Beyond the Stars

by Stacy Wise

  Falling for him wasn’t in the plans...

  Most girls would kill for the opportunity to work for Jack McAlister, Hollywood’s hottest actor, but twenty-one-year-old Jessica Beckett is ready to kick him out of her red Ford Fiesta and never look back. She should be spending her junior year in France, eating pastries and sharpening her foreign language skills. Instead she’s reluctantly working as Jack’s personal assistant, thanks to her powerhouse talent agent aunt.

  Jack is private, prickly, and downright condescending. Jessica pushes his buttons—she’s not the type of girl to swoon over celebrity heartthrobs, precisely why her aunt thought she’d be perfect for the job—and Jack pushes right back.

  But as she begins to peel away his layers, Jessica is shocked to find she craves her boss’s easy smile and sexy blue eyes. The problem is, so does the entire female population. And what started out as the job from hell soon has Jess wondering if a guy like Jack could ever find love with a regular girl like her.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more New Adult titles from Entangled Embrace… Unfixable

  Getting Lucky Number Seven

  In Bloom

  Abby Road

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2016 by Stacy Wise. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing, LLC

  2614 South Timberline Road

  Suite 109

  Fort Collins, CO 80525

  Visit our website at www.entangledpublishing.com.

  Embrace is an imprint of Entangled Publishing, LLC.

  Edited by Karen Grove

  Cover design by Louisa Maggio

  Cover art from iStock

  ISBN 978-1-63375-512-3

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition February 2016

  For my husband. I love you extra, extra.

  Chapter One

  I try to ignore the pig in the passenger seat. He snorts, and I stare straight ahead, willing the red light to change to green. Like now. I sneak a glance at him, assessing whether he’s going to make a move that’ll freak me out. The light changes, and I lurch my car into the intersection. The sudden movement slams the pig into the seat back and bounces him onto the floorboard, where he crashes into the empty plastic water bottles I keep forgetting to recycle. Shit. Maybe I should’ve strapped the seat belt around him.

  “Sorry, Leo. Just stay there. You’re fine.”

  Snort. Snort. There might’ve been a whimper, too. Great. I hope I didn’t hurt the little guy. Even though I’m slightly terrified of him, with those beady eyes and all, I don’t want to see him injured. If anything happens to the pig, I’m pretty sure I’ll be fired, and it’s only my first day on the job. Getting fired would be the best possible outcome. The worst? I’ll end up on TMZ. They’ll flash a scandalously bad picture of me with the caption Animal Abuser Caught! in bold below my face. I’ll probably even go to jail. Because this pig belongs to Jack McAlister. As in, the Jack McAlister—the hottest actor on the planet.

  Jack’s appearing on The Francine Allen Show today, and for reasons unknown to me, he wants his pet piglet there with him. I reach the Trident Pictures lot and pull up to the guard kiosk. A man resembling an old desert tortoise stretches his neck out of the window. “Name?”

  “Jessica Beckett.” I hope this guy is fast. Getting here took longer than I planned. A fire hydrant on Sunset had exploded, sending water spouting straight up like a geyser, flooding one of the lanes of traffic. As much of a mess as it was, it was kind of cool to see. Everyone else must have thought so, too. Traffic slowed to a crawl as we all watched the water show while merging into the clear lane.

  The old man examines a computer screen in the kiosk. “I don’t see a drive-on for you. Do you have one?” he asks in his slow, measured voice. He certainly doesn’t seem like a security guard. And I have no freaking idea what a drive-on is. I’ve been to studios before, but my aunt always drives, and guards wave her through with a smile.

  “I don’t know. I’m Jack McAlister’s assistant, and I’m here to deliver Leo to the Francine Allen set.”

  He shuffles out of the kiosk and peers into my red Ford Fiesta with suspicion. “Leo? Does he have a drive-on?”

  “I doubt it. Leo’s a pig.” I point to the wiggling creature on the floorboard in front of the passenger seat. He sticks up his baby pink snout and snorts. A tiny black moustache covers the tip, as if someone painted it on to be funny.

  He heaves a sigh. “Can I see your ID, please?”

  This clearly isn’t the first time someone hasn’t had the proper authorization. I reach behind my seat to retrieve my purse and drop it onto my lap, digging through the contents for my wallet. I fish it out and hand him my license. He inspects it carefully as he steps back into the kiosk. I tap my fingers on the steering wheel, trying to distract myself from my growing impatience while he stares at my ID as if I’m some sort of criminal. I stop tapping when he picks up a phone. He better be talking to someone at the show and not making a personal call.

  I look in my rearview mirror and cringe. The line behind me snakes out to the street. And now someone is honking. It’s entirely possible that the honker has collapsed face-first in frustration onto his horn, because he’s not letting up.

  “Jessica?” The guard leans his neck out of the kiosk window.

  “Yes?”

  “Here’s your ID. You’re clear to go through. Next time make sure you have a drive-on. We wouldn’t want to make a habit of this now, would we?”

  “No. Can you tell me where to park, please?” My words are polite, but I doubt they make up for the impatience in my tone. I can’t help it. Some people say patience is a virtue. I say arriving on time is a virtue.

