by Max Monroe
“Everything okay in there?” Colleen asks, her ears no doubt perking like those of a dog.
Billie glares at me, then she clears her throat. “Everything is peachy keen jelly bean.”
Peachy keen jelly bean? Holy hell. I have to put my hand over my mouth to fight the cackles that want to bubble up from my throat.
And Billie slaps me three more times on the arm. “Dear God,” I mutter quietly. “I thought I was going wedding dress shopping, not entering the ring at fight night. That’s gonna bruise.”
Billie hits me again in response before raising her voice to talk through the curtain again. “Everything is great, Colleen, but we’ll let you know if we need anything.”
“Oh, okay,” Colleen says, clearly worried about what we’re doing in here. Which she probably should be.
Billie points an index finger in my face, a silent, angry gesture of “Don’t say a fucking word until she is gone.”
I grin. But I also stay quiet as my sister awkwardly leans over to watch for Colleen’s nude pumps to move away from her dressing room.
Once the coast is apparently clear, she sighs. “Okay. Now stop being such a dick and help me.”
Knowing my sister well enough to understand how close to the brink of a breakdown she is, I inspect the maze of straps with my fingers and search for an escape route. “You know,” I say when I spot the zipper she should’ve used in the first place. “I don’t want to be the one to say I told you so, but if you would’ve listened to me, you would already be buying the first dress, instead of trapped inside this one.”
Billie glares at me over her shoulder. “Just get me out of this.”
I grin and undo the zipper. “You got it.”
Instantly, the torture device is loosened, and Billie breathes out a huge sigh of relief.
“Oh, thank everything. I can breathe again.” She shrugs herself out of the dress. “I swear to God, I thought I was going to die in that thing.” She rubs one hand over her belly. “I’m so sorry, little baby.”
Before I can offer up another sarcastic comment, my phone chimes from its forgotten spot on the carpet. I pick it up to find a message from my assistant.
Samantha: I just spoke with Andrew Watson’s assistant, and they would like to set up a dinner meeting for the two of you.
“What? Why?”
Billie’s curious eyes jump to mine at my unexpected verbal outburst.
“What’s going on?”
“Everything still okay in there?” Colleen’s voice is back outside the dressing room door.
Jesus Christ, Colleen. Chill out over there. Your dresses are fine. I’m dealing with another crisis right now.
“We’re still good!” Billie replies to the bodiless feet. Thanks to the curtain, Colleen seems like the very opposite of a floating head.
As Colleen retreats again, Billie turns her attention back to me. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing,” I answer, still staring down at the message on my phone. “It’s no big deal,” I lie.
It is a big deal.
In a few short weeks, I’m going to be filming a movie with Hollywood’s hottest douchecanoe. Every day, for several weeks, I’m going to have work side by side with Andrew fuckface Watson, and I was really counting on making sure I didn’t see him again before then—no need to prolong the length of my suffering.
“What does that text message say?” Billie asks, wiggling her body against the side of mine in an attempt to see the screen.
“Like I said, it’s nothing.” I offer a nonchalant shrug.
“Tell me what it says, sis. I don’t want to have to schedule my at-home water birth for your place of residence.”
My eyes narrow. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, I would. I’ll inflate that kiddie pool right in your living room.”
I roll my eyes and groan. “You suck, you know that?”
Billie just raises her eyebrows, and I sigh. “Andrew Watson wants to set up a lunch or dinner meeting with me.”
“Oh,” she says, waving a hand in front of her face that very clearly says she thinks I’m being overly dramatic. “Maybe he just wants to get to know you a little more before you guys start shooting for the movie?” She shrugs and starts putting her clothes back on. In the name of preventing another hostage situation, I don’t bother mentioning to her that there’s still one more dress to try on. “I mean, it’s not all that abnormal for the two leads in a movie to try to establish some kind of amicable working relationship.”
Amicable? I’m pretty sure amicable is not in the cards for Andrew and me. All we do when we get together is amica-boom like dynamite.
“Trust me, I got to know him enough at that fucking audition.”
“Birdie,” Billie says through a laugh. “I get that he’s a dick, but he’s also your costar. You can’t toss his body on a raft and send him upriver for a Viking funeral.”
The night after my audition a week and a half ago, my sister got more than an earful about our encounter. But clearly, she wasn’t paying enough attention. Andrew Watson is exactly the kind of guy you set on fire and send out to sea.
“Yeah, but costar or not, it doesn’t mean I have to be friends with the guy.”
“No, it doesn’t, but you should at least be friend-ly with him,” she replies. “I mean, you’re going to see him every day for the foreseeable future.”
I sigh. Son of a buttered biscuit.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think you have to bite the bullet and agree to that meeting.” Billie grins and finishes shrugging her clothes back on. “And may I suggest you attempt to fit the meeting in before you have to go back to Nashville for a few weeks?”
I stick out my tongue to let her know what I think of her suggestion. She just laughs.
Ugh. Fine. I need to be professional about this. Whether I like or not, I need to suck it up and get used to spending time with Andrew Watson that doesn’t become violent.
God help me.
