Blackout: A Romance Anthology

by Stephanie St. Klaire

  Chance wasn’t used to anyone questioning his decisions, even out of concern. He had to remind himself that it was part and parcel of being in a relationship. It was sweet the way Anda worried about him.

  These days only his manager worried about him, and that was only in pursuit of the almighty dollar. Nobody came to visit him in the hospital when he got hurt on set. His sister had diligently texted twice a day, but she had her own problems and flat out said he could flirt a nurse into taking plenty good care of him.

  Guess it was nice to know she thought his game was so next-level as to impress a woman who changed his oozy surgical dressings…

  Chance hadn’t wanted a cavalcade of casseroles hitting his freezer or anything. He was a lone wolf who did just fine without a pack. In fact, he avoided the stereotypical Hollywood entourages. Hard to focus on death-defying stunts if you got strung out every night partying and fixating on getting noticed by the paparazzi.

  Still, he enjoyed Anda’s nurturing attention. The odd part was that he didn’t like it from the other women on the show.

  Wait. Roll back that film.

  Chance loved women. Loved the way they smelled and tasted and laughed and looked. He also loved the way it felt to have a two hundred horsepower engine bucking beneath him as he revved a motorcycle for a complicated stunt jump.

  At the end of the stunt, he had no trouble leaving the bike in the studio’s garage. And at the end of a date, he had no trouble walking away from a beautiful woman.

  When he spent time with Anda, though, he didn’t want it to end.

  He wanted her to come back to the resort’s private cottage in the Colorado foothills. Maybe it was because, for once, he believed she wanted to be with him.

  Most women Chance dated wanted to be with the muscles he flexed on-screen, not the man they belonged to. Or they wanted to use him as a stepping stone to directors, agents, and most of all, honest-to-God movie stars.

  The women on this show were no different. They weren’t here to fall in love. They were here for their fifteen minutes of talk show rounds and magazine covers. Chance didn’t care. The only reason he was here was to earn some bank and beat back boredom while he finished his stint on the disabled list.

  Most of the time he got paid to take a punch to the face instead of a kiss. This was an easier gig. Everyone was using each other equally. That’s what made it okay.

  Anda, though….he closed the saddlebag and gave a quick stroke to the flank of his chestnut gelding. She didn’t have an agenda, hidden or otherwise. She seemed to simply enjoy being with him. Period.

  Who knew such simplicity would be so addictive?

  She feathered a hand over his shoulder, arm, then down to his hip. “I thought I saw a wince when your horse started cantering.” To his disappointment, her hand stilled. “Wait—which is faster? Cantering or trotting?”

  “We barely hit a trot. This is your first time out. I didn’t want to go too fast.”

  Her laughter pealed out, echoing down the hillside, across the crater of a lake and off the wall of mountains on the other side. “You’re actually trying to pin our slow going on me and Rosebud? You, the guy with three broken bones and so many stitches down one leg you look like a reject from Frankenstein’s laboratory?” Anda visored a hand above her forehead as if trying to spot something. “Could there possibly be cameras recording our every word? Trying to protect your manly image?”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Chance caught the camera guy’s snicker. He’d better nip this in the bud.

  Chance tucked the blanket beneath one arm. Then he swept Anda into his arms. Maybe he gave himself a mental pat on the back for not so much as blinking at the lance of pain through his all-too-slowly healing rotator cuff.

  “I don’t need a horse between my legs to prove my masculinity.”

  She squealed. Threw her arms around his neck and cuddled in close. Then laughed once more, but this time, in delight. “I love this!” Anda kicked her feet a little. “It’s even better than riding the horse!”

  “High praise.” Point made, Chance took a handful of steps down the mountain before setting her on her feet. He wanted to save his shoulder for when he’d really need it. Which would hopefully be to hold himself above her—naked—once they hit the privacy of the Dream Suite on their next date.

  If Anda agreed to it.

  If she’d realize that he didn’t want her for ratings, or for the promised bonus if he proposed to one of the contestants.

