Hollywood Prince

by Kim Karr

  I have to remember that she is Cam’s little sister, and he would fucking kill me if I touched her.

  Clapping my hands together, I’m determined to try my hardest to stay on the friend train. “What else did you make notes on?”

  She glances over her shoulder to my nightstand and at the clock. “Do we have enough time?”

  I nod. “I can get ready fast and we don’t have to be there until seven thirty.”

  “Okay.” She takes in a deep breath. “You won’t get mad?”

  “I won’t get mad.”

  “Well then, I’m not done, but so far I think Kellan’s character is far superior to Kate’s.”

  “And you don’t like that?”

  She shakes her head. “Not at all. I think the viewer should struggle more with which one of them is in the right or wrong. Bottom line, Kate needs to be more endearing.”

  I jerk my chin toward the manuscript that I spent the last two years writing and haphazardly tossed away because of negative feedback. “In what way?”

  Amelia sits up and crosses her legs, tucking the fabric of her dress over her thighs so that her panties won’t show. “Can I be honest?”

  “Are you ever anything but?”

  She shrugs, and the way her shoulders lift I can’t help but stare at her breasts. They look like a nice handful. “You make her out to be kind of stalker-like, and I don’t think Kellan is looking for that. He wants real love, a real girl, and I think you need to turn Kate into that girl. She needs to be Cinderella and he’s her Prince Charming. It will add to the heartfelt feeling you are going for if you do that.”

  I nod, taking in her criticism and actually feeling good about it. Like I can do this. Make this better.

  Her large gold hoop earrings swing back and forth as she makes another note in the margin. “Maybe you could give Kate a sad backstory.”

  “Like?”

  She smiles as if she already had that covered. “Perhaps her mother died tragically and her father turned into an alcoholic because he misses her so much. Kate’s younger brother could be sixteen instead of six, and wild, and he needs to be taken care of.”

  “And Kellan could take him under his wing?” I throw out there.

  “Yes, something like that. Something that allows the viewer to understand that Kate is a strong woman with determination and drive.”

  I find myself blinking at that. At how on-the-mark she is. And for the first time, I begin to wonder if I haven’t been paralleling my own life without even realizing it. “Go on,” I tell her. “What else?”

  “Well, I also think . . .”

  For the next sixty minutes, Amelia proceeds to tell me what she thinks I should do to make Kate more of a star. And I listen, without any distractions or thoughts of us, and how we could wax poetic, because this, this right here, is important.

  No, it’s more than important . . .

  It’s my fucking life.

  BLUE VALENTINE

  Amelia

  By the time I turned eleven, I’d been married a dozen times.

  I’d wed each of my four best friends, three dogs from the neighborhood, two stray cats, and my two very unwilling brothers. Cam was much more unwilling than the always fun Brandon. The last of my husbands was Brooklyn James, and he married me under total and complete protestations.

  All of the weddings had been planned and ranged from simple to elaborate—elopements, garden affairs, and yes, even a royal gala, which was the one to Brooklyn.

  My nanny always officiated and started out with “Dearly beloved.”

  I loved that.

  Amid Barbie dolls and stuffed animals, I wore the same white designer dress that my mother never knew was missing from her closet. With a veil made from a white pillowcase, I clutched dandelions and wild violets that I picked in Central Park, and said “I do.”

  After the ceremonies, I always took pictures to capture the special moments, and then we ate cupcakes and drank lemonade.

  My grandfather attended a few of my weddings, and he used his camera, the one he eventually gave to me, and pretended to be the photographer. He was always so much fun. And like him, I love taking photos of moments that are happy, ones that will last forever after.

  Who knows, maybe they are the only thing that really ever does.

  The little zing in my heart as I watch the people around me smile and laugh makes me wish I were the one capturing the moments that would last forever right now.

  Snap.

  Click.

  As the professional photographer circles around the room, taking photos of the newly engaged couple and their guests, I watch, perhaps a little wistfully, and smile as he asks them to pose for the camera.

  Snap.

  Click.

