by Elise Faber
Meet Cute
Love, Camera, Action #5
Elise Faber
MEET CUTE
BY ELISE FABER
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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
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MEET CUTE
Copyright © 2021 Elise Faber
Print ISBN-13: 978-1-946140-90-6
Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-946140-89-0
Cover Art by Jena Brignola
Contents
Love, Camera, Action
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Epilogue
Newsletter
Love, Camera, Action
Love, Camera, Action
Also by Elise Faber
About the Author
Love, Camera, Action
Dotted Line
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Action Shot
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Close Up
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End Scene
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Meet Cute
Chapter One
Talbot
I listened to the sounds of the party on the other side of the hedges, and I knew I should be out there, schmoozing and charming and making sure everyone was happy and having a great time.
This had been my idea, after all.
To surprise my friend, Maggie, and her fiancé, Aaron, with an engagement party after their return from Italy where Aaron had popped the question.
I’d helped Aaron pick the ring, run through the words he was going to say as though he were a fellow actor and I was helping him prep for a scene.
Then I’d helped Maggie do the same.
Because my friend knew what she wanted and needed, and that wasn’t waiting for her man to propose.
If she wanted to get married, she had no problem doing the asking.
And in the race down the aisle, Mags had won.
Not that it was a surprise. She was the smartest, most beautiful, most alive person I’d ever met.
If only there’d been a spark between us.
But that was the problem.
I didn’t feel sparks. I didn’t feel much of anything. I poured everything I had onto the screen. I worked until every emotion in me was gone . . . and then when they came back, I did it all over again. And again.
And again.
But even giving everything I could, the itchy sensation never went away.
I was FOMO-ing. I was missing out on something more.
But what?
I’d climbed from obscurity to leading roles. Most even with great scripts . . . or at least feel-good, fun storylines that were a blast to make. I had several houses and cars. I was the face of multiple products, including a delicious Chardonnay produced by none other than Aaron’s winery.
What could I possibly want or need or be missing out on?
A woman.
Unfortunately, as much as I tried to pretend that wasn’t the issue, deep down, it was at the crux of everything. I had friends, good friends, but it wasn’t the same. I wanted what Mags had, what my other friends Artie, Pierce, and Eden had.
Which was . . . more.
Which was . . . everything.
But it was elusive, that everything, especially when I couldn’t walk down the street without being photographed, when I couldn’t be certain that someone in the business who wanted to date me wasn’t using me to move up, or worse, would sell me out to the tabloids.
I was one of the most successful men in the world . . . and I was lonely.
Sighing, I pushed off the tree I’d been leaning against—hiding behind—and knew this wasn’t a problem I could fix tonight. I needed to leave my safe little enclave and put myself back out there, to make sure my friends had the wonderful party they deserved.
Even though I’d given myself the mental pep talk, I hadn’t so much as taken a step toward the exit, when a woman walked in.
Or rather, limped in.
She walked right over to the tree I was leaning against, the one planted in the center of this walled and sheltered garden, and placed a palm against it, using her free hand to yank off her heels. “Ow,” she muttered, chucking one at the hedges. “Fucking heels.” She tore off the other. “Stupid, fucking death traps.” That heel sailed through the air, bouncing off the leaves and landing with impressive accuracy near its partner. Then she started lifting the edge of her skirt, muttering about “Stupid pantyhose,” and I realized my mistake.
I should have announced my presence before the disrobing began.
I should at least do it now.
But I found myself frozen, arrested by the golden skin revealed as she peeled down the stockings inch by inch, the glimpse of black lace when the hem of her skirt slid the wrong—or rather, the right, in my opinion—way.
Curves I could hold on to. Softly gilded skin. Ass. Hips. Breasts. Face. They were all incredible, but it was her legs that made my mouth go dry with the need to trace my tongue over. Every. Single. Inch.
In fact, I was so focused on the sight of her legs that I missed her arm moving behind her, missed the fact that one of those shapely thighs had a black holster strapped around it, that her luscious curves hid a gun.
A gun that was now pointed in my direction with rock-steady hands.
“Who the fuck are you?” she snapped.
Chapter Two
Tammy
My hands didn’t shake as I pointed the gun at the most handsome man I’d ever laid eyes on.
I was too well trained for them to shake.
But I did feel a curl of heat lick through my abdomen, dip lower to trail between my thighs.
“Easy,” he said, his striking gold eyes meeting mine, his hands up, palms facing toward me.
Big hands.
Big . . .
I blinked. “Who are you?” I asked again.
“I’m Talbot.”
Shit. Shit.
“As in Maggie’s boss, Talbot?”
A nod. “As in Maggie’s friend, Talbot.”
Triple shit.
I lowered the gun, quickly re-holstered it, smoothing the skirt of my dress down. I hated the heels and pantyhose—or rather thigh-highs, because I wasn’t sure anyone actually wore pantyhose any longer. Maggie, whom I’d borrowed the set from (because thigh-chafing was a real thing, yo), certainly hadn’t had any. But I still should have been more aware of my surroundings before I’d started chucking belongings and stripping down.
Fucking hell.
I wasn’t normally so . . . cranky? (no, I was definitely cranky), unaware? (that was true, as a police officer, I had been trained to always have a baseline of my surroundings), off my mark (that was it).
Capable would be the word in the dictionary under my name.
Right along with normal, cute, and boring.
Which was what had brought me into hiding.
Out there . . . was Hollywood.
And I was me. I was a normal woman from a small town, who had a normal job and wasn’t used to schmoozing with celebrities.
Not that any of them had been mean or treated me like I didn’t belong. In fact, they’d all been really nice. And even though I’d been expecting a lot of industry talk, plenty of inside jokes or conversations where I had no clue what they were about, that hadn’t been my experience. All the pretty people Maggie hung out with were also all nice people.
And I was still me.
Not particularly nice.
Not particularly pretty—at least not when compared to Hollywood standards. When I looked in the mirror, however, I shrugged and thought not too bad. Hazel eyes that changed depending on what I wore, transforming from brown to gold to green, sometimes even to gray. Blond hair that was shoulder length, but that I most often wrestled back into a ponytail because I couldn’t stand the fly-aways in my face. A strong body, in a normal (an eight, sometimes even a ten or twelve, depending on the brand) size. I was fine. I didn’t hate myself, didn’t despise the image in the mirror.
It was just . . . when I stood next to the rest of them in all their gorgeousness . . .
Yeah, it was a bit of hell on the self-confidence.
Doubly so because I was more comfortable in jeans and T-shirts. Certainly more comfortable in them than in fancy cocktail dresses and high heels.
And pantyhose.
Or thigh-highs to prevent chafing, because unlike some of the women out there, my thighs touched. Go me.
“So, you going to tell me why you’re in the habit of pulling guns on innocent men?”
I yanked my brain back to reality, focused on the man in front of me.
“Um, last time I checked, peeping Toms were doing illegal shit.”
A brow lifted. “But am I really a peeping Tom if a woman starts stripping down in front of me?”
His tone was light, but I detected an undertone.
“Oh, my God.”
The other brow joined the first. “What?”
“Have women stripped down in front of you?”
He rested one broad shoulder against the tree trunk. “For a role or in real life?”
“That you have to make that clarification concerns me considerably,” I muttered, moving toward the hedge and scooping up my heels. “If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say I wasn’t the first woman to strip in front of you—both for a role and in real life.”
His laughter was like warm honey.
Literally.
I actually felt it coat my skin, skate over my body, dripping down until it made its way to where those thigh-highs had stopped, where my holster was now situated.
Aw hell.
“You’d be right,” he said, pushing up and crossing toward me. “Though, only one of those was welcome.”
“I can guess which one.”
His eyes, sparkling pools of gold danced as they met mine. “I’d bet you’d guess wrong.”
Yeah. Sure. Like any guy I knew wouldn’t welcome a woman stripping down in front of him. That would be a freaking dream for any man I’d ever known—and I’d known a lot, since my job was male-dominated.
But then Talbot proved that he wasn’t like any man I knew.
And maybe, I fell for him, just a little bit.
Like in the way a teenager fantasized about a celebrity, imagining how it would feel to meet them, to kiss and hold them, even knowing that the reality of that would never actually come true.
Although, in my reality, when he touched me, it wasn’t just in my head.
Chapter Three
Talbot
I half-expected the gun to make a reappearance when I knelt at her feet.
But instead her lips—lush enough to have a man (cough, me) consider all the different ways to sip at that mouth, to taste every millimeter—parted, a breath sliding out.
“What are you doing?” she whispered.
I took the heels from her, held the first one out so she could step into it.
“What is this?” she asked again, those lips pressing flat, suspicion drifting into her pretty hazel eyes.
