by Amelia Wilde
Tall Dark & Handsome
Amelia Wilde
Tall Dark & Handsome
She’s a total ice queen. I’m hot enough to melt her frozen heart.
Juno Anderson hates me.
She takes all the romantic comedies I’ve starred in very personally. As in—she finds them offensively terrible. So it’s no surprise that she doesn’t want me on the set of her first big movie. She doesn’t want my face on the poster.
No—she wants to banish me from the set.
She wants to banish me from Hollywood.
She can try all she wants, but nothing revs my engines like a challenge.
And Juno? Winning her over is all but impossible.
I’m going to fight for every inch of her. For the taste of her on my tongue. For the sound of my name on her lips. For the sway of her hips beneath my hands.
I’m going to fight—and I’m going to win.
And she’s going to love it.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
Before She Was Mine
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Connect with Amelia
Also by Amelia Wilde
This one’s for Arijana at Cover It! Designs, whose cover inspired this entire story.
Oh, and also my husband.
1
Juno
I’ve got him.
I’ve fucking got him.
Elijah Dalavan is the perfect actor for the movie I’ve always wanted to make. Fine—it’s not the movie I always wanted to make, but it’s a movie, a real movie. Not that the other movies I’ve made aren’t real movies, but did they ever get shown in my hometown theater? No. I haven’t been back to Detroit since the summer after high school, but a girl can dream of finally getting some recognition. I’ve been working my ass off. I deserve it. Probably.
Elijah looks at me, his hands clutching the script, and I swear to God, we have a moment. He’s not in the running for Man of the Year—his looks are too rugged for that, and he’s too unknown—but he’s the one I want when we film the scenes in the Humvee. I can see him through the thick windshield now, squinting into the faux Afghanistan sun, looking rugged as hell and like this year’s breakout Roger nominee. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be another breakout Roger nominee. Nobody‘s gonna see me coming, and honestly, how could they? They’re not looking.
There’s a certain art to auditions. You don’t want to give too much away. A woman in my seat can’t have actors bitching to their agents about being overlooked because they’re not a lock to be Man of the Year in Hollywood. Not that Mr. Dalavan here is going to have anything to complain about, but I’ve seen twenty other people today, and they might be unknown now, but whoever I select for Humvee—that’s the working title—is going to be a star. And dammit, they’re going to thank me in that Roger speech. I’ll already have my Roger for Best Director by the time they get on the stage, so they’ll have no reason to forget my name.
Anyway. I can’t let Elijah know he has the part. I’ll have to run it by Milton Greene, the executive producer, before I can make the call. But I have that sense, that soul-deep knowledge, that he is the guy for me.
I’ve been staring too long.
Neutral expression or not, I’ve been looking at Eli—yeah, I’m there already—like he’s Jesus returned or like I’m falling in love with him. I’m not falling in love with him, though my heart does a little pitter-patter at the thought of his face on my movie poster. It’s a heart-flutter in the most professional of ways. He shifts his weight from side to side, waiting for me to say something. It’s my job to say something right now, so I’ll keep it simple.
“Thanks. I think that’s all we need.”
He laughs. “You stared at me for five minutes, and ‘that’s all we need’ is my parting gift?”
Pretty cocky. I like that about him. It’ll be useful on the press junket. I press my lips together like he’s nothing to me—definitely not the savior of this movie—and give him a crisp nod. “Decent job. We’ll be in touch.”
My entire soul pulses at the sight of him struggling not to roll his eyes. I don’t blame him; it’s got to be a fucking nightmare auditioning at the studio when a big name could walk in at any second and crush your chances like an unfortunate centipede wandering across the Hollywood Walk of Fame on installation day. “We’ll be in touch” is usually the kiss of death in this business. I would know.
He remembers himself at the last moment. “Thank you for your time.” Then he flashes me a grin that’s going to be on those posters, which are going to be in front of every movie theater in the country. It’s the grin that’s going to make him famous. Full disclosure? It’s the grin that’s going to make me famous too. He stops at the door and turns back. “You sure you don’t want to see it one more time?”
I cock my head to the side. I like confidence in a man, but Jesus, I’m the one in charge here. And as much as I am into his performance, I’m going to stay in charge until the bitter end.
My heart zigzags with glee, but I blink at him like I can hardly remember his name. “Yep. Thanks.” I make it pointed this time. He gets the message and leaves.
Cassandra, my assistant, winks back into existence next to me. For a minute there, I was totally lost in our future with Elijah. Tunnel vision, am I right? She’s still scribbling notes in her notepad and the scratch of the pen on paper brings me back. She finishes with a flourish and a neat dot at the end of the page. “He was good.”
