by Roxy Reid
Famously Fake
A Billionaire Boss Romance
Roxy Reid
Copyright © 2019 Roxy Reid
All rights reserved. It is not legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental.
For my incredible Friends and Family who have encouraged and supported me on my journey to becoming a writer.
Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind,
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
William Shakespeare
Contents
About the Author
1. Sienna
2. Joshua
3. Sienna
4. Joshua
5. Joshua
6. Sienna
7. Sienna
8. Joshua
9. Sienna
10. Sienna
11. Joshua
12. Joshua
13. Sienna
14. Joshua
15. Sienna
16. Joshua
17. Sienna
18. Sienna
19. Joshua
20. Sienna
21. Joshua
Epilogue
Also by Roxy Reid
Keep in Touch
About the Author
Roxy Reid writes sizzling hot romance about kick-ass women and deliciously hot guys that are guaranteed to leave you with a smile on your face and a warm fuzzy feeling inside.
Roxy’s first love is writing and a very close second is tea, oh and cake, don’t forget the cake. Most days you’ll find her in a cafe scribbling away in a notebook, dreaming up romantic stories to share with her readers.
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1
Sienna
“And Sienna will get the Joshua King account,” my boss Carlotta says. Around the conference table heads whip toward me. I wonder if there is another Joshua King. Because the only Joshua King I know is a movie star. Not an actor. Not famous. A genuine movie star. He wins Oscars every few years just to remind people he can, but he’s just as likely to show up in a summer blockbuster that all the critics fall for despite themselves. His taste in scripts is impeccable. His taste in women? Less so. Or at least less specific, since he’s dated half of Hollywood. The most gorgeous half, that is.
Carlotta slides a file down the long conference table toward me. I open it. There’s a photo on top of a beautiful man with dark eyes, a wicked smile, and a glass of very expensive looking champagne.
Yup, it’s that Joshua King.
Someone has scribbled “Concept: California Glamour” across the top of the photo. I flip through the rest of the file. It’s all about a new line of sparkling wine from Joshua’s winery. Because, of course, he has a winery.
Carlotta is speaking again, “As you all know, King hardly ever works with outside marketing firms. Everything is done in house. But he’s reached out to us for help with the launch party for his vineyard’s new line. I don’t need to tell you, that this could be very, very big for us. If we can impress him, and win him as a regular client…”
She doesn’t have to say the rest. Joshua King’s business ventures are as successful as his movies.
I straighten my spine, beginning to get excited. “Well,” I say. “We’ll impress him then.”
Jenny from finance gives a supportive cheer, but most of my fellow account executives are looking at me with varying degrees of envy and concern. Envy that the youngest woman on the team got this account. Concern that I won’t be able to pull it off, and I’ll cost the firm - not just a big client - but the possibility to attract future big clients.
The meeting wraps up, and I start to follow everyone out, but Carlotta stops me. Through the glass walls, I can see the rest of my colleagues returning to their desks. There’s a reason we call this room the fishbowl.
Carlotta steeples her fingers in that way that means she’s going to give me a pep-talk,“Sienna, I gave this to you because you did so well with the Miller’s vodka launch party, and all of your clients rave about you. You’ve built up an admirable portfolio of just this type of event. I can’t think of a better person for the job.”
I blink. Carlotta doesn’t do compliments. I start to reply, “Thank you. I appreciate-”
“But there is no room for error on this,” she interrupts me. “I can not stress this enough. King is a famously demanding man. It’s what makes his projects so successful. I need you to do anything and everything you can to get this account permanently.”
“Anything?” I say. Visions of eccentric movie star demands dance in my head. I love L.A. — the sun, the beach, the tacos, the fashion — but I don’t work in the movie industry precisely because of this. I’ve never been willing to go through some diva’s snack dish and pick out all the blue M&Ms, or pick up their designer dry cleaning at 3 a.m., or walk their stupid tiny dogs. I even heard one horror story of an entitled star who showed up at his assistant’s house in the wee hours of the morning just because he couldn’t sleep.
Carlotta spears me with a fierce look, as if she suspects me of mutiny. “Anything,” she says. “Or else.” Then she turns on her heel and marches out. Heads duck in the cubicles as everyone suddenly tries to look busy.
I look down at the file in my hands. My eyes snag on Joshua’s famous grin, and my pulse quickens. This could make my career. Or it could destroy it, undoing years of work and sacrifice. Years of late nights, and 6 a.m. email chains, and cancelled dates. So many cancelled dates.
I mean, it hadn’t been particularly hard to cancel any of them. When I first started dating in the city, I was worried about The Talk. The one where I explain to some perfectly nice man that no, I haven’t had sex yet, and yes, I want to, but probably not as quickly as he’ll want to, so if he can just be patient … But it turned out to be a moot point. Between my job, and trusting my gut when it says No, not him, I haven’t actually made it to a third date in years.
