia from the United States… I assume you’re from the US, right?”

  My nostrils flared in lieu of a response and he nodded. “Right. Definitely an American girl as I thought… anyway, if you are here for Operation Emma’s First Orgasm, I need to express my concern. It seems a bit dangerous. You alone in a new country where I assume you don’t speak the language—”

  “Why would you assume that?” I snapped.

  He shrugged. “Because hardly any Americans speak Croatian. Even in Europe, most people don’t speak the language.” I snorted and shook my head and his eyebrows jumped. “Well… do you?”

  I rolled my eyes. “No.”

  “Right. So as I was saying… it seems a bit dangerous. Here alone. Seeking sex from a stranger in search of your first orgasm. Your friend should have come with you.”

  “She would have but she couldn’t. She had already used all her vacation days that week for my wedding—”

  I clamped my mouth shut, pressing my lips tightly together. Shit.

  If I thought his eyebrows had jumped before, they downright disappeared beneath his floppy long hair. “Your wedding?” He let out a low whistle. “The plot thickens.”

  My eyes closed and I was certain my face was turning a shade of red that would match the ruby coral floating beneath the ocean’s surface. “Just… please, can we not talk about this anymore?”

  He shrugged. “You’re the boss.”

  I snorted because we both knew that wasn’t true. Not even close.

  “You should take some more Dramamine,” he said as I sat down in my seat and slid my toothbrush back into the front pocket. “You know, since yours is splattered down the side of my luggage right now,” he added with a wink.

  I gave him the deepest glare I could muster, and as I did so, my hand slipped causing the flap of my bag to open and my toiletries to spill out, rolling across the floor of the first-class cabin. My vibrator, the best little pocket-rocket a girl could ask for, rolled and smacked into the toe of Pierce’s shoe.

  Could this day get any worse? Seriously. What else could possibly go wrong?

  Pierce bent over, picked up the vibrator and walked it over to me, holding it out as I gathered the rest of my things, shoving them back into my bag. I snatched it out of his palm and tucked it as far down as I could.

  “You’re probably going to want to wash that before using it. Not that you’d need it if you took me up on my offer.”

  “You’re so sure of yourself?” I shoved to my feet, not able to keep quiet any longer. Even though I was a whole head shorter than him, I pushed onto my toes and almost managed to be nose-to-nose with him. “Seriously… How? I’m not a virgin over here who’s never seen a dick before. I’ve been with men. Quite a few. And when ev
ery single one of them found out I had never orgasmed with a man before… they said the same damn thing you’re saying now. They were all so certain they could be the one. Like their dicks were some magic shroom-tipped potion that suddenly, I would explode in pleasure at the mere sight of it. So, by thinking you’re so different from the rest? It’s actually making you just like every other man I’ve been with.”

  His smile quirked higher against his peppered jaw and marble-chiseled cheekbones. “Is that what your…” his eyes drifted to my left ring-finger which was now bare except for the tan line from my engagement ring. “… ex-fiancé had said, too? At least, I assume he’s your ex-fiancé since you clammed up when you mentioned your wedding and neither he nor a ring is here with you on this excursion.”

  I’d never been so pissed in my life. Who in the hell did Pierce Whitley think he was? What made him think he could get away with such an arrogant and invasive line of questions? And yet, my anger compelled me to answer him. Like somehow by showing him I could handle the questions was the best way to hold my own.

  “I don’t want to talk about him.” Because that is exactly what James had said when he found out, too. He thought for sure he could ‘fix me.’ And he tried, to his credit. He read all the books and approached our sex life in the same clinical way he approached everything else. It didn’t work. After a year of trying… I faked it. Out of guilt. Which was the stupidest thing I could have done with the man I was marrying. Faking it once meant I had to fake it every time from then on forward. And then, he simply tried to duplicate the previous time, thinking that was the formula. The Big O Equation: e over x to the power of two equals a toe-curling scream.

  “So… that’s a yes,” Pierce said and I hated that he was right. That he could read me so easily. “The ex-fiancé tried and failed.” He smelled smoky and crisp, like a campfire. This ruggedly sexy scent that reminded me of the forest on an autumn evening.