Hollywood Prince

by Kim Karr

  Adoring fans are shouting how much they loved Fangirl. Press is asking if there will be a sequel. Brooklyn smiles, waves, poses, and answers every question with the confidence that attracted me to him from the moment he found me on the front porch of my brother’s house.

  The red carpet ends and we are escorted into the security tent, where we have to show our identification.

  As we wait to move along to the next step in the security line, Brooklyn’s hand cinches my waist and he leans forward. His clean scent assaults me and my head automatically turns toward him. When I do, his mouth skims over my jawline and his lips brush lightly over my skin.

  Pressing his front to my back, he nips at my earlobe, eliciting a full-body shiver that sends chill bumps racing across my flesh, and whispers, “I am so fucking you in this dress when we get home.”

  Whoa. That sounds so . . . delicious. I twist a little more and bend my knee, allowing the slit of my dress to open and one of my super-high sandals to show. “With my shoes on?” I ask huskily, the excitement clear in my voice.

  “Oh yes,” he murmurs. “Definitely with your shoes on. In fact, they’ll be the only thing you’re wearing when you scream my name.”

  The line starts moving and our dirty talk is put on hold for what undoubtedly is the biggest night of Brooklyn’s life.

  Nervous himself, he takes my hand and escorts me through the maze of people. He looks incredibly handsome in his tux, as do Keen and Cam.

  Getting the three of us inside took some major string pulling on Brooklyn’s mother’s part.

  Sadly, Makayla and Maggie couldn’t attend—not enough tickets—but they are at home with Presley, who is walking and gets into everything now. Television will have to do it for them.

  The Dolby Theatre has a ground floor and, above that, three mezzanines. I look up to the never-ending ceiling. This place is huge, and so elegant. Shiny stage, lights everywhere, and seats for miles and miles.

  Amid the array of dresses, tuxes, and champagne flutes is a lot of Hollywood chatter. Mostly about which commercial break is best for making a run to the bar. That makes me giggle.

  There is a crush to get in, as a disembodied voice tells us urgently that the Academy Awards will start in five minutes.

  Finding our row, Brooklyn squeezes my hand even tighter. He is now so visibly nervous that I wish I could sit on his lap and distract him by placing kisses all over his face. Obviously, I can’t, so I squeeze his hand and whisper, “You got this.”

  We sit way in the back with the rest of the unknowns. Brooklyn sits to my left, Cam to my right, and Keen to Brooklyn’s left. The four us are intermixed with the entire team from Fangirl.

  Emma turns from the row in front of us and gives both her sons a warm smile. Taking Brooklyn’s hands, tears glimmer in her eyes. “I’m so proud of you,” she says, with genuine excitement in her voice.

  He squeezes her hand back.

  “I love you, Son,” she says, her voice thick with emotion.

  “I love you too, Mom,” he says.

  The gap that formed between Brooklyn and his mother over his teen years has been slowly closing. And now she, too, joins us for Sunday dinners. Brooklyn’s father, on the other hand, asked for a role in the movie. And although due to Brooklyn’s urging he was cast as Kellan’s father, he never made it to the first rehearsal.

  With the knowledge that his father has to want to help himself, Brooklyn has accepted that he can’t be responsible for Todd James. And also no longer fears following in his footsteps. With that, a huge burden has been lifted from his broad shoulders.

  Suddenly, the music begins, lights flash, the curtain lifts, and a voice announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, at Hollywood and Highland, it’s the Oscars.”

  There’s a slight pause, and Brooklyn wipes the hand I’m not holding down the front of his pant leg. He leans over and says, “I’m here because of you, and regardless of what happens tonight, that is what I will always remember.”

  As this year’s host makes his appearance by running onstage in a pair of jams with sunblock below his eyes and a surfboard under his arm, everyone in the audience reacts positively and screams loudly.

  The host erupts into song, a parody of all the movies being presented this year.