  Chance wanted Anda. Because she was sweet and caring and was up for trying anything. He wanted to be much closer to her than they could be on camera.

  He wanted this damned show to be over so they could go back to real life. See if they meshed as well there as on this escape-from-reality show.

  For now, he swallowed hard against his frustration at all the cameras and extra people cluttering up the date he’d personally planned for her. Chance winked. “That’s one for me, zero for poor old Rosebud.”

  “No.” Anda barked it out like a command. “Don’t start that.”

  “What?” he asked, spreading the blanket over the carpet of white and pink wildflowers. Spending June here in the Rockies was a ton better than commuting over L.A.’s baked asphalt.

  “Keeping score.” Anda knelt to smooth the corners of the blanket. Brushed her fingertips against his in the process. With her head down, in a low voice, she continued, “They do that, you know.”

  Chance sat to unlace his boots. Hoped it’d get her to slide off her own hiking boots so he could stroke her softness from pink-tipped toes all the way up to the stupid mid-calf hem of her capris. Women’s fashion was dumb some of the time. A genuine cockblock even more of the time. “Who does what?”

  “The other women. There’s a whiteboard by the elevators, and a spreadsheet.” The contestants were packed onto a single floor of the resort, while Chance got a tricked-out cottage all to himself. “They all keep score of how much time we each get with you.” She wrestled with yanking off the boots and sat about as far away as possible from him on the big fleecy square. Didn’t look up at him, either.

  His jaw dropped. “No way.” No way could they be that juvenile, that bitchy.

  Anda’s neck cracked, she snapped it straight so fast to pin him with those velvety brown eyes. “There’s columns for hand-holding, kissing, private dates, stealing alone time with you in a group date, first base, second base—”

  Chance cut her off by putting his hand over her mouth.

  Brecken Daly, the show’s host, met with him every day. Asked for input on the planned dates, took his temperature on each of the women, and updated him on any drama that might filter into the group situations. Brecken hadn’t said a word about this idiocy, though.

  Probably because he knew Chance would blow a gasket and throw everyone off the show.

  They were all there to have fun. But a points system like that could end up making a woman feel bad about herself, and Chance wouldn’t stand for it. Bad enough that gossip rags and social media were flaming up over some of the woman. No way to control that. Chance damned well would exert his influence to stop this, though. They’d play by the rules, respect each other, or he’d kick them all off on the next episode.

  Before dropping that ultimatum, though, Chance needed to do due diligence with Anda. He thought he knew the answer. But if there was one thing he’d learned in Hollywood—aside from how to leap from a ten-story building while engulfed in flames—it was to never make assumptions about people. Better to be safe than screwed over.

  So, Chance forced himself to ask Anda, “Do you keep score?”

  Her eyelids flared wide, and then narrowed to a pissed off squint. He got the message.

  When he dropped his hand, she snapped out, “Of course not.”

  Whew. “Good to hear.”

  “My name’s on it, but I’ve got the least amount of points because I won’t tell anyone what happens on our dates. The only thing they can score me on is what h
appened on the first few group outings.”

  Loyalty like that deserved to be rewarded. “Who’s in the lead right now?”

  “Megan.” Her adorably tiny nose crinkled at the mention of the stacked blonde. “I think she’s at twenty-seven points.”

  Ahh. Yeah, he’d kissed Megan. More than once. Rounded a couple of bases with her, too. After all, it was what he was paid to do on the show. Flirt. Make the viewers think all of this mattered.

  But when he lay on top of his black satin sheets every night, Chance never once pictured Megan or her D-cups.

  No, he drifted off to sleep replaying the way Anda somehow smiled with her whole face. The exotic tilt to her eyes she blamed on a mix of Korean, Irish and German ancestors. How her hair was even silkier than those damn sheets.

  “You and I are going to keep score from now on. Just for fun, just for the two of us. And you’ll start with thirty points. Want to know how you’re going to vault into the lead?”

  Her smile was tentative. But like always, Anda nodded, ready to do anything and everything with him. “Sure.”