My best friend, Jax, says I make my mind up too quickly, that people can surprise you. Sometimes they even change. But she’s wrong – people don’t change. That’s why I always listen to that little voice inside of me. The one that says no, not him, never him.
But I’m getting off-topic. The point is, I’ve made sacrifices for this job. And I’m not going to lose everything just because some rich guy thinks he always knows better than everyone else.
“Bring it on,” I say to Joshua King’s (hopefully airbrushed, because no one really looks that good) face. “I can handle anything you throw at me.”
2
Joshua
I’m aching by the time I drag myself back to my trailer. As my older brother gleefully likes to remind me, 36 is when your body starts falling apart. That is blatantly untrue, but I am considering the offer of a stunt double a lot more seriously than I used to. Especially on this movie. I briefly dated one of the writers, who now seems to be taking it out on me via baseball bats to the shins, supersonic punches, falls from high places, and — in one of her more whimsical moods — blow darts.
I’m ditching the costume department’s ripped camo and wiping the fake blood off my face, when my phone starts blowing up. It’s my assistant-turned-business-partner Darian, and when I see I have 17
missed calls from him, I fumble to answer it.
He could only be calling about one thing.
“Did we…?” I ask, a little bit breathless.
“We did,” Darian answers, smug. “We fucking did. Everyone in Hollywood wanted this baby and we got it.”
I sink down on the dressing room counter, my back to the mirror. The Ouranos script went up for auction this morning. The true story of a group of cold war fighter pilots, it would have been a hot script no matter what. But it’s also the last script written by Hollywood legend Abe Cohen before he died.
“I can’t believe you got it for three million,” I say.
“Oh no, I went way over your spending limit,” Darian says. “You paid six million for it.”
“Six million?! Darian, what the hell-”
“I knew how much you wanted it,” he said simply.
And he’s right, damn him. Darian’s been with me from the beginning. He knows me better than anyone, and his gambling instincts are spot on, both in poker and business. There’s a reason that when I decided I wanted to start a production company, I went straight to him.
Still. Six million. I mentally add two more action movies with the vengeful writer to my financial future.
“But you kept it anonymous? No one knows it’s us?” I ask. I haven’t announced the production company yet. No one knows about it other than Darian, a few key employees, and my investors. People tend to be skeptical of actor-founded production companies, and the longer I give them to think about it, the more skeptical they’ll be. The plan has always been to launch the company at the same time as we announce our first movie, something highly anticipated everyone who’s anyone will see. If we knock it out of the park on that first movie, we’ll be off to the races.
If news leaks out before we’re ready though...
“The bid was anonymous,” Darian assures me. “But the seller did have one condition.”
I groan. Conditions are always bad when they come from people holding scripts hostage for six million. “What did you agree to?”
“Well, the seller is Cohen’s wife. And she’s in her eighties. And she really wants to see this movie...”
“Spit it out, Darian.”
“We’ve got five years to finish making the movie. After that the rights revert to the second place bid.”
I swear and start pacing. The best news of my life is rapidly turning into the worst news of my life. “I don’t want to rush this Darian. It needs to be perfect. To make this work we’d have to move up the company launch to...three months from now. Fuck.”
“... I didn’t think of that,” Darian admits, somewhat sheepishly.
My phone buzzes. I’ve got an incoming call from Brittney, my ex, and the mother of our eight year old daughter. “Brittney’s calling, and she’s got Poppy today. I have to take this.”
“Ok. Don’t forget you have the champagne launch walk-through in a half hour. I’ll start putting feelers out for your dream cast and see who might be available within the five-year timeframe.”
“Thanks, man. And hey— good work.” I hang up on Darian and switch over to Brittney. “What’s up?” I ask, as I rush around hunting for my shoes. I completely forgot about the champagne thing this afternoon. Normally Darian reminds me of shit like that every morning, but today he was busy spending an unapproved three million of my money.
“I’m dropping Poppy and her nanny off with you,” Brittney says. Brittney is the kind of woman who gets straight to the point. It sped up our entire relationship. We went from meeting to dating to fucking to agreeing we weren’t right for each other in less than three weeks. It also makes co-parenting with her pretty easy, something I never thought I’d say about a popstar turned actor turned popstar again with a penchant for bleached blond hair and tight jeans. “I’ve got a work thing that came up, and I can’t move it.”
I find my other shoe and hop around putting it on, “Why can’t the nanny watch her at your place? I’m cramming in all my work stuff today since I have Poppy this weekend.”