  With my fingers crossed, I hold on tight to Brooklyn’s hand when the first movie star walks out onto the stage to present the Best Supporting Actor award. Next up is Best Supporting Actress.

  The host comes back out onstage, now in a tuxedo, and tells us how the nominees become winners. And then two movie stars come out to present Best Original Screenplay. They start by telling us writers are the backbone of the industry, and everyone applauds. They add, “And we also think you are all extremely hot.” Everyone chuckles, but I don’t laugh; instead I think, Don’t you know it.

  One of the actresses announces, “Here are this year’s nominees for Best Original Screenplay.”

  Five typical Hollywood-type manuscripts flash across the screen and then the room goes utterly quiet.

  “And the Oscar goes to . . .” the other actress says into the microphone as she pulls the paper out of the envelope. “Fangirl, Brooklyn James.”

  “Holy shit,” he whispers, in a state of shock.

  “Oh, my God!” I squeal, tears streaming down my face.

  Applause explodes and so does my heart. Still in a state of shock, he turns to kiss me, then to his brother, who hugs him fiercely, and then back to me.

  Flashes go off all around us as the music explodes, and as Brooklyn stands he slips a small velvet box from his pocket and sets it on my lap. Leaning down, his voice is raspy and charged at the same time. “This is because of you, Amelia Waters, and I want to spend the rest of our lives writing our story.”

  Hurrying up to the stage, he is handed the Oscar. Standing there in a daze, he looks around, humbled, and the love and support of Hollywood surrounds him.

  Up at the microphone he starts, stops, then starts again. “There are so many people I need to thank for this,” he says, and then goes on to thank Ryan Gerhardt, Blake Johnson, Chase Parker, his brother, his best friend, the producers, the cast, the crew. He pauses. “And I want to thank my mother, Emma Fairchild, for showing me you have to work for what you deserve.”

  The music starts to cue for a wrap-up and Brooklyn holds his hand up. “I have one more person I need to thank, and that’s the love of my life. Without her, I wouldn’t be here tonight, and I hope when she opens the box I left on her lap, she says yes, and agrees to be mine forever.”

  Everyone turns in my direction, and my cheeks flame. There are loud cheers and yells of congratulations, but I shut it all out and focus on the one man heading back in my direction.

  Tall and handsome, beautiful and amazing, my Prince Charming approaches me, and rather than take his seat, he sets the Oscar on it, gets on one knee in the crowded theater, and opens the velvet box he had set in my lap minutes ago. “Will you marry me? Be my princess forever and ever?”

  I look at the sparkling ring. “Oh, Brooklyn. Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

  The host talks to the audience, and we’re no longer the focus as the ceremony moves along.

  My attention, though, is on Brooklyn as he takes the ring from the box and slips it on my shaking finger. “I promise,” he says, “that we will live happily ever after.”

  I throw my arms around him and whisper into his ear, “I have no doubts that we will.”

  Some fairy tales start with you kissing a frog, and then another, and another, too. Some start with you going in search of your Prince Charming, and hoping like hell that you find him. And some fairy tales start with you stumbling upon Mr. Oh-So-Wrong, who was actually your Hollywood Prince all along.

  You just didn’t know it.

  But you do now.

  And isn’t that the best ending a princess could ever ask for?

  I think so.

  All of the chapter titles are named after movies. There are so many it was
hard to come with the best ones.

  My favorite movies are The Notebook, 27 Dresses, How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, Sweet Home Alabama, and Because I Said So.

  What are yours?

  BEDWRECKER

  NO PANTS REQUIRED

  THE SET UP

  TURN IT UP

  SET THE PACE

  TAINTED LOVE

  BLOW

  CRUSH

  TOXIC

  THE 27 CLUB

  FRAYED

  BLURRED

  MENDED

  DAZED

  TORN

  CONNECTED

  And watch for these titles coming in 2017

  Heartbreaker—this is Chase’s story

  Tie the Knot—this is Cam and Makayla’s final chapter

  Reader * Writer * Coffee-lover * Romantic

  Kim Karr is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author.

