by Max Monroe
“I’ll take it into consideration,” I return with a shrug. “What does tomorrow look like?”
“Up by six for a few radio interviews in the morning. Then you’ll need to be at the studio for the first round of fittings for Grass Roots at ten. A photo shoot at two, and a dinner meeting with Gus Coolman at six to discuss the movie he’s wanting you to do next year.”
I nod and pop a piece of banana into my mouth. “And after the dinner meeting?”
“Nothing,” Blake responds, though he quickly adds, “But your Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday look pretty much the same, so you’re going to have to rein it in this week and try to look like a professional. No parties, no bar nights, no last-minute trips to Vegas.”
I sneak off to Vegas one fucking time, six months ago, go for a swim in the fountain at the Bellagio, and wake up covered in neon paint, and still, he won’t stop busting my balls about it. Geez. It’s not like I fucked a llama or something.
“Like this bastard can rein anything in,” Damien says through a laugh. “We should just be thankful he was the only one sleeping in his bed this morning.”
I shrug. He’s not exactly off base there—though it does seem he’s forgotten his sense of self-preservation. I’m a man who loves women, and I don’t think there’s a single judge in the country who wouldn’t lock me up for perjury if I tried to testify different.
“So, I take it casting for Grass Roots is finalized?” I question. “Birdie Harris has officially signed on?”
I was there for the audition about a week and a half ago, but William Capo rudely suggested I leave before they brought Birdie back in for the official business. I can’t see anyone in their right mind turning down a part like Arizona Lee, but I didn’t expect Birdie to slap me either. Who the fuck knows what she decided to do.
“Yep,” Damien confirms. A zing of excitement runs through my body. More time with the firecracker.
“By the way,” Liza inserts, “they’re looking to get the ball rolling on that movie soon. They’re going to confirm the shooting schedule in the next day or two, but from what I already know, you’ll be on location in LA first, then Memphis.”
Fan-fucking-tastic.
“Get something lined up with her for me soon,” I state, and Blake tilts his head to the side.
“With whom?”
“Birdie Harris. I’d like to spend a little time with her, lay down a good foundation, before we start filming.”
Both Damien and Blake look at each other skeptically.
“What?” I ask, and my assistant’s skepticism turns into outright laughter.
“Lay down a good foundation?” he asks obnoxiously. “Surely, you don’t think we were born yesterday.”
“I think you work for me,” I respond. “And when I tell you I want you to do something, you should probably fucking do it.”
“Uh oh,” Blake responds, the glow of amusement still dewy on his skin. “Someone’s getting fired up…”
“Or maybe someone’s getting fired…” I challenge, but Blake is unaffected. He’s worked for me for too long.
“As if you could live without me,” he claps back. “But in the name of keeping things simple, I’ll get something set up with Miss Birdie Harris so you can, how did you put it? Lay down a good foundation?” His voice drips with sarcasm, but I don’t give a shit. At least he’s doing my bidding.
“That’s more like it,” I say with a victorious smile and stand up from my seat. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to fit in a workout. Feel free to see yourselves out.”
“But we haven’t gone over—” Liza starts to say, but I quickly cut her off.
“Surely, we need something to discuss for next week.”
“God, you’re impossible.” Liza sighs. “Tell me you’ve at least read the scripts I sent you.”
“I have, and out of ten damn scripts, there’s only one that’s a possibility,” I answer swiftly. “Don’t you think it would be a good idea if you got a little pickier with the scripts you choose to send me?”
She ignores my question completely. “Which one did you like?”
“I’ll tell you next week,” I deflect, and then I head out of the kitchen, down the hall, and far away from the Hollywood peanut gallery in my kitchen.
But just before I step into the workout room at the back of the house, a lingering shred of Blake’s voice carries down the hall. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, Amy, but I have a feeling you’re going to have your publicist work cut out for you with this movie.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time Andrew has gotten involved with a costar,” she responds without hesitation.
Me getting involved with Birdie Harris? Fuck, I wouldn’t have any complaints about that.
Luca might, but shit, I’ve dealt with him before. Just the thought of her tight little body and hot-as-hell attitude wrapped around me while we fuck is enough to make me feel like risking Luca’s wrath wouldn’t be so bad. All he said was to be nice. And it goes without saying that my cock is the utmost gentleman—always putting a woman’s pleasure before his own.
I smirk to myself and head inside the large room, hopping on the treadmill first to warm up my muscles.
A few minutes into my warm-up, I snag my cell phone out of the cupholder of the treadmill, ignore the numerous missed calls and text notifications and emails, and shoot off a quick message to the one person who can help give me the lay of Birdie land.
Obviously, I’ll need to keep my motives to myself, but that’s easy enough.
Me: You owe me dinner, fucker. Free this weekend?
His response chimes in a minute later.
Luca: I don’t owe you shit, but I can probably swing dinner Saturday.
Per-fucking-fection.
Me: Meet me at Tao around 8.
I switch up the speed on the treadmill, moving out of warm-up mode to a full-on run, and sprint like Birdie Harris is a couple miles away, waiting with her ass in the air at the other end.