  “Go to Parking Structure B. Straight ahead, then turn left.”

  After looping through the garage to find an available spot, I scramble to open the passenger door. “Okay, Leo. Time to act like a movie star.” I slide my hands around his plump tummy, and he squeals as if my hands are made of fire, which, in turn, freaks me out. “Leo. Settle down, dude. I’m just taking you out of the car. This is supposed to be fun for you. Like a field trip. So come on, be a good sport.” />
  I give him a few gentle pats. “You’re good, Leo.” My voice is soothing, even though I want to tackle the pig and make a run for it. “We’re off to see your famous owner, okay? Any other pig would jump at the opportunity.” I continue to pet his rough fur, and then quickly tighten my grasp, as though trying to capture a slippery fish. He squeals again and scurries onto the driver’s seat. Frustration building, I look around to see if there’s anyone who can help me.

  A man with a phone to his ear is pacing next to a gleaming black Jaguar. He looks pretty focused on his conversation, but this is kind of urgent. I glance back at Leo and find him huddled in the floor space below the driver’s seat.

  “Oh, no you don’t, you little stinker. That’s it.” I yank him onto the driver’s seat, determined to get him out of the car. But as soon as I have him locked in my arms, he lets out a wail as powerful as a shrieking two-year-old. It startles me so much I drop him. Shoot. Couldn’t Jack have given me a pet carrier or something? Leo’s making so much noise that someone will surely come to help. In fact, the Jaguar owner is striding toward me.

  “I’m so glad you walked over…” I start to say, but he doesn’t hear me.

  He gets a little closer and pulls the phone away from his ear. “Can you get that kid to shut up? I’m on a call here.”

  Typical Hollywood asshole. “It’s not a kid. It’s a pig,” I shout. “And I am trying to quiet him, but I’m not versed in pig care.”

  The man glares at me with eyes beadier than Leo’s.

  “A little help and a lot less attitude would be nice,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Figure it out. I need to close this fucking deal, and my phone doesn’t work on the elevator. Get that thing to shut up!” He kicks a tire on the car next to me for effect and succeeds in setting off the alarm. Leo continues his earsplitting wails. Jaguar Man curses his way back to his car. I want to cover my head and cry.

  I’m ready to rush back to the security guard for help when I see my saving grace in the form of a reusable (well, probably not reusable after today) Trader Joe’s shopping bag. It has a zipper on top. Perfect. I can put Leo in the bag, zip him up, and off we’ll go. Lots of women carry their fancy little dogs in their purses, so I’m sure it’s fine to carry a pig in a bag.

  In one swift move, I clamp it over Leo and jostle him to the bottom of the bag before zipping it up. He lets out a pitiful squeal. My hands are shaking so much that I’m scared I’ll drop him again.

  I heft the bag off the seat and slam my car door. Leo sounds like a panic button that won’t stop. God, I hope he doesn’t have a piggy heart attack. I race to the elevator, jamming my finger on the down button. Thankfully, the doors open immediately, and I step in. A girl who could be a Kardashian stands there. I steal a closer look. She actually resembles one of the girls my ex-boyfriend was dating while he was allegedly committed to me—the girl with “a face like Kim K. and an ass to match,” to be exact. The sight of her makes my stomach hurt. My palms feel sweaty. I wish this stupid elevator would go faster.

  The girl scans me up and down, moving nothing but her eyes. Now I know how the “befores” feel in those makeover shows when the audience inspects them with thinly veiled disdain.

  Leo squeals, and the girl turns to me. “What is that?”

  “A pig.” I barely glance at her.

  “You’re joking, right?” She grips her yellow patent leather Tori Burch clutch a little tighter.

  “No.”

  “Really? Are you an animal trainer?”

  “Nope.”

  “That’s totally bizarre.”

  “Yes, it is,” I say. The doors open, and I leave her standing by the elevator, smoothing her hair. I jog down the walkway that leads out of the garage, trying to ignore the fact that my armpits are tingling with sweat. Welcome to Hollywood, baby. Ugh.

  There’s a row of sound stages directly in front of me, and they’re all numbered. Thank you, God. I race ahead and pass stages three, four, and five. But I don’t see six or seven. Shoot. Leo has finally stopped squealing, but now I fear that he’s feeling sick. The bag bangs against my hip as I run. A guy driving a golf cart whisks by, and I flag him down. He rolls next to me and stops. I’m sure I look hysterical.

  “Can you tell me where to find stage seven? I have four minutes to get there.”

  He grins. “Hop in. I’ll get you there in one. I’m Max, by the way.”

  “Nice to meet you, Max.” As soon as I’m seated, he hits the gas, and we jerk forward. I brace myself, thinking he’s going to floor it. When he doesn’t, I relax a little. I grab a water bottle from my purse and take a swig.

  “What’ve you got in the bag?”

  “Jack McAlister’s pet pig.”

  He turns to me. “For real? You have a pig in there?”

  “Watch the road. And yeah, I have a pig in here.”

  “Cool. What’d you say your name is?”

