The Girlfriend Stage

by Janci Patterson

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  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Acknowledgments

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  THE GIRLFRIEND STAGE

  Copyright © 2019 The Real Sockwives of Utah Valley

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, printing, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author, except for use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design by Melissa Williams Design

  Shoes copyright 2019 lukpedclub, Adobestock. Branches copyright 2019 dollitude, Adobestock. Moon copyright 2019 alec_maneewan, Adobestock. Controllers copyright 2019 EVZ, Adobestock

  Janci's author photo by Michelle D. Argyle

  Megan's author photo by Heather Cavill

  Published by Garden Ninja Books

  ExtraSeriesBooks.com

  First Edition: May 2019

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Hannah Ekren

  who couldn’t stop reading

  One

  Anna-Marie

  I can always tell how good a guy is going to be in bed by the type and quality of his sheets.

  My roommate Gabby rolled her eyes when I first proclaimed this to her. “Come on, Anna-Marie,” she said. “Just because a guy doesn’t have a ton of money to buy nice sheets doesn’t mean he’s bad at sex.”

  But really, how materialistic does she think I am? (She wisely didn’t answer that.) The truth is, this has nothing to do with how much money a man makes. I’ve been with guys who lived in crappy apartments in WeHo who manage to keep a modest but respectable four-hundred-thread-count cotton blend over the mattress that sits directly on the floor. And I’ve been with guys who drive Ferraris and wear Armani suits and live in impeccable lofts who cheap out on scratchy nylon/polyester nightmares that would be better used as campfire kindling.

  I can tell you right away which of those guys are going to get a second night with me and which ones are going to have to find some other girl to brag to over foie gras about their diversified stock portfolios. And don’t get me started on the sleaze-ball guys who think satin sheets are a classy idea.

  But then there’s Josh Rios.

  The moment my bare ass first hit this pristine white Egyptian cotton with a single-ply thread count higher than the SAT score of your typical Harvard attendee, I knew I was going to be spending a lot of quality time rolling around in this bed.

  What I didn’t quite count on was how much I’d enjoy waking up here, too.

  I sigh contentedly and stretch out against those perfect sheets, taking in the sight of the guy sleeping next to me. A lock of dark hair has flopped over his face, but I can still make out the stubble along his jaw, the curve of those lips that can become the most amazing, heart-stopping smile—and can do a fair number of other heart-stopping things, as well.

  I roll over and turn off the alarm on my phone before it has a chance to go off and wake him, but my movement must have done that anyway, because he scoots closer and slings an arm around my waist.

  “Mmmm, it can’t be morning yet,” he mumbles sleepily and mostly into his pillow.

  “And yet it happens every day. Damn rotation of the planet.” Despite how very warm and nice his arm is against my bare skin, I have a ridiculously early call time at work, and so I peel away from him and out of the bed.

  He groans. “You’re sexy when you talk science. Maybe I’ll join you in the shower.” But he’s barely finished that last word before his breathing goes deep again and he’s back asleep, his arm stretched across the bed where I was seconds before.

  Josh Rios is many things, but a natural morning person is not one of them. Before his first cup of coffee, he’s basically a beautiful Puerto Rican coma patient.

  I smile and grab my purse, digging through it for my sleepover essentials. My extra-large blue Kate Spade bucket bag works well for this. It can hold my Southern Heat script (which I pull out and set on the bed so I remember to look it over on the way to work), my toiletries and makeup bags, and a rolled up spare shirt and panties. I’m going straight to work, where I’m going to be changed into something else anyway, but I’d rather avoid the complete “walk of shame” feel.

  Then I pad quietly out of the room and into the kitchen, where Josh’s state-of-the-art coffee machine has just finished automatically brewing the perfect cup of hazelnut roast. I pour us each a cup and breathe in the heavenly scent.

  Last week, I suggested to Gabby that I could buy a coffee machine like this for our place.

  “We can’t replace Bertrude. She has personality,” she’d said, looking over at the appliance like she was concerned it might have overheard my blasphemous suggestion.

  Yes, our coffee machine is named Bertrude, a name I vaguely remember coining on one of our weekly Wine and Doritos nights, probably after far too much of both those things. And Bertrude does indeed have personality—the personality of someone who makes coffee that tastes like tar and does so with great reluctance and loud grinding noises.

  It’s a good thing I don’t actually drink that much coffee.

  I lean against the granite counter top, taking a sip as I look over Josh’s condo. It’s still dark—despite my comments about planetary rotation, the sun seems to agree with Josh that it’s way too early to make an appearance—but the track lighting under the cabinets reflects against the stainless steel of the chef-quality appliances I doubt actually see much use.

  The kitchen opens directly into Josh’s spacious high-ceilinged living room, which is decorated with lots of heavy, old-world-style furniture. The first time I’d been here, two months ago, I’d been duly impressed with his style. I’d figured he’d have a nice place—or at least I did once I’d realized the gorgeous man I was flirting shamelessly with at the bar was super-agent Josh Rios, number three on Entertainment Weekly’s “Top 10 Hottest Behind-the-Scenes Industry Professionals.” I knew he was a guy who did well for himself.

