by Mira Gibson
Text copyright ©2017 by the Author.
This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Ryann Kerekes. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Imperfect Love remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Ryann Kerekes, or their affiliates or licensors.
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Mira Gibson
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
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
Author Biography
More Books by Mira Gibson
Excerpt of Rekindle the Flame
Chapter One
“This is the final straw, Zach! The absolute final straw!” exclaimed Walter Mason, the head of the Christian Network, from where he sat hunched and shaking his head behind a grand, mahogany executive desk that probably cost more than Zach had pulled in for all twenty-four episodes last season. “It’s a Christian show with a Christian following on the Christian Network, for Christ’s sake!”
This was not new information. Zach had been one of the dashing, supporting characters on #Blessed for the past four seasons and though the show aired on a lesser known network, the show itself was renowned with through-the-roof ratings thanks to its loyal following of ‘tweens. Zach Canning was America’s heartthrob. At twenty-eight, his tight green eyes and mischievous grin had graced the covers of Tiger Beat and Teen Vogue more times than he could count, and even though the demographic of both the show and his fans was majorly comprised of little girls, Zach’s dangerously good looks and bad boy ways had garnered enough media attention to catapult him into full-blown stardom.
Which was why this super serious, sit-down meeting with the head of the network, the head of the production company, and Zach’s agent, manager, publicist, and attorney seemed like an over-the-top waste of time.
He’d fucked up before. He’d gone to the wrong party, snorted the wrong drug in front of the wrong girl who’d snapped a cell phone pic at the wrong time then sold the photo to the wrong tabloid. Had that little mishap gotten his character killed off the show? No, it hadn’t.
He had once trashed a hotel room for some reason. He couldn’t remember now. Probably drunk and fucking around with the guys and things got out of hand. When the hotel manager’s ranting article appeared in New York Magazine with photos of the destruction, had the head of the Christian Network threatened to kick Zach out of TV land? No, Walter had merely given him a call, agreed that boys will be boys, and warned him to keep his nose clean for the sake of the show, its image, and his own.
And just months ago, as production was coming to a wrap while airing episodes were only mid-season, Zach had fucked up in what he thought had been the most unredeemable way possible—he’d admitted in an interview that he didn’t believe the Christian faith, or any faith, made sense, then went on to advocate for atheism. In all fairness, this portion of the conversation had unfolded in-between the sheets while Zach had been nailing the journalist from Cosmo and he honest to God hadn’t thought it’d get printed. But sure enough, it had. And sure enough, just like all the times before, Zach had been easily redeemed both with the network and in the public eye.
So, why now, after countless PR nightmares, was Walter driving the final nail in Zach’s coffin with the threat of all threats, deciding against renewing his contract with #Blessed?
“Everyone thinks you’re gay!” Walter shouted, pounding his fist against the five tabloids he’d collected, his bushy eyebrows having knit together so tightly Zach wondered if the man’s entire face might collapse. “Look at this! Just look at it!”
“I can explain,” said Zach calmly as he made a concerted effort not to look at the cover of People Magazine that Walter was attempting to thrust in his face even though a mahogany Chippendale plus two of Zach’s people stood in his way. He’d seen the cover. That one in particular as well as all the others. Call him crazy, but he didn’t think it looked that bad. “My cousin’s gay.”
“I’ll tell you what’s gay!” he shot back, hotly flipping through the magazine to get to the really damning photos. “This bright pink strip of cloth you call a bathing suit is gay!”
“Those weren’t mine,” Zach said innocently. “I didn’t have a bathing suit and my cousin lent me—“
“The fact that all the other people on the yacht are handsome, young men in equally brightly colored speedos is gay! The fact that they’re lotioning each other up and feeding each other strawberries and romantically entwining their arms before sipping champagne! It’s all gay! The whole scene reeks of homosexuality and your pretty face is right smack dab in the middle of it all!”
“It was the French Riviera,” he shrugged, glancing at his agent, Marla Dickson for a little support. She was mum and wouldn’t meet his gaze, but instead nodded at Walter, her eyes rounding as she emphatically concurred. Figured. Zach’s paycheck was her paycheck and if he got fired, she’d probably have to scramble to find another heartthrob. It’s not like Zach was a dime a dozen. He was an asset, or he had been. Dropping his tone to a grave octave out of respect for the severity of the situation—Zach was one hell of an actor—he said, “My hand to God, I honestly didn’t think my vacation with my cousin would bite me in the ass like this.”
“Don’t you ‘my hand to God’ me, you little atheist!” Walter fumed.
“When in Rome?” Zach offered, but the excuse was flimsy. “So, what’s the real damage here? What are we talking about? Christians hate gays?”
Walter let out a long groan, pinching the bridge of his nose. After collecting himself, he met Zach’s earnest gaze. “I don’t care about Christians. I care about ratings. If there’s one thing Hollywood will not tolerate, it’s a gay actor where an American heartthrob should be.”
“Good thing we’re in New York?”
Walter only shook his head. He flipped the closest magazine on its head, unable to tolerate the cover image of Zach sporting a tiny speedo, beaming a smile at his flaming cousin while a cluster of oiled up young men bumped and grinded around them, for one second longer. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he said, sounding defeated. “If only it’d been another cocaine bender…”
“I can fix it,” Zach assured him, consciously ignoring the fact that he had absolutely no clue as to how he might pull that off. “People think I’m gay, so—“
“You don’t get it,” Walter cut in. “With a pretty face like that, people have questioned your sexuality. These images just confirm it.” He was shaking his head now. “It ruins the fantasy. Girls watch the show while in the back of their minds they’re dreaming about meeting you, about the possibility of you flirting with them. Will you like them? That’s what makes them adore you. If you’re gay—“
“But I’m not gay.”
