by Max Monroe
Luca sighs, but eventually, his eyes meet mine. “So, you got married and didn’t invite me to the wedding?”
“Actually, we didn’t invite anyone. It was just me, Harrison, and Ellie. Small and intimate. That’s the way I wanted it.”
“Are you happy?” he asks, and I don’t hesitate to answer.
“The happiest I’ve ever been.”
Abruptly, my brother stands up from his seat and walks around the table. He stops at Harrison’s chair, and as my husband stands up to meet him at eye level, all of a sudden, I have a moment of panic.
Oh man. Did I just light a freaking fire?
Are they going to fight? Right here? Like when we were freaking kids? Smashing into the table and shit?
Dear God, save the mashed potatoes!
“Uh…Luca, I—” I try to be the voice of reason, but I am quickly cut off.
“Harrison, I have to give it to you,” my brother says with what could be a hint of a smile, but I can’t be sure. I hold my breath for what feels like forever as I wait for him to finish.
“You might’ve been a real dick when we were kids,” he continues, “but you’ve grown up into the kind of man who takes care of my baby sister. Anyone who can put that kind of smile and happiness in Rocky’s eyes is good in my book.” He holds out his hand. “Congratulations, man.”
“Thanks,” Harrison says and shakes his hand. “I really appreciate that, Luca.”
And before I know it, they’re both doing some kind of weird bro-hug thing.
Holy hell. This is…unexpected.
“You’re not allowed to leave me for Harrison, caveman,” Billie chimes in around a mouthful of mashed potatoes.
Luca just laughs and sits back down beside her, rubbing a hand over her belly. “Like I’d ever leave you. Get real, princess. You’re stuck with me for forever.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I watch as Luca presses a kiss to Billie’s forehead and then proceeds to extend another olive branch toward Harrison, asking him all sorts of small-talk questions. Which is really something since my brother loathes small talk.
But he makes the effort, and that says everything.
Who knows? Maybe my brother and my husband just might end up being friends.
Stranger things have happened, right? I mean, I was a virgin who got pregnant during a one-night stand and ended up marrying the guy.
My perfect guy.
I look over at Harrison and press a soft kiss to his cheek. He smiles back at me briefly before pressing his lips to mine.
What a beautiful life this is.
I can’t believe I get to be the one to live it.
THE END
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Taming Hollywood’s Baddest Boy Excerpt
Billie
Naked lumberjacks are all the rage. Or is it that they’re full of rage?
I’m not entirely sure, but I think maybe, just maybe, it’s a little bit of both.
Standing beside a hot tub outside of a rustic Alaskan cabin is a bare-chested, handsome-as-hell lumberjack of a man, and he is as naked as the day he was born.
“Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck are you doing here?” the big, burly man with a scruffy beard and piercing blue eyes asks me brusquely.
And holy hell, what a question that is.
I started this journey in a meeting in LA, promising my boss the world, continued it with a plane, a car, a hike and kayaking adventure in a cold, rainy Alaskan setting, and in a highly unanticipated twist, I’m ending it in what must be an issue of Playgirl magazine come to life.
And boy oh boy is the centerfold pissed…
“Hello?” he questions harshly. “I said, who the hell are you?”
As hard as it is, given his clothes-less state, I force myself to take a good, scrutinizing look at the rest of his face. I’m here for a reason, and with nothing more than a ramshackle convenience store owner named Earl’s vague instructions to go on, I can only hope that the here I’m at is the here I’ve spent days in a plane, car, and kayak looking for. In addition to a remarkably carved line on the inside of each hipbone, the angry man standing boldly above me has a strong jaw covered by a beard, a little scar above his right eye, miles of muscular, tanned skin, and messy, light-brown hair. I have to look a little closer to confirm my conclusion through the rolling waves of distrust and hatred coming off him, but when I focus hard enough, the star-quality glimmer in his eyes is undeniable.
For the love of pancakes at a Sunday morning breakfast, it’s really him.
Luca Weaver, Hollywood’s former baddest boy—the man I’ve nearly killed myself to find—is right in front of me, and he is naked.
At my non-answer, his jaw turns to stone. “I asked you a question. Either answer it or get fucking moving.” I jolt at the rumble of his voice, but my feet do nothing to take me in any direction. I am rooted to the spot, utterly awed over the fact that I’ve actually managed something as impossible as finding Luca Weaver and all of my normal functions are rendered useless. He scowls, unimpressed with all the hard work I’ve put in—work that he obviously doesn’t know about. “You have five seconds before I come back out here with my shotgun.”
“Uh…” I fumble, trying like hell to grasp the English language once again. I may be distracted, but on some level, I understand the importance of getting my shit together enough to at least prevent a shotgun from joining our little meet-and-greet.
