by Roxy Reid
I make a mental note to stop making life-changing decisions at night that can’t be enacted until morning. It really fucks up my sleep schedule.
6
Sienna
Well, that was the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had. I stare down at my phone, while the normal background sound of the office buzzes around me.
Joshua King wants me to come over to his house tonight after he finishes shooting so he can tell me the event he wants to plan. Excitement thrums through me, mixed with a twinge of dread that he’s actually just hitting on me, and this is going to turn into a mess I have to clean up.
But I don’t think that’s what’s happening.
I think he’s going to give me the information I need to actually succeed at the biggest challenge of my career.
Still, I mentally build in time to go home and change into the least sexy clothes I own. Loose ‘90s slacks, here I come.
Joshua lives on a secluded street that feels oddly suburban, except for the size of the houses. His home is painted a deep navy blue bordering on black, and instead of a lawn, he has a rock garden punctuated by big leafy plants. It feels efficient and stylish, but not necessarily like him.
I park, “Right. Here goes nothing.”
I head up to the house and ring the doorbell. He opens the door before I get a chance to step back, and suddenly I’m inches away from Joshua King. He’s strong and beautiful and restless and he smells like warm pine on a summer day. I have the strangest urge to just step into him and bury my face in his neck.
And that’s when I have to admit I didn’t wear my loose slacks and giant boyfriend sweater for him. I wore them for me. Because if I matched with a guy like this on a dating app, I’d think I’d died and gone to heaven.
But this isn’t a dating app. This is my career. And I’m not going to risk it by making goo-goo eyes at him like half of the other women in his life.
I roll my shoulders back and march past Joshua into the entryway, which is sparse and vaulting and looks like something out of a magazine, except for the pile of large men’s shoes and tiny child’s shoes by the door. “Is Poppy here?” I ask.
“No, she’s at her mom’s. I get her tomorrow,” Joshua bounces up and down on his toes. He’s practically vibrating with energy. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Some water would be nice,” I say, to give us both something to do until we get used to me being in his house.
Joshua turns, and I scurry to follow him back to the kitchen – the man’s got long legs, and when he’s at home, he forgets to adjust his pace so other people can keep up. I wonder if he has that same relentless pace in bed, and then mentally slap myself on the forehead.
Just because he’s a movie star does not give you permission to ogle him, I tell myself. He deserves a professional relationship just as much as you do.
I try to distract myself from thoughts of Joshua by taking in his house.
The kitchen is almost as minimalist as his entryway. Lots of white tiles, open shelving, and smooth white dishes that look simple but probably have some designer’s name stamped on the bottom.
Joshua passes me a glass of water. “I’ve got everything laid out in the dining room,” he says, and heads off toward what I can only assume is the dining room.
I sneak a peek at the bottom of my glass. It’s from Target.
Ok, maybe he’s not as far gone as I thought.
The dining room table is definitely designer — heavy, dark wood — but that’s not the first thing I notice.
No, the first thing I notice is that it’s covered with mounds and mounds of paper. As I get closer, I realize they’re distinct piles. There’s a script and headshots of award-winning actors mixed in with those of actors I’ve never seen before in one pile, and a coffee-stained document titled “Ten Year Plan” on top of another. I circle the table, passing budgets and graphs and a thick report titled “Market Research.” I stop in front of a pile of paperwork that all seem to have “launch” and “kick-off” and “announcement” in the visible titles.
I reach for the top one, but Joshua’s hand comes down on the paper, stopping me. I look over the table and up into his brown eyes. “I need you to promise not to tell anyone,” he says.
He’s one of the most powerful men in Hollywood, but all I can think is that he reminds me of a kid at a sleepover about to tell his big secret. I half expect him to ask me to pinky swear.
“Do you want me to sign a non-disclosure agreement?” I ask.
“No. No, your money doesn’t do me any good if you tell someone. Besides, you don’t have enough money to be worth suing.”
“Hey,” I say, feeling indignant. I mean he’s right. But he could be a little nicer about it.
“Just promise,” Joshua says, looking at me with so much focus I lose my breath a little. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone what I’m about to show you.”
“I promise,” I say, trying to shake the feeling that I’m making a deal with the devil.
He flashes that wicked grin of his and passes me the pile of launch papers, “Welcome to the team, Sienna.”
Five hours later, I am sure of two things: Joshua King did not invite me over to hit on me. And, he is the most passionate man I’ve ever met.
There’s the way his eyes light up as he talks about his plan to launch the production company with a high-profile, Oscar-bait movie that no one can ignore. And the way he seems to get more energetic the longer the night goes on and the more he tells me.
Because he’s not just telling me about the launch part of the project, the big event where he wants to announce the production company, their first movie, and the lead actor all in one go. (The fact that it’s three months away and he doesn’t have a single actor hired yet doesn’t seem to phase him.)
No, he’s also telling me about the movie itself. About his long-term plans for the company.
I nearly faint when I hear how much he paid for the script.