  “Like this.” Chance launched himself at her, keeping one hand beneath her head so it wouldn’t hit the ground. The hillside was uneven enough to put them both off-balance, and they rolled several feet before Chance dug his heels in to stop them.

  He lifted his head to capture her breathless laughter between his lips. Slid his tongue right in on her gasp. Immediately, Anda softened against him. Her tank top and his shirt had both gotten pushed up. The smooth heat of her skin pressed on his bare belly. And the notch between her hips cradled his suddenly ultra-hard cock.

  The slick sweetness of her mouth gave him so many ideas. The kind that couldn’t be carried out in broad daylight in front of a camera crew. Chance knew the smartest thing to do would be to keep rolling until they hit the icy cold glacial lake.

  But he had to keep kissing her. Had to knead both of his hands on the most perfectly round ass he’d ever had the pleasure of squeezing.

  Anda circled her hips against him. Tangled her tongue with his. And moaned, a dark, almost smoky sound that promised she’d be a passionate partner in bed.

  Chance made up his mind, right then and there. The show could splice and dice footage however they wanted to keep the viewing audience guessing. But Anda Weiss was the only woman on this show he’d make love to. And he’d do his damnedest to make sure that happened as soon as freaking possible.

  CHAPTER 2

  The sun was warm, a sweet scent filled the air from the flowers crushed beneath their blanket, and Anda was pretty sure this was her best date with Chance yet. Not because of the kisses—well, not just because of the kisses. But because they weren’t doing any staged activity.

  The simple picnic on the hillside was romantic. Normal. So normal it was easier than usual to forget they were being recorded. Best of all, they’d both dropped their guard and were finally comfortable with each other.

  Wasn’t that the secret to a good date? Dropping all the pretention and attempts to impress and being yourself? Anda couldn’t remember the last time she’d done that. Or rather, felt safe enough to share her true, emotionally naked self with a man.

  Chance made it so easy. He listened. He laughed. He didn’t hold back, either. Which was why Anda didn’t bother to pause before speaking anymore. She didn’t care what the millions of viewers thought. Only Chance’s opinion mattered. So, she wouldn’t be…careful.

  She broke apart an oatmeal cookie and offered him half. “What’s the dumbest question anyone’s asked you on the show so far?”

  The deep, rolling laughter echoed off the hills and made the sound man jump back with his boom. “Impossible to narrow down. Mostly the ones about my stunt work. How I manage to walk away unhurt after getting shot or falling off buildings, etc.”

  “Really?” Did they think playing ignorant would make Chance feel smart? Anda had a feeling it landed more on the side of annoying the hell out of him.

  He snorted. “You’d think Google didn’t exist. You all knew who I was before you signed the contract, right?”

  “Oh, yes. It was the—” Anda broke off.

  Whoops.

  There was comfortable, and then there was crossing the line. The line that bordered Crazy Town. Chance didn’t need to know everything.

  He rolled toward her, propping himself up on an elbow. A tousled dark curl fell onto his forehead. “What? Go on.”

  “No. It’s…ah, silly.” Or crazy. Depended on your interpretation.

  One big, blunt-tipped thumb traced her lower lip. “I like silly. And I don’t like you feeling like there’s something you can’t tell me. Spill it.”

  Rats. When Chance asked like that, while feathering goose bumps up onto her skin, how could she refuse? “I’m not a stalker or anything.”

  “I know.” Amusement tinged his reassurance. “Everyone got a psych profile and had a background check, remember?”

  “I, ah, researched you. Because a stuntman could be from anywhere, right? You globetrot from set to set?”

  Shrugging, he said, “I have a few more stamps on my passport than most. Croatia, New Zealand, Italy…but I’ve worked on plenty of movies on sound stages in L.A., too.”

  “Well, I dug a little deeper. Because this isn’t a game to me. The whole point is to fall—” No. She would not say the “L” word. That was usually the kiss of death on reality shows. Or, you know, in normal life, when it got brought up in the first two months of dating. “—to fall for you. I didn’t want to jump headfirst toward a possible future with the ‘Man of My Dreams’ if he lived in, say, Ohio.” Her voice dropped to a faint whisper.