  She grew up in Rochester, New York, and now lives in Florida with her husband and four kids. She’s always had a love for reading books and writing. Being an English major in college, she wanted to teach at the college level, but that was not to be. She went on to receive an MBA and became a project manager until quitting to raise her family. Kim currently works part-time with her husband and recently decided to embrace one of her biggest passions—writing.

  Kim wears a lot of hats: writer, book-lover, wife, soccer mom, taxi driver, and the all-around go-to person of her family. However, she always finds time to read. One of her favorite family outings when her kids were little was taking them to the bookstore or the library. Today, Kim’s oldest child is twenty-one and no longer goes with her on these now rare and infrequent outings. She finds that she doesn’t need to go on them anymore because she has the greatest device ever invented—a Kindle.

  Kim likes to believe in soul mates, kindred spirits, true friends, and happily-ever-afters. She loves to drink champagne and listen to music, and hopes to always stay young at heart.

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  Thank you for purchasing and reading this book. If you enjoyed it, please leave a short review on the site where you purchased it, or on any other book-related sites such as Goodreads or your favorite review forum. Readers rely on reviews, as do authors.

  Please note: If you enjoyed meeting Cam and Makayla, you can read more about them in No Pants Required . . .

  Makayla

  JUST THE MERE SUGGESTION OF karaoke gets everyone’s heart pounding. Whether it’s out of excitement or pure, blind panic depends on the individual and that person’s frame of mind at the time.

  The truth is that most people sing karaoke for the same reasons they go bowling—it’s a fun activity and they can drink while doing it.

  With that being said, perhaps some of the people that are here can get up and confidently belt out their most favorite song in the world with no concern for the eardrums they are perforating or the notes they are destroying. Unfortunately, I am not one of those people.

  To be honest, I can’t believe I even agreed to do this.

  Then again, Bar On is not where I thought I’d find myself tonight. This Chinatown lounge may be packed full of eager-to-sing regulars, but my friends and I are not those people. We are here on a whim after a few too many drinks at a restaurant down the street.

  Shuffling through the crowd, I stop when someone taps me on the shoulder. Thinking it’s one of my friends, I turn around to see a tall, leggy brunette with the most vibrant green eyes staring at me. Her face is stunning. She looks like Megan Fox. For a second, I wonder if she is.

  She steps closer and right away I can see this woman is a bit younger, though—my age, I’d say. “Do you mind if I get by?” she asks with one of those affluent tones I know all too well from my days in private school.

  Definitely not Megan Fox.

  Without waiting for me to answer, she pushes past, and in her rush, steps on my open-toed pump.

  Ouch!

  I glare as her red Louboutin soles make their way to the front of the lounge.

  “Come on,” my coworker tosses over her shoulder, not at all bothered by the woman who brushed past her, too. “Sandra found us a table.”

  India leads the way, and I follow, making sure not to step on any toes in the crowd. Finally, she stops at the only available table large enough for our group, which just so happens to be right in front of the stage.

  Fantastic.

  The white leather banquette is awash in the neon light emanating from the human-sized letters that spell the establishment’s name across the back wall. The light is nearly blinding. I look at Sandra. “Are you sure you want to sit this close?”

  She hands me a menu of songs. “Yes, this is going to be great.”

  “Pour Some Sugar on Me” is coming to an end and once I’ve slid all the way across the bench, I look up to see a group of very pleased guys jumping off the stage in unison. The Def Leppard wannabes are staring at us.

  This must have been their spot.

  All clean-cut, all fuck-hot, all about my age. Immediately, I can tell by their walk that they are definitely Upper East Siders. Prep school, riot club types turned Wall Street wolves would be my guess. You know—the kind of guy your mother warns you about.

  The type I should have stayed away from.