Birdie
If Vegas were going to make a show about our lives, they’d call it Cirque du So-Hey-This-Is-Hollywood.
One good thing about moving to LA temporarily while filming Grass Roots is that Billie and I have finally managed to carve out some sisterly time. After years of busy schedules and quick visits, it feels like a gift to be around to spend this most special period in her life together.
She’s pregnant! With my little niece or nephew! And she’s engaged to one of our biggest childhood crushes.
When we were little girls, giggling about guys and life and babies one day, I don’t think either one of us had this in mind.
My sister peruses the racks of dresses, and I glance over my shoulder and toward the front doors of Grace, the cute boutique bridal shop on Melrose, and spot her two burly security men manning the entrance.
Cameras flash outside the large glass windows as paparazzi try their best to get a shot of my sister trying on a dress in the closed shop, but remarkably, Billie seems unfazed, browsing through the racks of dresses and occasionally answering the bridal shop staff’s questions about what type of dress she’s looking for—something beautiful but classic, with lace and a mermaid fit to show off her little booty—with little to no regard for the circus outside.
Even at nearly six months along into her pregnancy, my sister only has an adorable little belly to prove she’s carrying a baby inside her. She’s so svelte, in fact, my spidey sense tells me that every woman she comes into contact with is plotting her murder.
Most women loathe the idea of trying on any clothing while pregnant, but Billie already has a wedding date set—seven months after the baby is born—and the strict wedding timeline she’s all but chiseled into stone is all related to her budding career as a Hollywood producer. She’s worked her ass off, and nothing is going to make her lose any ground.
That means today is wedding dress day—pregnant belly, rioting hormones, and indigestion or not.
I just hope she’s n
ot being too hard on herself. I have to believe Luca would step in and tell her to take a breath if she were, but I also know he thinks she’s got a ladder long enough to hang the moon and the stars. What she wants, he moves mountains to give her.
I smile when a woman named Colleen with three bridal gowns hung over her arm practically trips herself while helping Billie into a dressing room but doesn’t even pause. Billie is the star today, and everyone in Grace is committed to making sure she knows it.
“Here goes nothing.” My sister flashes an excited grin in my direction before she closes the curtain.
Thrown into sudden silence, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever be the woman on the other side of the curtain—if I’ll ever have a man who buys me flowers for no reason, sneaks cute pictures of me just to store them in his phone, or brings me coffee in the morning without being asked.
I roll my eyes at myself and sit down in a pale-pink satin chair right outside Billie’s dressing room. My sister’s happiness is pervasive, obviously, and seems so good in the abstract. But the reality of my situation is that I don’t have time for anything remotely close to love right now.
One day? Maybe? I don’t know. If it meant that much to me, I would think I would have pursued it more.
Either way, it doesn’t matter.
Right now, I’m too busy with music and tours and movies—hello!—to settle down with anyone, much less get married and pop out a couple kids.
I can handle a short little fling here and there, but a committed relationship just isn’t in the cards.
It also wasn’t in the cards for Billie, but look at her now…
I run a hand through my long blond locks and shut off my brain before it gets out of hand.
Thankfully, right on cue, my sister steps out of the dressing room in her first wedding dress. Bodiced in lace and satin, the mermaid-cut dress hugs her curves in all the right places—even her cute preggo belly. Not even a shotgun wedding would make my sister any less stunning.
Tears prick my eyes before I can stop them.
“Billie,” I say in a shaky voice and lift my hand to swipe away one lone tear escaping down my cheek. “I’m speechless.”
“You like it?” she asks, stepping up onto the platform and staring at herself in the mirrors.
“I more than like it. I love it.”
She meets my eyes in the reflection and notes another tear that slips down my cheek.
“Oh God, don’t cry,” she says with wide eyes. “Once you start, then I start, and then we end up a blubbering mess. Lord knows, all these pregnancy hormones rolling around in my body hold the power to ignite a three-hour sob fest, and my tears seem extra salty lately. I don’t want to pay the dry-cleaning bill for dresses I don’t even own!”
“Too late for that.” I laugh through my tears and stand up to close the distance between us.
“Is it okay?” she asks, running her fingers down the sides of the material. “I mean, it’s not exactly optimal to be trying on wedding dresses when you’re pregnant.”
“Shut up,” I chide. “You’re like a pregnancy freak of nature, all boobs and belly. It’s annoying. I should slap you on behalf of all pregnant women.”
She snorts. “No, no. You just save your slaps for the movie, sis.”
I shove her shoulder, and she laughs. Clearly, she’s never going to let me live down the details of my audition now that I’ve shared them with her.
“You know, Momma looked exactly like this when she was pregnant with us, so it’s genetic. You’ll probably be exactly like me when you get knocked up.”
I roll my eyes. “When I get knocked up?” I shake my head through a bark of laughter. “When exactly are we expecting the immaculate conception to occur?”
“Shut up. You’re going to meet someone. Soon. I can feel it.”
“Pretty sure the money from Granny’s winning lotto ticket is going to end up being my future niece or nephew’s trust fund.”