  Chance put the side of his hand to his mouth and asked, “Why are you whispering?”

  “I don’t want to offend the whole state. I’m sure it’s lovely. Chock-full of good and interesting people. I just don’t want to uproot my life and move there.”

  “Duly noted.”

  “When I found out that you’re really from Santa Monica…that’s a hop and a skip down the freeway from my apartment in Westwood.”

  Chance reared up, making a time-out sign with his hands. “Westwood? If you’re still living in a dorm at UCLA, that’s a problem. I’m too old for co-eds.”

  Thank goodness. There were a ton of actor-types who only wanted girls who could barely drink legally. Anda liked having twenty-seven years under her belt. The producers had raised an eyebrow at her “advanced” age, but luckily Chance didn’t. At almost thirty-one, he’d cut the obviously youngest women from the show in the first round.

  You wanted to be able to sing along to all the same songs on a road trip, to reference the same movies. To be at the same stages of life, to give a better chance of wanting the same things.

  Anda patted his hands down. “Don’t worry. Yes, I went to business school there, but I’m all matriculated. I like my apartment. I like the constant buzz of nightlife and something always going on. Life in a college town is never boring.”

  “Whew.” Chance drew the back of his hand across his forehead. “You scared me there for a second.”

  “Ha ha. If this—” Anda flicked her finger back and forth between them, “—keeps going well, I want us to have a real shot.” There it was. The part that maybe sounded nuts. The part where she actually believed two random strangers could end up together after meeting on a reality show. That was the part her friends and family had all scoffed at. “Living so close to each other gives us more of a chance. That’s what got me off the fence and made me sign up for the show.”

  Mostly.

  Okay, Chance’s sense of adventure had been a big check in the pro column.

  His movie star looks and ripped body had tallied up on the plus side, too.

  His eyes narrowed. “See, that’s where we’re different. I signed up for a paycheck, not a future.”

  “Oh.” Her heart plummeted to her toes. The ones that had been resting on the curve of Chance’s ankle, with the first line of cr
isp, dark hair on his leg tickling her arch. Super casually, Anda rolled them in the opposite direction, breaking the contact with him.

  “Hey.” Chance threw his leg over hers, trapping her and stopping her from pulling away anymore. Then he cinched an arm around her waist to pull her closer. Way closer. Close enough that everything…all the good and dirty bits…were touching. If their clothes melted off, they could have sex in this position.

  Wouldn’t that be fantastic…

  If only Chance hadn’t just all but come out and said that he didn’t want a relationship. Head down, she murmured, “What?”

  “I wasn’t finished. I signed on the dotted line for a paycheck while I finish healing up enough for the studio’s legal department to give me the all clear to go back to work. I signed on for something to do instead of going stir crazy in my apartment.”

  Yeah, no mention of wanting to connect and find the Woman of His Dreams. Even knowing that Jenny would chide her for the snippy attitude later, Anda said, “I’m not sure that making reality TV is any better than binging it.”

  “Sure it is. Actually, doing it comes with the perks of maid service and great food. And the biggest perk that I never expected.” Chance nibbled along the edge of her chin to force her head up. Then he locked onto her gaze. “You.”

  Ohhh, that was nice to hear. “I’m a bigger perk than that bourbon peach ice cream we had last week? That’s a high compliment, indeed.”

  “You’re much, much sweeter. And much, much more satisfying.” This time he dipped his head to suck her lower lip in between his teeth. The nip of pain spread into warmth as his tongue soothed and stroked on the oh-so-sensitive flesh.

  Two weeks ago, if Anda had been asked if she wanted a little bit of heat and force in foreplay? She would’ve conjured up images of scary-painful clamps and burning candle wax and run away while screaming “no way” over her shoulder.

  But it turned out there was a middle ground. Chance pushed the envelope…and she liked it. He was strong, forceful. Yet always respectful, always waiting for some sign of assent from her before he continued.