  The guy closest to me is wearing a red tie and has his black jacket slung over his shoulder. The others are dressed in dark suits too. Hmmm . . . either dressed up for an occasion or still dressed up after the occasion. Not a wedding, since it’s a Thursday night. An office party maybe? Or perhaps this group of drunken men is here for a going-away party like mine. Who knows? Anyway, the guy with the red tie gives the eight of us girls a quick glance and a smile but doesn’t stop.

  He’s cute. Really cute.

  At least he doesn’t seem to mind that we took their table. Then again, he’s too focused on the guy without a jacket farthest away from me. “Cam,” he calls out. “Don’t bother with her.” His warning is too late, though, because this Cam, whose white, rumpled shirt and dark hair are all I can see, is already allowing himself to be dragged away from his group by that Megan Fox look-alike who practically ran me over minutes ago.

  Fascinated by her assertiveness, I watch the two of them. I have to crane my neck to catch sight of them, and soon, too soon, they disappear into the crowd. Squinting my eyes, wishing I’d changed my dirty contact lenses, I search for them.

  In a matter of seconds, though, it’s not my poor eyesight but Sandra who prevents me from locating them. She stands in front of me with a huge-ass smile on her face. “What song did you decide on?”

  Giving a cursory glance at my choices, the perfect one is the first I see. “‘Total Eclipse of the Heart,’” I blurt out and point excitedly at the same time. This song I know, and know it all too well.

  Sandra is my neighbor and is more than aware of all my woes. That sad smile she gives me borders on pity.

  Not wanting to be that girl anymore, the one who got her heart broken, I grab Sandra’s arm before she heads toward the karaoke booth. “You know what, forget that song. Why don’t you pick one that represents the change coming in my life?”

  At that her eyes light up.

  Minutes later I’m being dragged up onstage by my friends and coworkers, and according to the screen, I’m about to sing a group rendition of “New York, New York.”

  Okay, I can do this.

  I know this song. Not as well as “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” but at least I know it. Besides, how hard can it be? I’ve sung it a million times—although admittedly mostly when I’ve been drunk.

  Then again, I have had a lot to drink tonight.

  The pressure is on. The eight of us gather around the microphone. The audien
ce lights dim and a spotlight shines on us. I kind of feel like a star. No, I feel like Frank Sinatra himself without those penetrating blue eyes. But when the karaoke jockey asks, “Are you ready?” suddenly, I’m petrified. There is no way on God’s green earth I am going to be able to hit the high notes.

  The music starts. It’s too late to back out. First, it’s just the piano, but then the trumpet and clarinet join in. It’s odd, but the familiarity of the sound eases my nerves. When the lyrics flash in front of me, all my worries are gone and I don’t care anymore.

  I let all of my hang-ups go and sing.

  This, what I’m doing right now, is a glimpse into the old me. Somewhere between college and the real world, I lost that fun-loving girl, and I hope I can find her again.

  Don’t worry. I have a plan to do just that. Not only am I leaving the city I have loved for so long, but I’m also going to be moving far, far away, with no idea if I will ever be coming back.

  It’s how I hope to find myself.

  My friends squeeze my shoulders, and we continue to sing the lyrics. Unexpectedly, they alter the words, and instead of talking about making it in New York, they tell the story of making it anywhere—in my case, California.

  More than moved by this kind gesture, I gulp down the sorrow and move with them in a way that doesn’t match the tempo at all. It doesn’t matter, though, because they’re right: “If I can make it here, I can make it anywhere.”

  God, I hope that’s true.

  There’s a pause in the chorus and the piano melody quiets us all down. We’re now standing in a straight line onstage and swaying back and forth.

  Breathing for the first time in three months, regret isn’t a word I am going to allow myself to say . . . out loud, anyway.

  Yes, I admit it—I have a type A personality, which makes me hard to get to know and even harder to be friends with. Crossing my t’s and dotting my i’s will always be important to me. As is staying on a schedule. Making lists. And being organized. But none of that means I’m boring.