  “Jessica.” I take another sip of water just as we hit a bump in the road. My chin taps the bottle, and water sloshes down the front of my shirt. I swipe at it with one hand, while trying to balance the bag with the other.

  Max eyes me. “Oh, man. I’m sorry. That freaking pothole. I’m always in it before I see it. You okay?”

  “I’m fine. It’ll dry.”

  “Here we are. Craft services will have napkins if you want some. Good luck.”

  “Thanks. I owe you one.” I rush to the huge stage door and knock. When no one answers, I pull it open just enough to peek in. People wearing headsets and carrying clipboards scurry like rats. There’s a group of men in well-tailored suits standing in the corner talking. I assume they must be Important People. They seem intimidating now, unlike when I have Aunt Marnie by my side.

  I scan the place, looking for Jack. A girl who appears less harried than everyone else passes, and I stop her, asking where I can find Jack McAlister.

  “Who are you?” she demands, all business.

  “I’m his assistant, and I need to get this to him right away.” I motion to the bag hanging from my shoulder and try not to notice it feels like dead weight.

  “Oh, yeah. They just called me to check your drive-on. Come on.”

  I follow her down a hallway, barely taking in all the activity. We reach a door bearing a temporary plaque with Jack’s name. She knocks three times. I take a breath and comb my fingers through my tangled hair. Jack opens the door, and I inhale sharply. Damn, he’s hot.

  “Hi there.” I smile, attempting to shake off the stress I’m feeling.

  “What the hell took you so long?” he snaps. His gaze lands on the water stain on my shirt, then quickly moves to meet mine, anger flaring. “Where’s Leo?”

  Seriously? That’s the thanks I get? “I didn’t have the lucky golden ticket to get on the lot and had to do some finagling to get here. Anyway, Leo’s in the bag. I’m sure he’ll be happy to see you.”

  “You put my pig in a fucking shopping bag?”

  I look at the bag and realize I didn’t think to leave a little part unzipped so he’d have some air. Oh my God. How could I have forgotten? That’s why he feels like dead weight. Please, please, please let him be alive. I give Jack a fake smile, attempting to exude a confidence I don’t feel. “Can we close the door and let him walk around a bit?”

  Not waiting for a response, I sweep past him and set the bag next to a low coffee table. My hands tremble as I inch open the zipper. I worm my hand into the bag, feeling around for Leo. When I make contact, he lets out a little squeal. I’ve never heard a more glorious sound. I suck in a breath and pull the bag open wide. Leo looks scared, but he’s alive. Jack peers down at us.

  “Can you move out of the way?” He frowns as he frees Leo from the bag. “You okay, buddy?” He turns to me. “What the hell did you do to him?”

  My mouth goes dry. “Nothing.”

  Jack cups some raisins in his hand, allowing Leo to snuffle them up the way my Dustbuster picks up crumbs. “Maybe this wasn’t the
best idea to bring you here, buddy.” His blue eyes flash with anger. “You have to be more careful with him. If you’re going to be my assistant, I need to know I can rely on you to handle the basics. Marnie hired you to help me, not stress me the fuck out.” He leans close to Leo, brushing a hand across his coarse fur. “I told you I don’t need an assistant,” he whispers.

  I don’t know if he intended for me to hear. But I did.

  Someone raps on the open door, and we both turn to see a shaggy-haired guy with a clipboard. “You’re on in five. Come with me, and I’ll show you where you can wait backstage.”

  Jack stands with Leo in his arms. “You can hang out here and watch the monitor.” He glances around the room. “Just don’t mess with anything.”

  He disappears with Leo in tow, and I sit on the couch, afraid to move. God knows I don’t want to cause any more trouble. Jack’s words play in my head: I told you I don’t need an assistant.

  Whatever. I didn’t ask for this job. I was supposed to be studying abroad in France as part of the junior year abroad program at school, but just before I was scheduled to leave, I was laid up by mono and stuck in bed for nearly two weeks. The doctor told me I could go on my trip, but that if I were his daughter, he wouldn’t send me. My mom didn’t need to hear anything more. I wasn’t going. And it was too late to register for fall classes at UCLA.

  My parents informed me I could take time off from school, but if I planned to stay in my apartment, I’d have to pay my own rent.

  I think their threat scared them more than it scared me, because the next day, I was having lunch with Aunt Marnie, Jack’s head agent. Before I had the chance to pick up my menu, she started in. “One of my clients needs an assistant—an efficient, high-energy individual. And, most importantly, someone loyal. I’m talking as loyal as a trained border collie.” Her eyes softened. “And I don’t know anyone more loyal than you, my dear.”

  “Wow. Thanks, Aunt Marnie. Which client needs an assistant?”

  “I can’t say just yet. But I think it’s someone you’re a fan of. Are you interested?”

  “Yeah. It sounds fantastic.” All of a sudden, missing out on France seemed like a blessing in disguise. What if my new boss turned out to be Martha Stewart? I’m a huge fan of hers. I envisioned working side-by-side with her in a fabulous kitchen, getting inside information on how to create fondant flowers with ease. It never occurred to me that I’d be working for People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive.