Red Carpet Kiss

by Melissa Brown

  Also by Melissa Brown

  Love of My Life series

  Bouquet Toss

  Champagne Toast

  Picturing Perfect

  Unwanted Stars

  The Compound series

  Wife Number Seven

  His Only Wife

  Sorority of Three: Freshman 101

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 Melissa Brown

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477830963

  ISBN-10: 1477830960

  Cover design by Regina Wamba

  For my mom, Deb, who helped shape my love for the Beatles and compelling television dramas.

  Thank you for all of your help with this story. I love you, Mom.

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Don’t look at me like that.” Gina glared at Nolan, her eyes searing into his. Her hair fell in loose waves, tumbling past her tan shoulders.

  “Like what?” Nolan crossed his arms in front of his broad chest, smirking at her, blocking the doorway she was determined to cross.

  “Like you have me all figured out,” she snapped. “You don’t and you never will.”

  Right on cue, Gina pushed against the taut muscles of Nolan’s arm, attempting to leave the room, the tension, the heat. But instead, she walked right into his embrace. Nolan angled himself properly and wrapped one arm around her tiny waist. She gasped, avoiding his prying stare.

  “I think I do, baby. And it scares the hell out of you.” His hand pushed into the curve of her lower back, bringing her closer.

  Gina’s eyes softened, and her hands wrapped around Nolan’s neck. Nolan’s lips curled into a satisfied smile before making contact with Gina. He turned her slightly to the left, pressing her into the door frame as he kissed her. Hard.

  “Annnnd . . . cut!” Rob, the director, hollered from his chair. “Nice work, people. Let’s do it one more time.” He stood and walked to the actors, rubbing the blond scruff on his chin. “This time, Nolan, be a little more forceful when you turn her. We want the audience to feel the urgency.”

  “Got it,” Nolan responded, saluting Rob and returning to his spot beneath the open door frame, standing on the tape stuck to the floor. Members of the makeup team appeared at his side to wipe the lipstick from his skin and to freshen Gina’s appearance.

  Everything had to be just right.

  Elle Riley wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Eleanor “Elle” Riley was the creator, head writer, and show runner of Follow the Sun, the most popular television drama to hit the airwaves in over a decade.

  She was also a perfectionist—a complete and total perfectionist. Her director knew it, her producers and crew knew it, and the actors were reminded with each take that Elle would not accept anything but the very best performances for her show. Dozens of names were listed in the closing credits, but the show was based on her novels. It was her baby, her pride and joy—it meant everything to her.

  In its first season, Follow the Sun had earned three Emmy nominations, including one for Outstanding Drama Series. When they were cast as the leads, Nolan Rivera and Gina Romano were relative unknowns in Hollywood. But after just a few months on the air, they were plastered across gossip magazines, followed by paparazzi, and raised to celebrity status. Gina embraced her fame—posing for fitness magazines, conducting interviews between takes, and dining at the trendiest restaurants.

  Nolan had chosen to be more private, retreating from the attention—he led a quiet life in the Hollywood Hills, only appearing publicly when necessary. Both actors lit up the screen, captivating audiences. Combined with Elle’s writing, Follow the Sun had become the show to beat. And Elle was determined to maintain its spot at the top.

  When filming resumed, she pulled her attention away from the actors and thumbed through the script to the next scene to be filmed. Rob returned to his seat next to Elle and leaned his elbow on the wooden arm of his chair. “Thoughts?”

  “I’m not sure she’s ready for the next scene.”

  They’d been going strong for over ten hours, and Elle was contemplating skipping the scene until the next day. After all, it was a tricky one, and she worried Gina might be too exhausted to nail the emotion required to pull it off.

  Rob shook his head and Elle tilted hers, looking at him over her wire-rimmed glasses.

  “What?” she asked, crossing her arms in front of her chest as her knee bobbed up and down.

  “You’re too hard on her.”

  “I disagree.” Her tone was harsh, dismissive.

  “She can handle it, Elle. She always does.”

  Gina was a good actress. In fact, most of the time, Elle thought she was the perfect match for the character. But there were specific scenes that gave Elle pause. Those were the scenes based on him. Based on the man who had inspired the entire concept for Follow the Sun. The man who had left her heart wounded and exposed.

  In the quiet moments, the thoughtful moments, the moments when Elle could tune out the noise of Hollywood, she let her mind drift back to the chapel in Las Vegas. To the man whose heart she had broken, who then stifled hers in retaliation.

  Their love affair was her inspiration.

  Her muse.

  The hidden scar that sat tucked beneath her chest.

  And because she didn’t know where he was, having avoided social media like the plague, and because he might be sitting on a couch somewhere, snuggling up to a girlfriend or wife who insisted they watch her show week after week, Elle knew those scenes needed to be just right. Every last one.