“He was more than good.” If I were a more touchy-feely person, I’d clutch her hand. “He was it.”
She whips her head toward me, eyes wide. “It?”
“It.”
“You’re sure?”
I look her dead in the eyes. "He’s the one. We’re done here.”
Cassandra’s eyes sparkle and she claps her hands in front of her chest. “Then can I—”
“Yes. Open it.”
I give the command, and she leaps from her seat with a little “Whoop!” heading for the mini fridge. My favorite dessert wine, a Moscato called Middle Sister, is the only thing in the fridge, chilling for just this occasion. It’s been a long, sticky day of auditions, and there’s no sweeter sight than watching Cassandra lift it into the air in praise.
“You did it, boss,” she says, lowering it to eye level to check out the label.
“Couldn’t have done it without you.” I almost want to salute her—is that weird?—but decide against it. Yes. I have our man. He’s going to make the movie.
Cassandra fetches the corkscrew from my bag—it’s pretty unassuming, considering it’s being u
sed for something this momentous—and as she drives it into the cork, pure, unadulterated joy washes over me, a sensation pure cocaine must feel like. I wouldn’t know; I’ve never tried it. And she pops the cork and my own “Whoop!” escapes from my mouth.
“Ms. Anderson?”
I wheel around with all the light in the world filling my soul. “Mr. Greene.” Milton Greene is only about ten years removed from being a total silver fox, and I’ve never been happier to see his face. I square my shoulders and float on cloud nine over to the door, where he is looking at me with raised eyebrows, bemusement written on his handsome old face.
“Celebrating, I see.”
I have to release some of this joy in words lest I float away into the stratosphere. “I still need your approval, Mr. Greene, but…” I take a deep breath. This is the moment I tell him I’ve found The One, and he’ll chuckle good-naturedly, maybe even going so far as to pat me on the head, and sign off on Eli. “I’ve found him. I have found the perfect actor to play Dayton. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
I brace myself for the congratulations.
Milton laughs lightly. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves just yet.”
“I— What?”
“I’ve got one more audition for you.” Milton reaches out and pats me on the shoulder in a cruel parody of what was supposed to be. “It’s last-minute, but his agent is my nephew and never asks for any favors, so I gave him one.” He winks. He actually winks. I’m dead.
I put on a smile that feels more bared teeth than “sure, boss” and consciously relax my hands. “Mr. Greene, we’ve been at this all day. We’ve been auditioning for this part all week, and I can assure you, there’s nobody who’s going to be better—”
He leans in, a conspiratorial distance. “Oh, I think you’ll want to take a look at this one.”
And then—then—without one more moment of hesitation, he glances over his shoulder and waves. I can’t see who it is down the hall, but my heart jumps up into my throat.
“Mr. Gree—”
“Mr. Hunt,” Milton calls. “We’re ready for you.”
The name rattles against my ears and tumbles down the length of my spine. I can’t help it; I recoil.
No. No. No.
This can’t be happening.
Behind me, Cassandra claps her hands. I can tell by the cadence that she’s excited.
Milton Greene has just invited a rising superstar to audition for my movie.
Milton Greene has personally requested that I audition him.
I know what that means.
It means that Milton Greene—damn you, Milton Greene—has a preference that’s strong enough to disrupt a week’s worth of casting and a lifetime’s worth of work.
Because if this superstar gets cast against my wishes?
This movie isn’t going to be a disaster. It’s going to be obliterated.
2
Cannon
Two women sit behind a long folding table at the opposite side of the room. One of them, with a mass of red curls framing her face, is beaming at me. The other has sandy hair in a messy bun on top of her head and seems to be entirely focused on the notebook in front of her.
Instinct kicks in.
Control the room.
Charm the fuck out of them.
“Hello, ladies. I’m Cannon Hunt.” I don’t hang back by the doorway. I stride across the room to the table and put out my hand to shake. The redhead goes for it immediately.
“Cassandra.” Her voice is bright. “I’m… well, I’m the assistant to—”
“Mr. Hunt, have you brought headshots with you?”
It’s the voice—the cool, collected, no-bullshit voice—that strikes at the very heart of me first.
And then her eyes.
She lifts her gaze from the notebook, and that particular shade of green—more than one, really, like a rolling field of grass and ivy and sunlight—sends a sizzling burn running down the sides of my arms to my fingertips.
I lean in, pushing my body an inch closer to hers. The table is a wall between us, and the air seems just as solid, as if every bit of her soul is pushing back. Would it be so bad if I took the table in my hands and threw it out of the way, just to be closer to her?