  Full of envy that is anything but welcome, I take a sip of my white wine and can’t help but look over my shoulder to escape the atmosphere, if only for a few seconds.

  The Cliff is an amazing place. The interior is like a cream-colored box of luxury, yet not overstated in the least—with exactly the right amount of sparkle to add a touch of magic to it. Outside is the real gem, though. Just like its name, the restaurant sits high on top of a cliff and overlooks the Pacific Ocean. The deck is huge and provides a view to die for. Tonight, however, we are stuck inside due to the continuing poor weather conditions.

  After having met nearly everyone and eaten our way through the cheese-and-cracker trays, hors d’oeuvre table, and filet station, I insisted on people-watching while Brooklyn made the rounds one more time.

  Perhaps slightly buzzed, I stare out the giant window and reflect upon the beauty it allows to be seen so clearly. The rain is still falling, and I watch as it hits the ocean like sheets of glass. As the endless drops fall, my mind wanders again to the tall, black hat Brooklyn wore on our fake wedding day and the face of disgust he made when I kissed him.

  Or at least I think I was the one who leaned in first to touch our lips together. Honestly, I can’t remember. The kiss was light, of course, just a peck, and nothing sexual in nature. Yet, it was my first kiss, and he was my last husband, the wedding game having grown old by the time I reached eleven and was ready to move on to movie stars and teen idols.

  Laughter jolts me out of my childhood dreams, and it’s a sound I’ve become attuned to in the strangest way.

  My once-upon-a-time husband has been charming his way around the room. Chatting animatedly with the bridal party, he is making all the women laugh, and on occasion blush. It’s the way he looks at you, the way he eases close, the way his breath blows across your cheek.

  Flirty by nature, I don’t even know if he realizes what those dimples do to the women he talks to.

  Body language is a strong aphrodisiac, and he has it in spades.

  I press my lips to the rim of my wineglass, warming it, and look up to find him striding toward me. When he gives me that flirty grin, I’m not immune to it either, and suddenly I’m somewhere else entirely. A place where my phone has stopped its incessant buzzing and my life isn’t a shattered mess.

  Here.

  With him.

  Brooklyn has a bottle of Guinness in his hand. He’s been holding it for as long as I’ve been watching him, but I haven’t seen him take a drink from it even once. “Hey,” he says, low and slow. The sound of his voice just another reason my brother calls him the pantydropper.

  “Hey,” I say, “did you meet the girl you’ll be matched with in the wedding?” I sip more wine and stare at him, waiting for him to point her out.

  “Yeah, I did. She had to work late and she just got here.”

  “Well, who is she?” I ask over the rim of my glass when he doesn’t elaborate.

  Brooklyn bobs his head over toward the dessert table, which is completely filled with decadent-looking pastries. “She’s Gigi’s cousin. The one in the white blouse and black skirt.”

  Eyeing her, then him, I give him a bland but sweet smile, and inside I’m doing a little happy dance. Glasses. Hair pull
ed up perfectly tight. Little makeup. Flat shoes. “She might be one of those crazy librarian types with an insane sex life that she covers up by appearing to be all buttoned up, like Batgirl on Batman.”

  Slipping a hand in his pocket, he grins. “She’s an accountant, so I doubt that.”

  “Oh,” is all I can say.

  He shrugs as if it doesn’t matter. “Tell me again what am I looking for?” he says with that deep voice of his directly into my ear.

  This, at least, makes me laugh, and then my breath catches in the craziest way when I shift a little to answer. It’s because of how he is standing. He has one arm against the glass. The crease in his pants perfect, his broad shoulders strong, and his lean waist more emphasized in his dress slacks than the board shorts I’ve seen him wearing. Once I gather my wits, I answer in a flirty tone that is not much different from his own. “The obvious hidden among the unobvious.”

  “Right,” he smirks, as if it all makes sense, and then for the first time tonight, he tips his bottle back and eyes the crowd with those blue brooding irises of his. “I’m on it, the obvious among the unobvious. How hard can that be?”

