by Max Monroe
Andrew
Fantastic legs make me a weak man—and they always but always get me in trouble.
Fuck me. Birdie Harris and her gorgeous legs are definitely going to get me in trouble.
Now, I remember who she is.
Now, Luca’s text about being nice to his sister-in-law is ringing all sorts of bells—alarm bells, to be specific—and all the details of today’s meeting that Howie was rambling on about the other day come rushing back.
Howie has a penchant for rambling, and I can only find the strength to listen to about half of what he says, but this, I actually do remember.
“Birdie Harris is my Arizona Lee,” he’d said. “She’ll make Grass Roots what it needs to be, so don’t be a prick at her audition.”
I’d argued, of course, that I’m never a prick, but the words sounded hollow even to my own ears. I am an instigator—a pusher of buttons—and I love playing with sexy women the most.
“Make her feel comfortable, for fuck’s sake, so she can show William Capo and Serena why I’m so sure about her.”
Yikes. Making her comfortable has not exactly been my goal up until now.
But it’s not entirely my fault. Her little dress with ruffles and lace—showing the most delectable view of long, svelte legs—and perfectly worn cowgirl boots are designed to provoke the opposite behavior from me. Women like to call me a god during sex, but I’m only a man. I only have so much control.
Sure, I may have misjudged the reason for her nervousness a teensy bit, but fuck, the number of times I get asked for autographs and selfies on a daily basis is downright mind-blowing. I was just assuming I was making it easier on her by cutting to the chase.
“Birdie Harris,” I test out her name on my lips, and her sexy brown eyes narrow. The expression on her face strikes a chord in my memory bank—a music video I saw on the Top 20 Countdown on TV the other day. “You sing that song that’s on the radio all the time…the one about writing a love letter to your ex-boyfriends… What’s it called?” I ask. She’s so popular in country music right now, her songs are played on all the pop stations. People have said she’s like mixing Dolly Parton and Taylor Swift to form some uber-successful female musician.
Her scowl doesn’t soften, and my dick takes notice. Goddamn, but he loves a challenge.
“‘Dear Fool,’” she answers, her lush, pink lips still cast in a firm line.
I’m absolutely enthralled by how full they manage to look even though they’re set. I bet they’d be a sight to see wrapped around something else.
“That’s right.” I nod and grin as I recall a few of the lyrics.
I’ll leave my cut in his tires and his heart. I should have picked his best friend right from the start.
“Sucks for the bastard who inspired it, but it’s a great song.”
“Thanks, I guess,” she says, but her voice is anything but thankful. “And who are you?”
Who am I?
Ha. That’s cute.
I might have gauged the reason for her nervousness wrong, but the familiar recognition I see in everyone’s eyes when I meet them was undeniable in hers. She knows who I am, but I have to hand it to her, she’s clever when she’s angry.
A little fucking firecracker.
“Andrew Watson,” I answer, unfazed.
“Oh, okay,” she says with a sly nod. “Are you here to audition, too?”
Shit, she’s good. Flipping the script on your opponent? That’s a move right out of my own playbook. I sink my teeth into my lip to keep my cheek in check. This isn’t helping my struggle to behave myself. If anything, I’m desperate to see how well she’ll play this game if I really egg her on.
“I’m the male lead for Grass Roots. We’re supposed to do the scene together shortly.”
“Oh, gotcha.” She nods. “That’s probably why your name sounded familiar. My assistant must have mentioned your name at some point.”
Ha. It’s almost unfair how tempting she is for a guy like me. I swear to God, if Luca wouldn’t build a replica of Shawshank State Penitentiary, pay off the judge, jury, and prosecutor to wrongly convict me, and personally select the prisoners I’d do my time with, I’d already be talking my way under her dress.
“Is this your first audition?” I ask her carefully.
Defiant chin lifted ever so slightly, she meets my eyes head on and holds them. “Yep.”
Man, things would be so much easier if I were better at behaving myself. As it is, I can’t help but fuck with her a little more.