Yes. Yes, it would.
Instead, I graze my fingertips lightly over the surface of the table and give her The Smile.
It’s the smile that launched a career as a rom-com heartthrob, and no matter what Scott—or anyone else—thinks, it works for me. Minimal heavy lifting, maximum reward. Not that I avoid heavy lifting. The gym is my constant companion.
Back to The Smile.
I wait for the inevitable reaction. Blush rising high on the cheekbones. A sparkle in the eyes. Eyelashes fluttering, a quick glance down to the floor, lips caught between teeth.
“Hi,” I tell her, and I put everything into that one word. It’s meant to say we are the only two people on earth.
She blinks. Once.
She looks upward and to her right.
Then she looks back at me.
“I’ll take that as a no.” She looks back down at the notebook and scrawls something on the open page.
Stone. Cold.
“You could take it as a hi. I’m Cannon Hunt.” I’m not on solid ground. Not with this woman, who makes the air around her ten degrees colder. “I’m thrilled to be here, Ms.—“
“Juno Anderson,” she says crisply. “Director.”
I’ve heard that wrong. “Casting director?”
“Director. If you don’t have headshots, do you at least have some lines prepared?”
“I do.” This is not the friendly welcome Scott promised. It’s a punch to the gut, and it takes me back to all those auditions before. All those auditions in front of too-good casting directors and overworked assistants who didn’t give a shit. Sweating it out for days and days just to get a shitty role as Man Walking Down the Street Number Eighty-Five.
That, my friends, is what we call an adrenaline rush. It sweeps through my veins like a silvery fire and I’m not giving her The Smile anymore. I’m zeroed in on those green eyes with a smirk that works even better than The Smile.
Juno Anderson thinks she’s in charge. But I’m going to take her for a ride.
3
Juno
Can he tell?
Oh, God, can he tell?
I can’t stand Cannon Hunt. Every one of his movies is worse than the last, and I can’t stand the sappy romantic heroes. I can’t stand anything about any of those lightweight pieces of shit. I can’t… and yet I’ve seen every single Cannon Hunt film that’s ever been produced. Never let it be said that I don’t love my younger sister. Never let it be said that I didn’t sacrifice everything for her, wasting hours of my life that I’ll never get back.
But here’s the thing.
Here’s the awful, terrible truth.
Now that Cannon Hunt is in the same room, I can’t deny it.
He’s hot.
He’s so hot.
His eyes rake over me, and it’s not subtle, the way his gaze lingers on my face. Below my face, even.
I don’t blush easily, thank God, but I can feel my face freezing, an ancient defense mechanism borne in the cutthroat halls of Rochester High. It was not cool to be in the Newscasting Club. It was especially not cool to be more interested in camera work than my own personal beauty. And Cannon Hunt strikes me as exactly the kind of beautiful, popular boy who would make out with me behind the bleachers and ignore me in the cafeteria. Or worse.
My heart thrums at the center of my chest. Why the hell am I thinking of high school? Get it together. Get it together, right now.
I force my lips to form the next words. “Whenever you’re ready.”
“That’s the thing.” He stands up to his full height, which is six three, a fact that makes me die inside to know. I can’t be blamed; it’s Tessa’s fault. My flawless sister can never be tainted by her love for movie stars like
Cannon Hunt. She’d breeze right up to him if she were here right now, shake his hand, and he’d be in love with her inside of five minutes. That’s how she is. And yet it’s me sitting here behind this desk, sweating ever so slightly and praying that Cannon Hunt can’t see what the soapy spice scent of him is doing to me. What those dark eyes are doing to me. He won’t stop staring, and worst of all, I’m not sure I want him to. “I’ll need some help.”
He was confident enough to walk right up to the table and wrap Cassandra around his little finger, and now he needs help? I smell a scheme. It doesn’t matter. I walk right into his trap. “I’m afraid we can’t offer much more than a copy of the script.”
Cannon crooks his fingers. “Tiny thing. Could one of you run the lines with me? The part I’m thinking of….” The crooked grin is too much. The dark eyes flicking over my face are too much. “What am I saying? You know it’ll be a clearer picture.”
I’m not about to let him tell me what I know. “Of course. Page?” I flip open my own copy of the script to the first scene. There’s a bit about half a page down, where the first conversation with the Dayton character takes place, and I’m assuming that’s where he’ll want to start.
You know what they say about making assumptions.
He slips his phone from his pocket, swipes deftly at the screen, and looks back into my eyes. “Thirty-five.”