  I laugh and finish off my wine. We took an Uber car here. Brooklyn knew with all of his friends from his old television series, Chasing the Sun, in the same room, he’d definitely be drinking, and I didn’t offer to be the designated driver because I knew I wanted to drink.

  It must be that with his social obligations completed, he’s ready to people-watch and let loose. I eye the crowd too, and begin this little game with the grown-up spin on the marriage game from years ago.

  His eyes shift from right to left, looking around the room, and then over to me. I can tell he needs me to elaborate. “Okay, so,” I say, “you’re looking for who is coupling up without anyone noticing. Who is flirting with whom. Sneaking glances when they think no one is looking or stealing touches on the sly,” I go on as a waiter refills my wineglass.

  In my pointed-toe gold kitten heels, meant to match the thin gold belt around my waist, Brooklyn stands a whole head taller than I do. He’s long, lean, and extremely attractive, and I find myself stealing glances at him more than I am at the dessert table. Perhaps I’m the one he should be watching. When he takes another sip from his bottle, I find myself wondering what he tastes like, and thinking it might be better than a chocolate éclair.

  Except there’s one small problem with that thought.

  Something happened in Brooklyn’s room today that I’m not sure I like. Somehow, I went from the forbidden-sister zone to the friend zone. Sure, I like that his moody hostility seems to have evaporated, but I hate that the sexual tension that lingered in the air seems to have gone with it.

  Now we’re buddies, looking around the elegantly decorated room with crystal champagne flutes and bottles of wine practically floating in the air, and playing a game. Like friends. And just friends.

  Taking my attention off my own woes, I resume the game and ignore my vibrating phone. My father has been calling, my mother, and Landon, too. Just not Cam.

  Landon and I talked to each other most of the afternoon.

  He is nice.

  Really nice.

  Really, really nice.

  And yes, somehow during our two-hour phone conversation earlier today, my Mr. Maybe-Right proved he is Mr. Right material. And the only thing I had to say to myself when we hung up was yes, he is so nice.

  How anticlimactic.

  Exasperated with myself, I blow the hair from my eyes and find the soon-to-be-wedded couple, who are working the room—on opposite sides. This intrigues me enough to pay attention to them. Although I don’t mention it to Brooklyn, I watch, taking another slow sip of my wine.

  Chase Parker starred right beside Brooklyn James on Chasing the Sun. Not only did they surf together, but they also grew up in Beverly Hills together, attended the same private high school together, and both have parents in the business.

  I did a little social media snooping this afternoon while on the phone with my Mr. Right.

  Chase, unlike Brooklyn, has been trying his hand at acting. He’s landed some small parts here and there, but nothing noteworthy or earthshaking. He did, however, meet Gigi when he played Gigi’s boss’s boyfriend on Where’s My Latte?

  Gigi, on the other hand, is the talk of the town as the feisty assistant to the established actress who seems to be the force behind her boss’s rejuvenated rise to fame.

  Chase may not be an A-list actor yet, but he is most definitely movie-star material, with his Rock Hudson–turns–bad-boy good looks. He, like Brooklyn, is tall and lean. He has a wide mouth with full lips. Dark, laughing eyes. Smooth, perfectly shaped ears, one of which boasts a diamond stud. And, unlike Brooklyn, he has dark hair that is shaved close to his scalp.

  Chase catches Gigi’s stare from across the room and his lips curve into a slow, sexy smile. In a way a bride-to-be should not act, she looks away, but a few moments later she looks back at him. He waggles his eyebrows at her and blows her a kiss. Instead of catching it, she rolls her eyes at him.

  Not that I profess to be Dr. Love or anything, but something isn’t right.

  Laughing good-naturedly, Chase crosses the room toward her, sitting in the chair beside her. He pulls her onto his lap and appears to be punishing her with his lips.

  Gigi, though, doesn’t get all hot and bothered by his affections; instead, she ducks her head away from his tickling mouth and elbows him until he lets her slide from his lap to the seat beside him.