“Because Amy’s on vacation, remember? And the replacement nanny is…” she lowers her voice. “Not the brightest back-up dancer in the line-up, if you know what I mean. Look, they’ll both stay out of the way and hang out in your trailer. But you’ll be close in case Poppy needs anything. Pleeeeeeaaaaaaaaaase.”
I give-in, “I’m done shooting for the day. Drop them off at the Marigold Hotel. I’ve got a meeting there in a half-hour.” I shove my wallet and keys into my jeans, then spend a frantic few seconds looking around for my phone before I remember it’s in my hand.
I need a vacation.
“A half-hour? Dude, you’re going to be late. What’s it for?”
“It’s for a walk-through for a potential site for the champagne launch in three months. Normally Mandy would have handled all of this, but she’s on maternity and it fell through the cracks so we hired this firm…” I trail off as I realize what I just said.
I need to announce a production company to the world in three months, without anyone seeing the preparations. And I’ve got a firm lined up to launch a champagne line in three months. Obviously I can’t tell the firm what I’m really doing, but maybe, if I work closely with them I can customize the event …
“I’ve got to go,” I say. “I’ll see Poppy at the Marigold.”
I hang up the phone and stare blankly ahead, as the pieces start to click into place.
I can do this. I can actually pull this off. I punch the air and head out to meet the P.R. flack showing me the Marigold with renewed interest, crossing my fingers she’ll be competent enough to do her job, but dumb enough, or apathetic enough, not to figure out what I’m up to.
3
Sienna
I pace back in forth in the lobby of the Marigold hotel, my black heels echoing on the elaborately tiled floor. The concierge leans around a luxurious potted fern to give me a dirty look.
It took me weeks of searching — which was pretty damn stressful, since I’ve only got a few months to plan an event this size — but I’ve finally found the perfect location. It’s a boutique hotel just high enough in the hills to have a view of the city. The sunlit ballroom has floor to ceiling windows that showcase the view and practically scream California Glamour. Best of all, since the hotel is trying to get more publicity for their in-house catering, this whole thing is going to come in under budget.
Now all I need is Joshua King to sign off on it. I check my watch. 4:07 p.m. He’s officially late. My stomach churns with nerves.
“Wow,” I hear a kid’s voice say, and I look over. She’s short and blonde with heavy rimmed glasses, and a backpack roughly the same size she is. I think she’s impressed by all the gold leaf in the lobby, until she sighs heavily, and says, “He’s late again. Parents are so unprofessional.”
I bite my lip to keep from laughing. I like this kid.
The kid marches up to the snooty concierge. A young woman, who I’m assuming is the girl’s nanny trails after her, eyes glued to her phone.
“Has Joshua King arrived yet?” the kid asks. “I’m supposed to meet him in a ballroom, only I don’t think they’ll let me in without him, so it would be best if I can meet him in the lobby.”
The concierge looks down his nose at the girl, “I’m afraid we don’t give out information about hotel guests. But I can call your mother, and she can come get you.”
The girl groans, and stamps her foot, “I don’t need my mom, she already dropped me off. I’m looking for my dad. Joshua King.”
I pull out my phone and google image search “Joshua King” and “daughter.” She’s younger in all the photos, and her glasses are different, but I’m pretty sure it’s her.
I can tell the concierge is one step away from kicking Joshua King’s kid out of his lobby, so I jump in before my perfect launch location goes up in smoke.
“Excuse me? Ms. King?” I cross the lobby to the girl and hold out my hand. “My name is Sienna Bridges. I’m h
ere to meet your dad, but it looks like he’s not quite here yet. Would you like to wait with me?”
“Oh thank God. Can you watch her for a sec? I need to take this call,” the nanny says, and scurries out the door before I can say anything.
I look down at the girl. Poppy, the internet said her name was. She looks up at me. And I suddenly realize I have no idea how to keep a movie star’s kid entertained. “Um… do you want to play a game on my phone?” I ask.
“Not really,” she pushes her glasses up her nose. “But I would like to see the premises.”
I choke back a laugh, “We should wait until your dad gets here, but then I can show you-”
“Please, please, please. I’ve never seen a ballroom in my whole life. And once Dad gets here it will be all grown up talk and business stuff,” she’s looking at me with big brown eyes she definitely got from her dad, and I waiver.
On the one hand, ditching a client to go show his kid the site without him is definitely not professional. On the other hand, keeping his daughter happy is probably a better option than the alternative.
I look up at the concierge, who waves a hand in acknowledgment, “Yes, fine, I will tell Mr. King you are in the ballroom when he gets here.” The concierge doesn’t say Now get out of my lobby, but it’s in his tone.
I grin down at Poppy, “Well then, let’s go see your first ballroom.”