Joshua King is telling me everything about this project, and it’s like watching him lay his soul bare.
It might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
Unfortunately, I’ve got to be at the office in ten hours. Joshua might be my favorite client at the moment, but he’s not my only client.
I stifle a yawn, but Joshua notices, and it seems to jolt him out of his flow.
He checks his watch, “Oh my God. I’m sorry. It’s late and you’re tired.”
“It’s fine,” I say.
“No, it’s not,” Joshua runs a hand through his hair, sheepish. “I tend to get sucked in by this project. Which is fine for me, but not fine for you.”
“It’s really–”
“Sienna. Pay attention. I’m saying something important,” he says.
So I do.
“I know I’m the one with the power here. I hired you, I’m at a different stage in my career–”
I snort. That’s an understatement.
“– so if you ever need to leave, or need me to leave, just say so. Whether you’ve got another client, or you need to actually sleep, or you’ve got a date. Whatever. I trust you to get the job done. And I’m not going to fire you, or bitch about you to your boss if you prioritize yourself over the project every now and then.”
It’s probably just the late hour making me emotional, but my throat gets a little tight. I’ve never had a client say that before. “Promise?” I say.
“I promise,” he says, echoing my words to him at the start of the night.
So there we are. In a dark house late at night, promising to trust each other.
I smile and stand, “Ok then.” I take the stack of launch papers in front of me. “I’m going to head home, but I’m taking these with me. I’ll email your assistant to set up a time to talk once I have some location proposals.”
He scribbles a phone number on scratch paper and passes it to me, “Just text me when you think of them. I trust you. But I’m not sure I trust everyone in you
r firm with access to the email server.”
I accept the paper on reflex, “Got it.”
It’s not until I’m sitting in my car that I realize I, utterly ordinary Sienna Bridges, now have the personal cell phone number of one of the most sought after, powerful bachelors in Hollywood.
I can’t help it. I start laughing.
7
Sienna
After two weeks of Joshua shooting down my ideas via text message (and me shooting down his – the man seriously asked if it was too late to get the Hollywood Bowl) I finally have the perfect location. It makes perfect sense for the champagne launch, but it’s also romantic and grand enough for when we announce the production company.
In fact, I’m so convinced I’m right about this, that I made Joshua agree to meet me for coffee so I can tell him in person, and talk him out of any objections before he has time to grow attached to them.
I pace in front of the coffee shop where we’re meeting, my flippy sundress and white blazer matching my mood perfectly. My strappy white sandals click on the sidewalk. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the cafe window. I look good.
Not that I dressed up for Joshua. I mean I kind of did. I dress up for all my meetings with clients. But I didn’t dress up more for him. I was just in a good mood this morning.
Granted, I was in a good mood because I was going to see Joshua.
It is possible that I have developed a slight crush on the man. I smile every time my phone buzzes with a text from him. Every conversation starts off as a legitimate work question, from me or him. But it has a way of turning into “So how’s your day?” which seems to subtly slide into “Really? Tell me more” and before I know it I’m defending my favorite crappy tv show to him, and he’s defending his motorcycle collection to me.
And here’s the thing: Joshua King is funny. And encouraging. And always says the right thing. And so passionate about his own projects, that it feels like permission to be as passionate about my own.
I’m starting to get how people could fall in love over letters in ye olden days.
Not that I’m falling in love. Ha. Noooooooooooooooooooooo. No, no, no. No.
I’m just enjoying an increasingly close friendship with a man who makes me happy and was voted People’s Sexiest Man Alive.
No big deal. Nothing to see here.
I see Joshua out of the corner of my eye, and my stomach flips a little. He’s coming out of the hella expensive apartment building next to the coffee shop and he looks happier than I’ve ever seen him. He’s smiling, but it’s more than that. It’s like the smile suffuses his whole body.
“Sienna!” Joshua spots me, and suddenly I’m included in that smile. He goes in for a hug in that way that Hollywood people do, and I’m briefly wrapped in his strength and warmth and warm scent.
Ok, there definitely would have been disadvantages to falling in love over letters.
Not that I’m falling in love.
Joshua freezes. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit. This could ruin everything,” his deep voice is tense and quiet in my ear. Because we’re still hugging, I can feel the tension overtake his body. Every muscle is hard and tight, ready for action.
“What’s going on?” I say quietly in his ear.
“There’s some paparazzi behind you,” he says. “And if they notice which building I just came out of, I’m screwed. I’m so fucking screwed.”
I start to pull away so I can sneak a discreet look over my shoulder, but his arms tighten, holding me in the place, and I have a sudden insight into just how strong he is. To go to bed with someone who could overpower her that easily, a woman would have to really trust a man.
It’s a completely inappropriate thought, and when Joshua asks, “Do you trust me?” in that deep voice of his, for a second I’m worried he can read my mind. But then he says, “I have an idea to fix this. I just need to give them a bigger, better story to distract them. But I need your help.”
“Joshua…” I say.