Andrew
Most women love me, but as luck would have it, Birdie Harris isn’t most women.
The engine of my Audi R8 slows to a gentle purr as I pull up to the valet stand in front of Tao, and in the newfound quiet, my phone pings with a text message.
I grab it from the center console and hit the button to kill the engine before the door swings open from the outside. I grab it and pull it closed when cameras start to flash. The valet gets the message and waits for me outside the door.
Quickly, I click into the message from Blake and read through its contents. A grin takes over my face.
Blake: Birdie Harris has agreed to a 45-minute lunch with you tomorrow.
Not only did she outright refuse the possibility of a dinner, she put a time limit on our lunch.
Damn, she’s stubborn.
And fuck if I don’t get some kind of sick satisfaction from it.
Me: In LA, right? I’m not going to find out tomorrow that she expects me to meet her somewhere in Guam, am I?
Blake: Per her assistant Samantha, she’s currently getting settled into the rental she’ll be staying at while she’s on location here. She’s supposed to head back to Nashville soon, though, so who knows. Maybe she’s pulling a hologram on you.
Me: A hologram?
Blake: Pretending to be somewhere she’s not.
Am I getting old? Why haven’t I ever heard of this before?
Me: Make arrangements for me to pick her up tomorrow at her rental at noon.
His response comes in seconds later, and it is not the least bit of a surprise.
Blake: Yeah, I don’t think she’s going to go for that. There was some…resistance…just trying to get her to agree to this lunch.
Me: Resistance?
Blake: There may or may not have been some veiled threats about violence. I think she might be the only woman in the world who doesn’t start drooling over the prospect of lunch with Andrew Watson. Honestly, I think I’m in love with her.
>
Me: First of all, you don’t like pussy. And secondly, the reason why you’re my assistant is because you make shit happen. So make THIS happen. WITHOUT violence.
Blake: You are a serious pain in my ass.
Me: Who pays you very, very well, I might add.
I do, actually. I would bet money that Blake is one of the highest-paid assistants in the business. But he’d probably refute that claim by saying most assistants don’t have to put up with my bullshit. Tomatoes, Tomahtoes.
Blake: Whatever.
Me: Thanks for getting all of that squared away, buddy. You’re the best assistant I’ve ever had.
His final response. The middle-finger emoji followed by I’m the only assistant who sticks around because I’m the only assistant in the world who can somehow manage to tolerate you.
Touché, Blake. Touché.
I slip my phone into the pocket of my leather jacket, open the driver’s door, hand the keys of my R8 off to the waiting valet, and slide out of the car. Once again, cameras flash and paparazzi toss questions my way as I head toward the entrance door. Questions bounce off me like tiny rubber bullets, and I answer every single one—in my head. No way I’m going to fuel the fire these guys have going by doing it aloud.
“Andrew! Andrew! Over here! Are you still dating Naomi McCoy?”
Nope. I fucked Naomi McCoy. Once. Wait—no, twice. And I’m not the dating type.
“We saw Luca Weaver arrive earlier. Are you meeting him? What do you think about his sister leaving show business?”
Great. Luca’s already here waiting. I love running late. It always makes my life so easy. And I think whatever Raquel Weaver wants to do, she should do.
“Andrew! Are you excited about Birdie Harris being cast as the lead for Grass Roots?”
Oh, man. You have no idea.
I offer a friendly wave and say, “Have a good night, guys,” just before I walk inside the restaurant.
I have no problems being nice to the paparazzi, but civil niceties are where I draw the line. I don’t have the time or the inclination to sit around chitchatting all night.
It takes all of a few seconds for a bubbly hostess with a great rack to greet me with a smile, and immediately, she takes me to my favorite table, the one I always reserve when I eat here. It’s far in the back and away from the crowd and with just enough privacy that not a single camera can sneak creepy shots of me eating.
Luca is already there, a beer sitting in front of him and his phone in his hands.
“Sorry, man,” I say once I reach the table. “Traffic was a bitch.”
He looks up at me, and a knowing smirk curves his lips. “You’re so full of shit, but it’s all good.”
I shrug, sit down, and a waiter with bleached blond hair steps up to the table.
“Good evening, Mr. Watson,” he says and sets a menu down in front of me. “What can I get you to drink this evening?”
“I’ll have what he’s having, and you can put all my shit on his tab this evening.”
Luca snorts. “You can go ahead and ignore everything this bastard says tonight. And separate checks will work just fine, thanks.”
The waiter grins and leaves us to our own devices.
It’s then that I realize his better, prettier half is nowhere to be found. “Where’s Billie?”
Luca quirks a brow. “What do you mean?”
“I thought you’d bring her along to dinner.”
His face scrunches up in skepticism. “But you asked me to meet you for dinner, not me and Billie to meet you for dinner.”
“I just figured you two were a package deal now. I mean, isn’t that how it goes for engaged people getting ready to pop out a few kids? You surgically attach yourselves to each other so you never have to know the pain of a moment apart?”
“Fuck you. And it’s one kid,” he corrects. “Even if we were sewn together, I’d cut the fucking thread just to keep from subjecting her to an evening with you.”