  Most of the younger rich guys I’ve dated tend to go for a more sleek, modern look—which can be cool, but is only one weird vagina-shaped vase away from officially trying too hard. Josh’s place is decorated in a way that’s more classic, and it’s a nice change of pace. Even if the constant bubbling of the fountain beside the couch always makes me need to pee.

  Now, though, as I look out over the place, something about it makes me feel unsettled. Like it’s missing something, though I can’t put my finger on what.

  Oh well. That’s a problem for his interior decorator to solve, not a girl who occasionally spends the night—no matter how m
uch she rocks his world when she does. I grin and bring the coffee back into the bedroom, setting his on the nightstand, so he doesn’t have to zombie-shamble out into the kitchen in his boxers in order to become a functional human.

  Even though it’s downright adorable to watch.

  I take a shower that’s not nearly as long as I’d actually like, given that Josh’s shower, unlike mine, has enough room to turn in without knocking over every single bottle of shampoo and conditioner and Moroccan oil we have. (Contrary to Gabby’s complaints, I do not have too many hair care products. I just have very demanding hair.) Then I towel off—another sign of a quality guy are these first-rate fluffy towels that are so comfy I want to wear one as an avant-guard summer dress—and throw on my new shirt with the skirt I wore to dinner last night. I don’t bother blow-drying my hair, since my stylist will mess with that plenty anyway, but I do put on makeup. I’m a confident girl, but I’m still not about to face a guy as hot as Josh Rios (who will likely be caffeinated and fully awake by now) without at least some mascara and lip gloss.

  When I leave the bathroom, a cloud of steam trailing out behind me, I see that Josh is sitting up in bed, drinking his coffee and flipping through my script.

  “You’re really getting back together with Vincenzo?” he asks, raising a dark eyebrow at me. “Didn’t he steal your baby or something?”

  “My character Maeve is getting back together with Vincenzo. Which, yeah, seems like an oversight, given the baby thing. But Maeve has a weakness for cute Latino men.”

  “Clearly something Anna-Marie and Maeve have in common.”

  I grin, and let my gaze linger on his bare, toned chest. “Clearly.” Then I walk over to him and grab the script from his hands. “Besides, you aren’t supposed to be reading that. I have clauses against this kind of thing. You’re an agent. You should know better.” My scolding tone is all for show. I’m supposed to keep spoilers from getting out in the world, but it’s not like I’m carrying around the script for the latest Star Wars or something. And I’m pretty sure Josh doesn’t even watch Southern Heat.

  “Hey, you left it out on my bed. I didn’t sign anything about not reading it.” He gives me that smile, just the teeniest bit crooked and all kinds of mischievous, and then pulls me back down to the bed on top of him.

  I don’t resist at all. The script falls to the floor as we kiss. He tastes like hazelnut roast and heat, and I suddenly wish I didn’t have to go into work today.

  But I do, because Maeve needs to reconnect with Vincenzo, and I need to not lose another soap opera gig. I’ve been at Southern Heat now for just over a year, which is definitely better than my short tenure on Passion Medical, but after that incident, I am well aware I’m only one framed awards statue theft away from my character dying a tragic poisoning death—or worse, being recast with some actress who has bigger boobs than me.

  Josh seems happy enough with my boob size; his hands are already making their way up my shirt when I pull back, and he gives me a sad little sigh. “Fine, I get it. You’ve got another hot guy to go make out with. Meanwhile, I have a meeting with a client who wants a rider in his contract that will allow his cats to have their own trailer on set. One of us is clearly going to enjoy the day more.”

  I laugh. I know Josh well enough to know the put-upon agent thing is an act—he loves his job, even when it annoys the hell out of him. “Well, if you really want to make out with Vincenzo instead, I could probably arrange that.”

  He tickles my waist and his grin widens when I can’t help but giggle. I roll off him so that I’m stretched out along his side. “Thanks, but I’ll pass,” he says. “Besides, if I’m going to go after one of Maeve’s boyfriends, Ben tells me the better catch is Bruce.”

  “Ben watches Southern Heat?” I’ve never met Josh’s best friend, a guy he’s known since childhood, but I’ve heard about him plenty. And nothing Josh has ever said about Ben—other than the fact that he’s gay—indicated he’s a soap-opera kind of guy. More like a guy who yells at the screen while watching hockey games and eating cereal in his sweatpants.

  “No, but Wyatt does. And Ben tells me he’s a super-fan of Maeve and Bruce. Posts on the message boards and everything.”

  “Really.” The thought that Josh’s best friend’s husband is a fan makes me surprisingly happy. Then again, I’m still new enough to the industry that I have to hold in a little squee noise every time someone recognizes me from TV. “Well, Braeve is the more popular ship of the two, that’s for sure. The solid choice.”

  “Brave?” Josh raises an eyebrow.

  “Yeah, you know, like a combination of Bruce and Maeve. Braeve.” I swat at him when he continues to eye me skeptically. “Hey, I didn’t make it up. Blame the fans.”