“Wow. Takes big balls to audition for a Hollywood legend like William Capo without any experience.”
She swallows hard, but her eyes narrow farther. She’s pissed. And really fucking gorgeous.
Looks like I’ve struck a nerve…
“I’m impressed you’re willing to put yourself out there like that. Good for you, I guess.”
Her high cheeks redden slightly, and I can tell that some kind of sassy comeback sits on the tip of her tongue, but Mr. Capo’s assistant calls our attention before Birdie can open her mouth to respond.
“Mr. Watson, Ms. Harris, they’re ready for you.”
“Oh…okay.” Birdie starts to fidget with her sundress again, and it’s more than obvious that my jabs are long forgotten. Her nerves are back in full effect. She’s still beautiful, but I miss the bite of her anger.
I’m not even sure it’s a conscious decision when I provoke her again.
“Fantastic.” I kick my feet down to the floor and rise to standing. Birdie looks up at me, and I smear a grin across my lips. “You sure you’re ready for this, sweetheart? I’m sure they’ll understand if you’re too scared to go in there.”
Instantly, her fidgeting fingers screech to a halt, and she makes the climb to standing so gracefully it feels like slow motion. I watch every goddamn fraction of an inch intently.
Her glare is so hot, sparks crackle in the brown of her eyes like embers—and it’s directed right at me. “I was born ready.”
My cock twitches beneath my zipper, and excitement catches in my throat.
Me too, little firecracker. Me fucking too.
Birdie
Rocky was right; this guy needs a big-ass pair of boots—right to the face.
We’ve spent all of five minutes together, and already, I don’t like him.
Scratch that. I’m pretty sure I hate him.
And now, I have to go in there and show everyone in the room that Mr. Fucking Ego and I have the kind of on-screen chemistry that leads to a baby boom nine months after release day.
Holy freaking harmonicas and a violin.
My nerves sashay their way back to the front of the stage, and I have to swallow past the ball in my throat just to get enough air to stay alive. Forget getting enough oxygen to maintain brain function—I’m fucking coding right now. I hope Capo Brothers has a medical show with a crash cart on set nearby.
My eyelids start to flutter—a sure sign that I am within seconds of hitting the floor and going night-night—when Andrew stops at the door to the room, looks over his shoulder, and smirks, just one pointed eyebrow raised.
Thoughts of swiftly introducing his nut sac to my favorite cowgirl boots flood my synapses, revving up their engines and clearing the obstruction in my throat. I smile to myself. God, what a glorious moment that would be.
I probably shouldn’t be this happy about kicking someone in the crotch, but hell’s bells, the thought of using Andrew Watson’s balls as a bull’s-eye makes me giddy.
It also, strangely, makes me feel like I have the strength not only to live another day, but to take on this audition without worrying about the results. I’m going to go into that room and show them what I’ve got—whatever decision they come to doesn’t matter right now.
I will my feet to move across the hall, toward the massive glass doors leading into an expansive office that overlooks downtown LA.
Two men and two women wait for us behind a table, their bodies backlit by the Calif
ornia sunshine.
Everyone in the room is dressed like they belong here—a modern mishmash of high-end designer suits and ties and heels—and they all look like their schedule is so detailed they have to make appointments for bathroom breaks.
Everyone but Mr. Ego and me, that is. He strolls in behind me like he has all the time in the world after waiting in the hall for me to pass. Like everyone in the room is on his schedule.
“Birdie Harris,” an older man with pepper-gray hair greets me, standing from his seat at the table with an outstretched hand. I jump forward quickly to take it. His shake is firm without being overbearing. “William Capo. It’s a pleasure. I’m a big fan.”
I have a feeling he says that to everyone, but it still feels exceedingly nice that he’d take the time to say it, regardless. As the owner of the studio, he’s a big freaking deal. His wealth makes mine look like a penny fountain. “Thank you. It’s great to finally meet you.”
After shaking his hand, I move down the line to say hello to everyone else. I’ve already had the opportunity to meet them over the past few months, and they’ve all been nothing but friendly. It feels a little different now, though. In a sense, they’re all judging me.