But my brain is bus-y. And slow.
Because Luca Weaver looks damn good without any clothes.
Eight years older since the last time he graced the covers of Hollywood gossip magazines, Luca is a man to whom time has been seriously kind. Either his genetics are just that good, or there’s some kind of sexy voodoo in the Alaskan water.
I mean…his penis is right in front of me, and I can’t find a single thing wrong with it. It’s straight and veiny and perfectly pink.
“What’s the matter with you? You have a death wish or something?” he spits at the statue formerly known as my body. “This is private property.”
His words are serious and firm, and it seems that maybe I do have a dream that’s reminiscent of the movie Fargo—fingers crossed there are no wood chippers nearby. Because for as much as I try, I can’t stop looking at my new phallic friend, even to form a few simple words.
But, come on. Luca Weaver’s freaking dick is right there!
It’s not hard, but still, it’s…big—so big it’s not even a dick.
It’s a Richard. Si
r Richard.
King Richard, really.
Shit, I’m in the presence of penis royalty, and I suddenly have the urge to curtsy.
He is a lumberjack fantasy come to life. Instantly, my brain starts thinking about pine-scented flannel and chopping wood and giving a blow job… Wait…what?
Stop being a moron and speak words!
“Uh…so…you’re…naked.” Oh god, those aren’t the right words!
He glances down, mutters something to himself, snags a towel from a few feet away, and wraps it around his waist. “I didn’t invite you here,” he says, his voice gritty with irritation—and maybe, a little with disuse. Which would make sense. It’s taken me an entire season of Running Wild with Bear Grylls to get here. I can’t imagine he’s having book clubs and dinner parties and gabbing with his pals on the regular.
Towel adjusted and glorious goods hidden from view, he studies me with frigid blue eyes and a glare worthy of a scorned woman. I shiver.
“I’m only going to ask you one more time. What in the hell are you doing here?”
I fiddle with the edges of my shirt as I finally find my vocal cords. “I’m Billie…Billie Harris.”
And I am in way over my head.
Billie
Three Days Earlier
Give me coffee, and no one gets hurt. Give Charles Hawthorne coffee, and everyone gets their ass kissed.
I suppose kissing of asses could be considered a good thing, but when it comes to Charles—my archnemesis at work—and his propensity to kiss the gluteal region of my boss, Serena, it could definitely be better.
Speaking of, my phone lights up with a message from its spot in the cupholder, and I glance down to read the preview bubble as it populates.
Charles: Serena, would you like me to bring you a coffee?
Ugh. Both of us are vying for the same position—to be the right hand (wo)man to Serena Koontz, one of the biggest production company owners in all of Hollywood.
And this is not some friendly competition turned rom-com where we fall hopelessly in love. This guy is a brownnosing, smug thorn in my side who sucks up to our boss so much his lips will eventually be permanently attached to her ass.
Serena: No.
She generally doesn’t even have the decency to include pleasantries when she shoots him down, but he never lets it discourage him. He’s tenacious. I’ll give him that.
Charles: What about a croissant from that bakery you love so much? It’s on my way in.
Serena: Have it here at ten. Morning meeting is pushed back.
I shake my head at the new information I’ve just obtained from being a third wheel on their conversation. Considering their messages are inside our ongoing group chat, the eavesdropping is expected, but still. I wonder if anyone would have bothered to tell me about the change in meeting time if I weren’t spying on their messages like a voyeur?
I tap my fingers on the steering wheel as “Wagon Wheel,” one of my daddy’s favorite songs, starts to blare from my stereo speakers, and I shift my mind away from workplace slights.
There are a million and one memories to go with this song, and regardless of how I got the information, I just won an hour and a half of extra time.
I roll down my window a crack and soak in all the glitz around me.
Beverly Hills, Rodeo Drive. There’s nothing like it. A well-dressed woman in a little white Porsche sits at a stoplight, and a black Ferrari is illegally parked in front of a Starbucks. The sun shines differently on fancy storefronts, and people walk around in outfits that cost more than my car—an almost comical contrast to the grassroots, country twang music filling my ears.
But that disparity is one-hundred-percent me.
Small town, country girl—who isn’t country at all—turned Hollywood.
Well, trying to turn Hollywood.
At the first available opening, I gas it up alongside my fancy vehicle counterparts and take a right turn onto Melrose. Alfred’s Coffee sits on the next corner, and despite Charles’s shenanigans with the fine brown liquid, coffee always beckons. And usually, it does it from Alfred’s. Only five minutes from work, the establishment on Melrose Avenue has become my favorite coffee spot in LA.
It takes me a few minutes to find a spot to slip into, but when I finally do, my phone has vibrated in my cupholder another three times.