“Just play along,” he says, before letting go of me so suddenly I teeter a little bit at the loss of his support.
A smile is still plastered over Joshua’s handsome face, but it’s not a real smile.
Suddenly I’m desperate to investigate the building he came out of. What secret is big enough it could screw over Joshua King?
He spots something past my shoulder, and his fake smile turns suddenly mischievous.
Joshua reaches out and takes my hand, angling us so that the cameras can see my hand in his. He’s staring at me with so much focus my stomach is actively doing backflips. Whatever he’s doing now is just to distract the cameras. Right?
Joshua uses our joined hands to tug me into him, and my breath catches. He leans down, and our lips are inches apart as he stares into my eyes, then down at my mouth, then back at my eyes. “Darling,” he breathes, and the way he says it sounds indecent. “I appreciate all you’ve done for this project. So I’d like to do something for you, to show my appreciation. And as a bonus, it will deeply, deeply confuse the assholes behind you with cameras. Which should be all the distraction we need.”
I don’t know what’s going on and my hormones are in overdrive, but whatever else is going on, I trust Joshua not to fuck me over. So I nod.
Joshua grins and steps back, but he doesn’t release my hand. Instead, he tugs me over to a boutique shop window a few stores down from the coffee shop. He steers us until we’re both standing in front of the shop window.
“Go ahead,” Joshua says. “Pick anything you want.”
At first, I think he’s joking. It’s a jewelry store, and everything in there is easily worth three months of my salary. There’s one necklace that’s just ropes of delicate pearls and diamonds that would hang down to a woman’s waist.
A camera flashes behind me and my instinct is to turn, but Joshua’s hand tightens, holding me in place. There’s that strength of his again.
Another camera flashes, and it catches the jewelry in the center of the case, which is visible between our bodies to anyone standing behind us.
It’s a row of rings. Big, huge, gorgeous rings.
And that’s when I figure out what the bigger, better story is that Joshua is feeding the paparazzi.
He’s making it look like he and I are ring-shopping. Which implies we’re thinking of getting engaged. Which implies we’re dating. More than dating.
Joshua is solving his problems by telling the whole world I’m having an affair with him, the man who hired me.
I try to tug my hand away, but his grip is strong.
“You bastard,” I hiss.
“Please,” Joshua begs. “Play along. I’ll buy you anything in this store you want.”
I feel like I’ve been slapped. Does he think my professional reputation is for sale? And so cheaply?
I should slap him. I should turn to the cameras and tell them exactly what’s going on.
But he’s desperate to keep this secret of his. And I don’t actually want to destroy his life. And even if I told the truth, half the world wouldn’t believe me. For better or worse, the damage is done.
“Come on,” Joshua says, his voice coaxing. “Anything here is yours.”
“Did we give them enough material?” I ask, my voice dead.
“Oh yeah, definitely,” Joshua says, and I can tell he’s finally relaxed. And why shouldn’t he? The danger to him is passed.
The asshole.
Joshua is still talking, “Don’t worry about them anymore. Let’s go pick out what you want–”
“I want to go home,” I say. And Joshua finally looks at me.
“Ok,” he says, uncertainly, like he knows he’s fucked up but isn’t sure how. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
I’m about to argue, but the paparazzi are getting bolder. A camera flashes, closer to me. Then another.
“Josh, is she the one?”
“Did she say yes?”
“When’s the big day?”
“Hey,
lady, what’s it feel like to be the most successful gold-digger in Hollywood?”
Joshua growls and puts himself between them and me. “Back. Off,” he says, and I don’t know how he does it, but they actually do.
They’re still taking photos as we walk away, but no one’s calling me an opportunistic slut, so I guess there’s that.
When we get to my car he opens the door for me like a gentleman.
As if that little bit of gallantry is going to make me forget whose fault this all is.
I get in, eager to close the door and shut the world out.
“Wait!” Joshua says. “Aren’t you going to tell me your big idea for the launch?”
I hesitate. That would definitely be the professional thing to do.
But I don’t feel like extending professional courtesy to him when he has so spectacularly failed to return the favor.
“I’ll text you,” I say, and my tone is biting, even to my own ears. “We work better over text.”
I slam the door and drive away. Joshua King just fucked me over.
8
Joshua
“So,” Darian says over the phone. “Did she say yes?”
For a second I think he’s talking about Sienna, and my fake-ass marriage proposal. I get that Sienna’s pissed at me – she’s a private person – but she was going to be in those pictures no matter what. All I did was shape the narrative, so I wouldn’t alienate one of the biggest names in Hollywood, and lose the chance of getting her in my movie.
Which brings me back to the topic at hand.
“Yes,” I say, as I finish making my sandwich. “Well, sort of. She wants to read the script again. And she wants documented proof that every woman on the project is getting paid the same as their male equivalents. And if any of this leaks to the press before she makes up her mind she says she’ll assume we’re trying to pressure her and withdraw from the project because, and I quote, ‘I don’t work with sniveling wimps.’”