Howie King’s smile is bright, Serena Koontz, Billie’s boss and the producer, nods encouragingly, and Nell Franz, the casting director, has friendly eyes. But I don’t think any of them will really look like anything other than snakes in the grass to me until this whole process is over.
“Did you and Andrew have a chance to get acquainted a little bit in the lobby?” Mr. Capo asks.
“Sure did,” Andrew answers before I can. “Birdie’s a pleasure.”
My eyes narrow. I have to wrestle my tongue like a pig in the mud to keep myself from commenting on my first impression of Mr. Big Ego.
“Likewise,” I say instead. “A unique pleasure.”
Andrew Watson smiles so big his mouth could be used as an actual light source in this office, and the results are undeniable.
Ugh. It’s annoying how freaking good-looking he is. Seriously, it has to be a sin to be that big of a prick and that insanely attractive at the same time.
Moses himself should’ve chiseled it down as the eleventh commandment. Thou shalt not egregiously exploit good genes. Or at the very least, ole George Washington and the rest of the Founding Fathers should’ve considered making it an amendment. The right of the people to be happy and devoid of rage shall not be violated by dealing with the egotistical and narcissistic presence of a man who is deemed far too good-looking in one’s eyes. A man like that is hereby regarded as unconstitutional—aka fucking illegal—in the eyes of the law.
Or, you know, something close to that.
When I realize everyone in the room is staring at me while I mentally rewrite the Constitution, I clear my throat. “I can’t wait to read the scene together,” I add.
“Thank you for adjusting your schedule twice now to fit in this audition, Birdie,” Howie King replies. “We really appreciate your flexibility.”
“No problem.” I wave him off with a nonchalant hand. “I’m honored to be here.”
Because I am. Nerves and near-puking aside, I’m flattered I’m even being considered for a role in a movie of this magnitude.
“Since I last talked to you, you won a Grammy,” Serena says with a kind smile. “Congratulations on all the success. It’s much deserved.”
The genuineness in her voice makes me smile. “Thank you so much.”
“And what about me?” Andrew interjects, his eyes shining with amusement. “I had to shift my schedule around to be here. Where is my thank-you?”
“The first shift we had to make was because of your schedule,” Howie remarks on a laugh. “And I’m pretty sure you having to switch around a session with your personal trainer today doesn’t count.”
“Oh, but I’m sure you’d be pissed if I stopped those training sessions and let this gorgeous body of mine go to shit.”
“I think we all know you’re too vain for that, buddy.”
“It’s not vanity, How. It’s consideration. I’m just giving the people what they want.” Andrew grins, shrugs, and slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
Wow. This guy. He’s something else.
Make a pile of the worst qualities of all of my ex-boyfriends, set them on fire, and “Transformer” that shit, and I’m pretty sure you’d have Andrew Watson.
Everyone sits back down, and William gestures for Andrew and me to take a seat on the leather sofa behind us.
Andrew finds his spot first, and then, a smirk in place, holds out a hand to help me into my own. Breaking his fingers seems a little too violent for the other people in the room, so I settle for imagining it, a smile of my own tipping up the corners of my mouth significantly.
I’m not sure why, but it seems like Andrew knows exactly what I’m thinking—and he likes it. A shiver runs the entire line of my spine and down my arms, igniting a tingle in the fingers of my hand against his.
He bites his lip, and uninvited, my nipples peak under the lace of my bra.
Soft vanilla and hints of something I can’t quite pinpoint, he smells as good as he looks. An ache so substantial takes hold of my inner thighs, I’m convinced I have a charley horse.
Why, God? Why would you let this awful man have all the good stuff?
“Let’s get started,” Mr. Capo announces, snapping me out of my trippy, arousal-fueled lapse in consciousness. I nod as Nell hands me a script and gestures that I should stand.
Andrew offers a hand again, but this time, I avoid it like the plague. I don’t need that kind of sorcery in my life again.