“I’m trying to help.”
Her gaze held mine, and a thread of derision crept in. “Is there a secret camera around? Someone who’s going to jump out and say, ‘Gotcha!’ and laugh at the small-town hick who’s playing Cinderella with the movie star?”
I kept my hands—and the shoes—where they were. “Nope.”
She rolled her eyes. “Nope? That’s it?”
“Yup.” I waved the heel. “You need to put these back on, don’t you?”
Her face scrunched up in a way that was totally adorable, and I felt my heart actually skip a beat. God, she was so fucking cute. Especially when she grumbled, “Maybe, but I don’t really want to.”
I chuckled. “Come on . . .” I paused.
“You just realized you don’t know Cinderella’s real name, didn’t you?”
Of course, I had just realized that. Because I was a dumbass who hadn’t asked. This woman knew me because she knew Maggie, knew I was her boss . . . but that right there was a clue, wasn’t it?
Normally, I’d have my assistant put together a guest list, arrange all the details.
But I’d handled this one myself—including sending all the invites and hand-addressing them, thank me very much. Which meant, I just needed to use my awesome short-term memory—who ever said actors didn’t have some handy real-world skills?—to deduce this woman’s name.
Not from town. One glance had told me that much.
She didn’t have that hungry expression of someone in the industry, and she was far too into simple, real beauty to be from Southern California. Light makeup, unstyled hair, an unassuming dress, heels from a common big box store.
Not that I was judging her.
She looked absolutely beautiful, completely appealing, much more so than any of the women I’d laid eyes on in the last few months. Hell, maybe the last few years.
It was just . . . context as I searched my mental database for names.
Blond. Not from town. Maggie’s friend.
She could only be one person.
“Oh, no,” I said, lightly gripping her ankle and bringing her foot up. She wavered, and her hands went to my shoulders, just as I’d planned—muhaha—and I slid the heel onto a foot with sky blue painted toenails. “I know who you are. You’re Tammy, and you’re from Darlington.”
Maggie’s tiny hometown in Northeastern Utah.
I kept scrounging those memory banks when Tammy’s lips parted, her eyes widening in surprise. “You’re a police officer,” I said. “Which explains the gun.” I tapped a finger to my chin. “Though I’m not sure you’re abiding by California’s concealed carry permit restrictions. The gun laws here are pretty strict.”
A roll of those hazel eyes, and I was caught for a moment as they seemed to shift from tawny brown to a streaked emerald.
They really were the most gorgeous pair of eyes I’d ever seen.
“Well, technically, as an enforcement officer, federal law allows me to carry across the country,” she said, mock-condescension in her tone, “so don’t you worry your pretty little head.”
I wanted to worry about her.
That urge came on hot and heavy and intense. This yearning to be something to this woman, to understand the emotions flickering across her face, to mean something to her, even though, by rights, we’d only met a bare five minutes before.
Bare.
Heh.
I recognized the burst of humor for what it was.
Reality pushing fantasy away. Because as much as Tammy might be fascinating and beautiful and a little distant when everyone else around me always seemed to want to get closer, as much as that trifecta was absolutely intoxicating, our worlds were too far apart.
S
he’d go home and back to her life.
I’d move on with mine.
“Lean on me,” I told her.
Her fingers clenched my shoulders, and I felt an arrow of desire fly straight toward my cock.
If she were a normal woman of my sphere, if she weren’t Mags’ friend, I’d turn on the charm, I’d beg, borrow, and steal to get Tammy into my bed.
But Mags was my friend and my publicist.
And I, for lack of a better and less crass phrase, I didn’t shit where I ate.
“Come on,” I coaxed, sliding my hand up the calf above her bare foot, feeling silken skin under my palm and determinedly ignoring the way my cock twitched. Mags’ friend. Mags’ friend. Mags’—
She teetered, gripping tighter, her weight moving forward and her thighs brushing against my face.
“I’m sorry,” she said, immediately putting distance between us.
“No worries.” I slipped the other shoe on when she lifted her foot, resisting the urge to shift my hand higher, kicking myself for playing Cinderella, as she’d called it.
The hint of her against my nose, knowing there was black lace beneath, adding my hand on her bare skin and having caught a glimpse of those luscious thighs as she’d peeled the stocking down one inch at a time . . . yeah, none of that was great for my self-control, nor for the whole Mags’ friend thing.
Good times.
I set her foot down, forced my hands to drop away from her skin, and stood.