  If he was watching, he had to know she was strong, that she didn’t need him—or anyone, for that matter—to make her whole, fulfilled, or satisfied.

  And that, despite the scar, her heart was, and would continue to be, just fine.

  Thick, white buttercream frosting covered the tips of Elle’s fingernails. She popped each finger in her mouth for one last lick and savored the sugary-sweet, intoxicating taste of celebration.

  Solo celebration.

  Aside from Linus, her sweet terrier, who lay next to her on the couch, and the soothing sound of her beloved Beatles in the background, Elle was celebrating her birthday alone. Her parents raised her on Beatles records, and they quickly became the soundtrack of her life. She listened to different albums for different moods, and her birthday was no exception. She was thirty-five years old and single
. And for reasons all her own, she preferred to commemorate this day completely by herself.

  Ten years ago, on this very day, she had married. But it didn’t last long.

  Thirty-six hours, to be precise.

  Because of that impulsive decision, her birthday would be forever linked to him. She didn’t speak his name, especially since moving to California. No one knew him here, their past, their history. Their mutual friends and classmates knew not to bring up his name or ask how long it had been since she’d seen him. She was able to control her curiosity if no one mentioned him. If she caved and learned about his life, inevitably she’d learn he’d moved on when she still could not.

  And she preferred it that way.

  Her best friend, Whitney, the casting director for Follow the Sun, simply referred to him as “Vegas,” knowing that Elle couldn’t handle discussing her past with Troy Saladino. Even her best friend was on a need-to-know basis about that chapter in her life.

  “That was delicious,” Elle said, wiping her mouth and hands with a napkin. She then placed the cupcake liner back into the box from Sprinkles Cupcakes. “Totally worth the money.”

  Linus peeked out from the nook he’d created in the pillow next to Elle and tipped his little head to the side.

  Elle shrugged before petting him on his snout and giggling. “Okay, fine, maybe not.”

  Her laptop beckoned from across the room. She needed to get a head start on the new season, but the impending love scene between Desmond and Molly was stressing her out. She and the network rarely agreed on a suitable level of steam for prime-time television. Elle was all about pushing the envelope, allowing her characters to act on their sexual impulses in what Rob, her director, called “interesting” locales such as utility closets, parking garages, and even a hotel day spa. But the resistance she received often muzzled her creativity. “Do you think I should write that love scene, Linus?”

  Linus tipped his head to the side again, looking adorable. She loved when he did that.

  “I didn’t think so.” She smiled. “No one likes working on their birthday.”

  Elle laughed and reached for the Entertainment Weekly on her coffee table. She smiled as she stared at the cover, savoring the photo of Gina and Nolan, standing back-to-back, with arms crossed. Pride stretched from her head to her feet, knowing her characters were sitting on thousands of coffee tables across the country. Her characters. Her show. Her creation. For just a moment, her normal birthday sadness drifted away as she paged through the magazine and landed on the article devoted completely to Follow the Sun. Her moment was interrupted when her purse began to ring. She retrieved her cell phone and reluctantly answered the call.

  “This is Elle,” she said, pressing the phone to her ear.

  “Elle, listen, it’s Rob. We’re having a little trouble down at the studio. Any chance you can come down and help us out?”

  Elle resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Rob was a terrible liar. Between the cracking and hesitation lingering in his voice, all signs pointed to some sort of surprise birthday celebration at the studio. Which was nice. Really nice, actually.

  But she didn’t want to be around anyone. She wanted to waste away in her own disconnected memories, which had become a tradition over the years. Elle listened to the Beatles’ Revolver album while wallowing in her memories of Troy—the years they’d spent together both as friends and lovers. Over and over again, she replayed the sweet moments as well as the ones that brought nothing but sadness and regret. Despite the pain, it was comforting somehow—as if her memories, and the songs that played in the background, kept them connected. She was listening to the album for a second time when Rob’s call came through.

  Elle decided to push the issue, to see how far she could take it. “Um . . . I’m already in my comfies. Any chance we can do this in the morning?”

  Rob paused, and then the connection grew muffled. Elle smiled, knowing he’d covered the phone to talk to another conspirator.

  “Just get over here,” another voice chimed in, this one feminine, yet snippy . . . and all too familiar. Whitney.

  “I knew it,” Elle said, shaking her head, petting Linus as he rubbed up against her leg, and hoping Whitney wouldn’t recognize the album in the background. Revolver, although it was her favorite album, was the album that made her think the most of Troy. “You know I don’t like to make a big deal out of this.”

  Whitney sighed. “I know, and it isn’t, I promise. Just get down here.”

  “Fine, give me twenty.”

  “I’ll do you one better. Take thirty.”

  “Wow, feeling generous?” Elle said, placing her pumps, one by one, back onto her tired feet.

  “Nah. Waiting on the food delivery.”

  “I already ate,” Elle whined.