Charles: Great! Can I get you anything else?
Serena: Nope.
Charles: Well, just let me know if that changes!
I pick up the phone just as he’s sending one final message: a smiley face and thumbs-up emoji.
Goodness gracious, if he keeps this up, Serena Koontz will be the first human being alive to give birth to a fully dressed man.
I let out a deep exhale, type my own message, keeping it short and succinct with See you at 9:45, hit send, and head inside to Alfred’s.
Maybe it’s to my detriment, but I refuse to play Charles’s ridiculous game. I don’t want Serena to ask me to be a permanent employee at her production company because I’m the best at fetching fucking coffee. I want her to want me on her team because she sees potential in me.
Plus, if there’s one very important thing Charles doesn’t seem to understand, it’s that Serena doesn’t like to waste words. She started out as a successful screenwriter and producer in Hollywood and turned that golden talent into the successful company known as Koontz Productions.
Basically, her work ethic makes Jeff Bezos look lazy.
She’s an inspiration, and after working as a PA on her latest feature film, I’m hoping and praying she chooses to keep me under her knowledgeable wing.
PA, or Production Assistant, jobs are generally temporary. When you work as a PA on a movie or a television series, once the project comes to an end, so does the work.
It’s a rough cycle, to be honest, but it’s necessary. If I want to be a Hollywood producer, if I want to follow in someone like Serena’s footsteps, I need to work as many PA jobs as I can. The hands-on experience is quintessential to the career, and the amount you can learn under Serena is exponentially higher than almost everywhere else.
Thankfully, a few weeks ago, after we wrapped up production on Red River—a dramatic movie that will release sometime next year—Serena sat Charles and me down and told us she wanted us to be a part of the next big project.
It was seriously exciting news—kind of like finding a scratch-off on the ground worth thousands of dollars.
And then…she dropped the nuclear bomb of reality checks.
After this project, she’ll choose only one of us to mentor permanently. That person will get to move forward with her and her production company on future projects, and the other will be shit out of luck.
To say the current state of my career is filled with a lot of unknowns would be a bit of an understatement, but big Hollywood dreams aren’t something that comes easily.
It will take a lot of ups and downs. A lot of hard work and determination.
Possibly killing Charles.
You know, a lot of things.
Coffee now in my sights, I push through the front door of Alfred’s, the aroma of coffee beans and vanilla slapping me right in the face.
The place is positively bursting at the seams with caffeine-addicted pod-people like me, making the place I take at the end of the long line seem miles away from the hustling baristas behind the sleek black counter.
Utensils, cups, and plates clink, and the rhythm makes Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5” start to play inside my head. If this were a coffee shop in a movie, this song would be playing on the soundtrack.
Discreetly, I tap my right foot and bob my head a little to the music only I can hear and think of my momma.
She always told me I would end up in Hollywood—that my strange mind was a gift. You see life like a movie, Billie, she’d tell me. One day, you’re gonna use that brain of yours to make movies of your own.
But Momma was a bit of a dreamer when it came to this town. Being a buddin
g actress herself who never quite made it out here to chase her dreams, she held out hope in a little section of her heart that my sister, Birdie, or I would be able to do it for her.
“Next!” the barista at the counter yells, and my thoughts and the music in my head fade away when I realize she’s talking to me.
Oh shoot.
With an apologetic smile and an unnecessary glance at the menu above her head, I step up to the counter quickly.
“Vanilla iced latte and a blueberry muffin, please,” I tell the pretty blue-eyed barista with wavy blond hair and insanely full lips. Her name tag reads Summer, and it’s oddly right. She looks like the beach on a bright, sunny day.
“Anything else?” Surfer Girl asks, and I shake my head.
“That’ll do it.”
“Name for the order?”
“Billie.”
She grabs a cup and a Sharpie, writing B-u-d-d-y on the side.
Buddy? Billie doesn’t sound like Buddy at all in the middle. Maybe all the high-tech espresso machines and their noise are getting to her hearing.
“No, not Buddy, but Billie,” I correct in my sweetest voice. “Billie with an ie.”
On a sigh, she puts the Sharpie back to the cup, scratches out Buddy with a swift hand, and writes the letters B-i-l-l-d-i-e.
Billdie? Good Lord. Am I speaking a different language?
“Uh…I hate to be a pain, but it’s actually Billie without the d. Just B-i-l-l-i-e.”
The barista stares at me, cup and Sharpie still in her hand, like Billie just can’t be a name for a girl. Like, surely, I’m the one saying my name wrong.
Michael Jackson sang about a Billie Jean, and Billie Eilish is one of the most successful female artists in music, but whatever. It’s not worth arguing with the barista about whether or not my momma and daddy lied to me.