I laugh at that. “Well, that’s a shame, man. I was looking forward to seeing her. How is she doing, by the way?”
“She’s perfect.” The smile on his face is downright insane. Luca Weaver is in love, and it’s still hard for me to comprehend this day would ever arrive. I’ve known him since I was twenty, and back in the day, he was the last person I would picture settling down and getting married and having a fucking kid.
He was wild back then. A loose cannon. Impulsive as hell and the life of the party. Until the party was over, that is. After that, he was usually a miserable asshole.
But now, he’s grounded. Settled. Happy.
It only took living off the grid in Alaska for eight goddamn years for him to come to his senses and move back to LA. And that is all thanks to his fiancée Billie.
“Fuck, it’s strange seeing you so happy,” I answer with a cheeky grin.
Luca shrugs. “What can I say? Billie makes everything better.”
“I’m happy for you, man.” My words are genuine. “Completely creeped out, but happy for you, nonetheless.”
“Thanks. That means a lot, even coming from an asshole like you.”
It’s my turn to laugh. “Me? An asshole? No way.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to your new costar. She jumped on the ‘Andrew is an asshole train’ the very first day she met you. Frankly, I’ve never heard that kind of creativity when it comes to insults. You clearly made an impression.”
I smile, and he scoffs.
“Not a good one.”
I shrug. It doesn’t matter what she said. It’s the fact that she said it—Birdie Harris was talking about me. And you have to think about someone to talk about them.
Oh, yes please, let’s stick with this topic.
“Is that right? Birdie Harris thinks I’m an asshole?”
“Understatement of the century,” he answers without hesitation. “The night of your audition, she and Billie picked over your carcass for fucking hours.”
I cringe a little. “Yeah, well, it all worked out in the end anyway. I mean, she did get the part.”
“Not with any of your help. Sounds to me like you were trying your damnedest to rile her up.”
“My first read was off, I’ll give you that,” I respond with a knowing grin. “But my second read was spot-on. She needed the riling to fight the nerves.”
He searches my eyes for a long moment, and then a soft, incredulous laugh escapes his throat. “Oh fuck. I should’ve known. I should’ve fucking known.”
I quirk a brow. “What?”
“You’re such a dick,” he continues, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’m here for one reason and only one reason.”
“And what’s that?”
“Because you’re a dirty bastard who wants to get into my future sister-in-law’s pants.”
Bingo, buddy.
“Me?” I raise both hands in the air and feign offense. “No way, dude. And I’m offended you would even think that’s something I would do.”
It is. Oh, it one hundred percent is.
“I’ve known you since I was an asshole twenty-year-old with a chip on my shoulder,” he replies. “You’re here on a mission to get info on Birdie. And let me be the first to let you the fuck down. You’re not getting shit from me tonight. You’re not getting shit from me ever. Stay out of her fucking pants or else.”
Or else? Pfft. Luca Weaver is too busy making googly eyes at his baby momma to find time to hide my body.
“So, what you’re saying is, I have to actually eat dinner with you and make small talk about shit I probably don’t care about?” I ask, and Luca nods his head.
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, and now that I know why you conned me into coming here, you can expect to get a ton of shit from me and foot the bill.”
Too bad for him, he’s already told me all I need to know.
Birdie Harris left that audition with one thing in mind—me.
Sure, she was calling me every name in the book, but I
made an impression. I’ve spurred a reaction.
And I also know that tight little body of hers responded in all sorts of delectable ways when she was kissing me during her audition. Imagine what that body of hers would do if my mouth were on her sweet-as-fuck pussy?
God, I can’t wait until our lunch date tomorrow.
Birdie
Have you ever had someone ring your doorbell and you get all excited, thinking it’s something great, only to find out they’ve ding-dong ditched instead leaving behind a seemingly innocent but actually nefarious box full of human feces? Well, if you have, that’s a perfect metaphor for Andrew Watson.
I’m not saying Andrew Watson is shit, but I’m also not not saying Andrew Watson is shit. All I know is that somehow, some-damn-way, through my assistant Samantha, he ploy-ed me into a lunch meeting. I suppose the silver lining is if for some reason I stick to acting after this movie, I’ll have real-life experience to help me land a role playing the part of a hostage.
His posture is relaxed, a sexy smile etched across his stupid handsome face, and his feet are planted shoulder width apart on the front porch of my new home-away-from-home in California. In contrast, I am an unwilling participant, reaching back to lock my door and leave behind the life I love against my will.
“You ready?” he asks as I finish by jiggling the knob to make sure I haven’t accidentally just turned the key in the wrong direction, effectively achieving nothing—a frequent occurrence for me. When I spin to face him, my eyes do a cursory once-over without my permission.
From the tips of his well-worn boots to his faded blue jeans to the way his thick biceps bulge in a simple long-sleeved Henley that’s pushed up to his elbows, he looks photo-ready. To make matters worse, I have a feeling the bastard spent all of five minutes getting dressed.
Frankly, it’s exasperating. I spend more time just lotioning my alligator elbows than this fool—and just about every other man—spends readying himself for public scrutiny.