  “What are you so intrigued with?” Brooklyn’s voice is so deep that it sounds like thunder, even though he’s whispering.

  Hesitantly, I lift my glass toward the happy couple. “Them.”

  “What about Chase and Gigi?”

  I draw in a breath.

  “Tell me,” he commands, and my pulse races a little, as it always does, when the alpha in him emerges.

  “It’s just I don’t think she’s as into him as he is her.”

  Brooklyn frowns. “What makes you say that? They’re so much in love that they don’t want to wait to get married.”

  “Really?”

  He nods. “They’re tying the knot in two weeks at some undisclosed remote location that we all will be helicoptered to in order to avoid the press.”

  “Or gain its attention,” I mutter under my breath, and then I raise a brow. “What’s the rush?”

  Brooklyn eyes me and then gives me a shrug. Such a guy thing not to question the whole rush-to-the-altar reasoning. “I guess they want to be together. I don’t know. It’s not something I thought to ask.”

  “Appearances? Awards season?” Words I should keep to myself.

  His frown deepens. “You think?”

  “Maybe? I don’t know. I mean I’ve only been watching them for a few minutes—what do I know.”

  “But what do you think?”

  I speak honestly. “That something isn’t right, on her part.”

  Brooklyn finishes the bottle that moments ago was full. “For his sake, I hope she’s just uncomfortable with PDA because Chase is a really great guy, and I’d hate to see him get burned.”

  Seeing the unhappy twist of Brooklyn’s lips, I point to the dessert table. “What do you say we get something to eat?”

  He quirks a brow, and goose bumps dapple my skin. “You’ve been eyeing it for a while now; I wondered how long it would take you to cave.”

  “Shut up! You’ve been eyeing it too,” I tell him. And then I take his hand to lead him toward the sweetness, abandoning the game that somehow turned sour. The sparks I feel upon contact cause me to misstep, but I quickly recover.

  And as we walk toward the pastries, I wonder the same thing as him . . . how long it will take him to cave . . .

  It’s just that my thoughts aren’t about the food.

  FOUR WEDDINGS AND A FUNERAL

  Brooklyn

  Wedding rules of conduct are interesting things.

  The bridesmaids are all pissed
that their dresses are ugly, but don’t want to say anything to offend the bride. The groomsmen are worried that their assigned bridesmaid is going to be uglier than fuck, so they don’t want to ask who they are paired with. The bride is worried that her day won’t be perfect, and acts like a bitch. And the groom just wants to move on to the honeymoon so he can fuck his new wife, who has cut him off until after the big day.

  Me, I’m worried about the bachelor party. Can’t send my man Chase off into ball-and-chain territory without a proper send-off. I discussed this with the guys and although we didn’t nail a date, I’m certain the big night will take place soon.

  The engagement party ended rather early, with so much wedding confusion that no one could take the discussions any longer. Now Amelia and I are standing outside under the awning, waiting for our car to arrive. At least there is only a light rain.

  Jingling the change in my pocket, I allow my gaze to slide back to her, and realize my resistance to her feminine wiles is slipping.

  It has been.

  With each passing tick of the clock and every sip of alcohol, I tried hard to remain in the friend zone I had created in my room.

  Amelia just has a way about her, though.

  It has become clear that she’s treated like the princess of her family not because she’s a girl, but because she has a magic about her that draws people in, makes them want to please her.

  Mesmerizing is the word.

  And I saw her do it all night without even knowing she was. The way the waiters refilled her glass before it was even empty. The way the men offered her whatever she needed without hesitation. Even the women were complimenting her on her look—on her dress, her shoes, and her cat eyes.

  Like her glittery eyeliner, she just sparkles.

  I lean a little closer and run my finger over her lips. “Just brownie crumbs,” I laugh.

  She reaches with her hand and our fingers touch, right on her lips.

  I clear my throat and shift from foot to foot in the cold. “They’re all gone. I hope you weren’t saving them for later.”

  The glow of the dim lights overhead highlight her gorgeous features. “No,” she laughs, “I think there are some Doritos left if I get hungry.”