Granny had a thing about our family and luck. She was adamant that if you’re a Harris, you’re either flat on your ass or you’re the luckiest son of a bitch in town, so when she actually won on a lottery ticket she bought from the Stop N’Go, she kept it a secret—for fifteen freaking years.
Twenty-four hours before she took her last breath, she finally told Billie and me about the winning ticket. She’d put the money in the bank and hadn’t touched a single penny—said she’d already lived a good, long life and wanted to leave the luck for us.
Our granny was the one who raised us after our parents died, and there is no doubt she is still the strongest, most courageous, most interesting woman I’ve ever known. Now that I don’t need the money to survive, I can’t think of a better way to honor her than to pass down the money she so carefully saved for us to the next generation.
Billie meets my eyes in the reflection of the mirror. “What’s that supposed to mean? You don’t think you’re ever going to settle down?”
I shrug. “I’m not a psychic, sis. I don’t know what the future holds.”
“My point exactly,” she tosses back with a hand to her hip. “So, stop talking like you’re never going to settle down with anyone and have kids.”
A sarcastic retort about lawsuits being the only good time to settle sits on the tip of my tongue, but I know this conversation isn’t going anywhere other than an argument. Given the situation, I choose to swallow it down and focus on not ruining the moment—Billie in her wedding dress.
“This is the dress,” I say, and a soft, genuine smile consumes my face. “God, I wish Momma could see how beautiful you look right now.”
Instantly, a sheen of tears coats her eyes. She bites down on her bottom lip and nods. “Me too.”
Without hesitation, I close the distance between us and pull her into my arms for a hug. “This is the one, sis. The dress.”
“But it’s the first dress I’ve tried on!” she exclaims, and my shoulders jump up in a little smart-aleck, so-what-style shrug.
“Birdie.” She purses her lips and stomps a cute, defiant foot. “Seriously. I need to at least try on the other two before I go all in with this one.”
“Suit yourself,” I say and head back to my seat at the bottom of the platform. “You can try on a hundred more for all I care, but you better end up wearing this one at your wedding.”
She rolls her eyes and heads back toward the dressing room. “Just keep an open mind, okay?” she asks just before stepping behind the white curtain. “I know you love this one and I also know you can be stubborn as a damn bull, but actually look at other ones too, okay?”
“You got it,” I say and add a little nod for reassurance.
Truthfully, though, I don’t need an open mind. I know that no other dress is going to compare to that one.
While I wait for her to try on a dress that’s not going to matter, I scroll through emails on my phone.
One from my manager Neil about the shooting schedule for Grass Roots.
One from my agent Marnie with my publicist Candy cc’d about an endorsement deal with a makeup company.
And three from my assistant Samantha that revolve around my schedule in Nashville when I get back.
But before I even get a chance to respond to any of them, my sister’s voice claws through the curtain with desperation.
“Birdie!” she whisper-yells. “Birdie!”
“What?” I ask, my voice at normal volume.
“Just come over here. But be quiet,” she continues to whisper as she peeks her head out from behind the curtain. “Don’t let Colleen see you coming over here.”
I narrow my eyes and move closer to her. “What are you doing that Colleen can’t see? Are you planning a bridal heist?”
Instead of answering, she grabs me by the wrist and yanks me inside the dressing room. My phone falls from my hand and onto the lush carpeted floor. “What the hell?” I question, but when I take in her current state, a laugh jumps from my throat. “Oh my God, Billie!”
>
“Shut up!” she whisper-yells again. “Just shut up and help me get out of this dress.”
“Help you get out of the dress?” I question, another soft laugh jumping from my lips. “Honey, I think we’re going to need a doctor to surgically remove you from this thing.”
What should be a wedding dress, with a gorgeous display of complicated straps moving from the top of her ass all the way up her back, has become some kind of torture device that’s strangling her boobs and neck. If she’s going for a BDSM-themed wedding, I think she’s found a winner.
“Did you put this thing on backward?”
“I don’t know what I did!” she exclaims in her library-quiet voice. “But I’m freaking stuck in this thing, and I can’t get out!”
“Where is the zipper?”
“I don’t know! I never found one!”
Laughter bursts from my lips. I can’t help it.
“Stop laughing, you asshole, and help me!” she half-shouts.
“I can’t help it. You look ridiculous. Don’t tell me details, just shake your head yes or no. Does Luca go by Master Luca when you guys are boning?”
She glares—hard. “Your commentary is really helpful right now.”
“How are you doing in there, Billie?” Colleen asks from the other side of the curtain, and Billie’s eyes go wide.
“Great!” she exclaims, her voice all weird and strangled. Probably from the straps. “Just great!”
“Do you need any help with the zipper?”
“Don’t come in here!” she shouts and then realizes how insane she sounds. “I mean, I don’t need any help. My sister is in here with me.”
“Oh, okay,” Colleen responds, but even I can tell she’s a little skeptical. “Just let me know if you need anything.”
“Maybe you should ask her for some scissors,” I whisper, but Colleen is quick on the trigger.
“What was that?”
Shit!
Billie slaps me hard on the arm, and I laugh.
“Ow, shit,” I mutter.