  “Yes, blaming the fans. Always good PR advice. But why Braeve? Why not . . .” He pauses for a few seconds, squinting his eyes as he thinks. “Muce?”

  The sudden, unexpected hilarity of that—which he pronounces like “Moose”—makes me let out one of my infamous (and thankfully rare) snort-laughs, which sounds like a small weed-whacker has briefly taken up residence in my nose. I feel my soul actually leave my body as I die inside.

  Josh Rios has never heard my snort-laugh before, and I would have happily gone on with my life content to keep it that way. But instead of giving me a half-pitying/half-horrified look (trust me, I’ve gotten that before), Josh’s grin gets bigger than I’ve ever seen it. And he doesn’t say anything to call attention to my embarrassment, which I appreciate.

  He does roll over on his side to face me, propping his head up with his hand. It gives his bicep a nice shape, and I know I should encourage him to get clothes on so I’m not late for work, but damn if I don’t think he should just stay shirtless and in bed with me all day.

  “So which guy do you think Maeve should be with?” he asks. “Solid Bruce or Bad Boy Vincenzo?”

  I purse my lips thoughtfully. “Neither. I don’t think Maeve has found the right person yet.” I pause. “Neither of them really get her, you know? It’s like each of them is perfect for a part of her, but Maeve needs more than that. She needs someone more whole, more real.”

  The moment the words have left my mouth, a kind of warning alarm sounds in my head:

  Danger. Danger. Serious relationship talk indicators ahead. Prepare escape vessel.

  As if on cue, Josh’s amused expression slips, and his dark brown eyes study me carefully. “So is any of Maeve drawn from real life?”

  Shit.

  Josh and I have been seeing each other for two months now, and this is the closest we’ve ever come to these dangerous waters—probably because he feels the same way I do, that nothing good ever comes from these talks. He asked the original question jokingly, and then I turned it all . . . serious. And now that I’ve done that, he feels the need to suss out the threat level himself, make sure I’m not some commitment-hungry agent poacher. Which I am most definitely not.

  I’ve unintentionally led us here; it’s up to me to guide us back to safer shores.

  I give him my best disarming smile. “Only the part about my newborn child being stolen in the hospital by my jealous lover.”

  “Only that part?” His lips quirk up in a smile again, and my chest stops feeling quite so tight.

  “Real life doesn’t come into play very often for Maeve, I’m afraid. Since she’s a soap opera character,” I say with more derision toward the genre than I actually feel. I sit up. “A soap opera I’m going to be late for if we don’t eventually get out of bed.” I lean in and give him a long, lingering kiss to soften the words.

  He makes a little groaning noise when I pull away. “Okay, okay, I’m moving.” He slides out of bed and digs around in his dresser drawer until he finds a pair of basketball shorts and one of those sweat-wicking shirts to throw on, then disappears into his closet to gather his work clothes. Josh doesn’t need to be at work
for a couple hours yet, so after dropping me off on set, he hits the gym and gets ready for work from there.

  Despite his hatred of the pre-dawn hours, Josh has never hesitated about taking me to work when I spend the night here, even though it would be far easier if I just drove to his condo in the first place rather than having him pick me up for our dates. I assume he thinks I just like riding around in his Porsche—which, to be fair, is really nice. What he doesn’t actually know, because I’m not about volunteer this information, is that I’m irrationally terrified of driving in Los Angeles and don’t even own a car. I survive on rides from Gabby or whatever guy I’m currently dating, or, failing that, Uber.

  I spend a lot of money on Uber.

  I’m in the middle of doing a quick calculation of how many pairs of Gucci heels I could afford if I sweet-talk one of my co-stars into driving me home from set a couple times a week, when I hear Josh’s voice, muffled from the closet.

  “So do you enjoy working on a soap opera? Like, is that where you ultimately want to be?”

  He walks out, carrying a slim-fitted navy blue suit and a pair of brown oxfords. I know this suit; it looks incredibly sexy on him, and it takes me a second to get my mind back on his question.

  I shrug. “I mean, not forever. But my agent says I’m in a good place for now.”

  Josh looks up sharply from the garment bag he’s putting his suit into. “Are you serious? He says that to you? He doesn’t have you auditioning anywhere else?”

  “No. He thinks I should work for a while here, build up some more experience—”

  “That’s ridiculous. You’re an actress. Unless you actually want a lifelong career in soaps, you need to be auditioning.” He zips the garment bag up with a sense of finality. “What you need is a better agent.”

  “Brent’s a good agent,” I say, feeling slightly defensive of the man who took a chance on me when my acting experience had been limited to high school theater. In Wyoming. “He got me this job, which is pretty damn great for how long I’ve been in Hollywood.”

  Josh’s expression softens, and he sits on the bed next to me. “Brent got you an audition. You were the one that got the part, which is pretty damn great. But just because you’re grateful for what you have doesn’t mean you can’t be ambitious.” He pauses. “You should let me represent you.”