  “Tough.” Whitney snapped, “And run a comb through your hair.”

  “I resent that,” Elle responded, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She did look disheveled after a long day at the studio. Her normally curly blonde locks were flat to the sides of her face. She grimaced, gazing at her reflection. “But whatever, fine, I’ll be there in a half hour.”

  Elle loved the way her hair felt when it blew through the tranquil California breeze. The crisp scent of the ocean enveloped her in its serenity. Her left elbow rested on the leather interior of her brand-new convertible.

  She’d once owned a convertible back in Chicago, where she had spent the majority of her life. In fact, Troy had encouraged her to buy that first convertible. They’d dated for a year in college after meeting and becoming friends in ninth grade. Attached to one another’s sides for most of their teen years, despite the fact that they bickered more than the average friends, they’d spent a few summers driving in Elle’s bright red Sebring, the top down, the Chicago wind destroying Elle’s hair no matter how she tried to avoid it.

  When she first moved to Santa Monica, she’d refused to purchase anything that reminded her of him—including a vehicle in which they’d made so many memories. But when Follow the Sun was nominated for its first Emmys, and the producers renewed it for three more seasons, Elle was feeling unstoppable and she managed to forget about him briefly to purchase a brand-new silver Mercedes E-Class convertible.

  Each time she slid into the warm leather seat, Elle ran her fingers up and down the cool steering wheel, and a small contented sigh left her lips. She was living the dream.

  The twenty-five-minute drive to the studio in Los Angeles was easy and uneventful. When she reached the peach-colored booth at the entrance of the studio, Larry the attendant raised an inquisitive, yet playful, brow.

  “Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again tonight.”

  “I guess I’m needed.” Elle shrugged.

  “Have a piece of cake for me,” Larry replied, giving her a wink. His tan skin, worn and aged like leather, pulled at his cheeks with his smile. In contrast, his silver hair glistened from the top of his head.

  “You too?” Elle asked, not completely surprised by the reach of Whitney’s sneaky planning.

  “Afraid so.” Larry chuckled.

  “I’ll bring you a slice on my way out. How’s that?”

  Larry laughed again, raised the gate, and nodded. “Sounds great. Enjoy yourself, Ms. Riley.”

  Whitney was waiting for Elle at her designated parking space. Her chocolate-brown curls were pulled up in a loose ponytail. Her nose was scrunched and her arms were crossed in front of her chest.

  Elle was confused by her attitude. “What? Am I late?” She glanced at her watch.

  “C’mon, let’s go. Everyone’s waiting.” Whitney opened the car door, allowing Elle to step out of the vehicle.

  “Seriously, what’s the matter?” Elle was distracted by Whitney’s mood and couldn’t concentrate on the party until she knew her friend was all right.

  “It’s nothing, I just—I hate that we have to trick you.”

  “You mean about my birthday?”

  “Yes,” Whitney
snapped, slamming the door shut. “You’re thirty-five today. Thirty-freaking-five! You deserve a celebration and I wish you’d stop convincing yourself that you don’t.”

  Elle nodded. She understood where Whitney was coming from. “Sorry.” Her shoulders sank. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

  “Well, I, for one, am officially tired of it. I want you to live your life, Elle, not tiptoe through it.”

  Uncomfortable with the frankness of the discussion, as she often was, Elle pressed two fingers into a salute, attempting to defuse the situation. “Sir, yes sir.”

  Whitney’s pale cheeks turned red and Elle knew her best friend was ready to blow at any second. Whitney loved her and wanted her to be happy. She didn’t want to piss Elle off when there were at least twenty people upstairs waiting to celebrate the day she was born.

  “Seriously, I’m sorry. I know you’re right. And I’m working on it, I promise.”

  Whitney’s arms uncrossed, and she took a deep breath. “Okay, good.”

  “Are we okay?”

  “Yes, of course.” Whitney linked her arm through Elle’s. “We’re always okay.”

  “Good. Because I am seriously in the mood for some cake.”

  “That’s coming, but there’s a surprise first.”

  “What is it?” Elle dug a finger into Whitney’s side.

  “You’ll see.”

  When they reached the large conference room, Elle was pleasantly surprised. No lights were turned off, no one hunched behind countertops and tables. Her cast and crew were mingling throughout the room, cocktails and plates in hand.

  “Hey, happy birthday,” Rob said, wrapping one arm around Elle’s shoulder. “Did we get ya?”

  Elle glanced at Whitney, raising one eyebrow. Whitney closed her eyes, puckered her lips, and nodded.

  “You sure did,” Elle said, playing along.

  Rob’s smile widened and his chest broadened. Elle couldn’t believe he actually thought she’d been duped. Did he not remember the phone call that took place less than an hour earlier?

  Elle turned back to Whitney. “So you mentioned a surprise . . .” Her words trailed off, as she hoped Whitney would end the suspense.