His grin is knowing, and a redheaded beast of a woman comes to life inside me.
Granny always said I was even-keeled until something pissed me off—my Birdie girl is sweet as strawberry pie, but Lord Almighty, when she gets angry, she’s got a temper like a hot tamale—and I have to admit the sentiment feels entirely too accurate right now.
Relax, I coach myself. Just focus. And whatever you do, contain your fucking anger.
Andrew
If this little Birdie had wings, she’d fly straight out the damn window.
Her eyes scan over the script in her hand, and the more she reads, the more her face morphs from annoyed—with me—to uncertain. And I don’t miss the way her teeth nervously worry her full bottom lip.
Her audition has officially started, and the entire room is quiet as they wait for Birdie to acquaint herself with a scene from Grass Roots. It’s one involving an argument that leads to what should be a hot, passionate kiss between Cal Loggins and Arizona Lee.
But with the way she’s standing there looking like a deer in headlights, I’m thinking the kiss will end up being more awkward and bumbling than anything else.
Since I’ve known about this script since the day Howie started writing it, I’m pretty familiar with every scene inside the damn thing. Hell, I could probably run through all my character’s lines in my sleep.
But Birdie is new to all this, and it’s more than apparent everyone in this room wants her to feel as comfortable as possible. Which, to be honest, is a rarity in this business.
Normal Hollywood auditions are cold, calculated, and critical.
Most casting directors would’ve kicked her out of the room by now.
But not this room, not this crowd. Everyone waits patiently while Birdie reads through the script.
And I do mean everyone—even me. If I weren’t so entertained by her long, sexy legs and full, pouty lips, I might be annoyed.
Somehow, though, with her, right now, it just seems endearing.
“So…” Birdie looks up with those big brown eyes of hers, all the fire in them from earlier extinguished to ash. “Are we doing the whole scene or just part of it…?”
“Whatever feels comfortable,” Nell Franz answers. “It’s okay if it takes a few tries or if you improvise the dialogue as you go,” she adds. “We just want to see wha
t the two of you look like together as Arizona and Cal.”
“Okay.” Birdie nods, but her emotion is far less confident. Her gaze moves back down to the script, and she fidgets with the hem of her dress.
She’s anxious. That’s more than obvious. Left unchecked, she might fidget holes into the marble floor with those sexy cowgirl boots of hers.
I take it upon myself to get her out of her head and into the film—surely, with the beginning of this scene starting with a fight, she could use a little push in the anger department.
Leaning forward and grabbing the top of her script with strong fingers, I bring her eyes up to meet mine—and the flame back to the center of them. “Any day now would be great. Ole Willy Capo over there doesn’t exactly have all the time in the world, you know?” I say softly, just loud enough for her to hear.
Her whole body smolders, but she’s still not engaged. The script is an accessory to our argument right now, and it needs to be the center of it.
“Do you need more time, Birdie?” I ask loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear this time. “Or do you think you’re finally ready?”
Between one blink of her long lashes and the next, her face transforms—from sweet Birdie Harris right to Arizona Lee.
“Yep,” she responds, that one word rolling off her tongue like the crack of a whip. “I’m ready.” She punctuates that statement with a flip of her long, wavy blond locks over her shoulder and a narrowing of her beautiful, angry-as-fuck eyes.
Oh, yes please.
God, I don’t think I’ve been this excited to dive into an audition since I was a twenty-year-old nobody trying to break into the business.
I start the scene, tossing myself into Cal Loggins’s world and letting his character take over my mind and emotions. “Darlin’,” I say and shake my head. “I think you’re missing the point.”
“And what point is that, Cal?” she responds, her voice wavering ever so slightly with leftover nerves. She swallows against them, squashing them down to nothingness like a roller on pavement, glances at the script in her hands one last time, and continues, “Please…tell me what I’m missing here. That you’re an asshole? Is that what I’m missing? I know you know this business better than I do, but I’ll be damned if you’re going to tell me how to live my life. It’s none of your business who I see or talk to. You don’t get a say in that.”