“Then the fantasy is destroyed, they tune out, they flip the channel. You mig
ht think you’re only a supporting co-star, but you add a lot to the show. Jamison Holt can’t carry Hashtag Blessed, not all by himself.”
Jamison Holt, another veteran heartthrob, was the star of the show, but he’d done something almost as bad as being gay last year. He’d gotten married. Ratings had suffered and though he still had a loyal following, the bulk of the fantasy-appeal of #Blessed was now resting squarely on Zach’s shoulders.
“I’m not gay,” Zach repeated.
“I know that and Marla and Darlene know that. We all know that, Zach. But I don’t know how you’re going to prove it to America.”
Darlene Pinkerton, Zach’s plucky publicist, a soft-spoken yet polished woman in her late forties who had righted the careers of some of Hollywood’s baddest bad boys—Colin Farrell, Robert Downey, Jr., and Shia LaBeouf among them—crossed her legs with an air of inspiration and said, “I might have a solution.”
All eyes cut to Darlene, and Zach felt his chest tighten with what could possibly be hope.
“It’s a bit unorthodox, but it wouldn’t be the first time…” she prefaced, heightening everyone’s collective interest. “Tom and Katie come to mind,” she went on, reeling them in. “Matthew McConaughey and Penelope Cruz. Leo and—“
“None of those people are gay and they all broke up,” snapped Walter, unamused.
“They were all rumored to be gay,” she coolly corrected. “And they didn’t break up. Their contracts expired.” Stunned silence ensued for a thick beat. “What?” she smiled, pleased to have rocked their world. “Give me forty-eight hours and I’ll transform Zach Canning into the Christian Network’s very own Hashtag Blessed character, Brian like—“ she snapped her fingers, “that.”
Zach wasn’t exactly eager to become his character, but the fact of the matter was that the show was his life. As stupid and Christian and antithetical to his entire personality as it was, he would do anything to get his contract renewed. The possibility of getting kicked off the show scared the shit out of him and twisted his stomach in knots. This was a matter of life and death.
“I’ll do it,” he declared, making a point to meet the gaze of each and every individual in the room. “But I want the actress to be a bigger star than me. Smokin’ hot. Down to bang. The whole nine yards.”
Darlene’s eyes fluttered—her way of trying like hell not to roll them—and she let out a little Lord help me snort before clarifying, “You need serious damage control not some Hollywood starlet with her own set of rumors and problems. I’m going to find you an unknown. A Christian if I can help it. Someone poor and star-struck who will easily jump at the chance to be with American heartthrob Zach Canning.”
Walter told her with a wink, “Do your worst, Darlene,” and then bore his steely gaze through Zach. “If you can turn this mess around within two weeks in time for the press junket to announce season five, the Christian Network will present you with a fresh contract. But if not…”
Zach feared to imagine and couldn’t bear Walter finishing his threat so he blurted out, “Two weeks is all I need.”
As he swallowed the hard lump in his throat, feeling sweat bead across his forehead, he hoped like hell that was true…
An ‘unknown’?
What kind of good, Christian girl would dive headlong into a fake relationship with a cocky, drug-addled actor who was recently rumored to be a flaming homosexual?
Chapter Two
“I’m not Christian! I’m Catholic!” Abby complained hotly over her shoulder at the teenaged missionary boys who’d dared edge towards her on the crowded sidewalk. She was in one heck of a hurry and didn’t have a spare second to accept their pamphlet or subtle criticism, though she managed to hold up the silver cross hanging around her neck to prove they would’ve been wasting their time on her. Turning the corner, she flipped her brilliant, auburn hair off her shoulder, narrowed her piercing green eyes, and grumbled, “Irish Catholic, can’t they tell?”
Not that she’d ever been particularly religious, but her Ma and Pop certainly were and the way they’d raised her certain values had become ingrained. If anything, however, Abby had been trying to work against that fact. In high school, she’d been rebellious in her own way, tailoring and accessorizing her Catholic schoolgirl uniform to make it unique, befriending the public school kids much to her Ma’s displeasure, studying to the deafening sounds of heavy metal music, not because she liked it but because it was her way of asserting her individuality and it had the added benefit of drowning out the rattling ruckus of the F train flying past her bedroom window—her family’s cramped Brooklyn apartment had left much to be desired, or rather fantasized about. As soon as she’d shed her Catholic high school uniform and set off for college, she really spread her wild-child wings. Ditching class at times. Exploring Manhattan with her girlfriends to see how the other half lived. Learning how to hold her liquor. Becoming an expert flirt. But after four years of college and an intense year scrambling financially while she hunted and—thank God!—landed a temping position at one of the top marketing firms in the city, Abby still had not managed to shake the most ingrained value of all…
Saving herself for marriage.
Yup, Abby Gallagher was a virgin.
And though she was actively looking to change that status, she knew deep down that she wasn’t going to give it up easily or to just any guy. Ma and Pop and her strict Irish Catholic upbringing held the reigns to her conscience. That’s just how it was. How it always had been. But a girl could dream, right?
The subway from Brooklyn had been a nightmare. The passengers had been packed like sardines in the stuffy car when she’d forced her way in, determined not to be late. As soon as she’d bounded up the subway steps and, bursting into the fresh and crisp autumn air, emerged onto 5th Avenue, she’d begun hustling across three wide avenues, which only worsened the slick film of sweat coating her chest and back.
She seriously hoped she hadn’t stained the peach blouse she was wearing. She knew her hair had frizzed out a bit, but she could tame the auburn waves with a comb once she reached Tate & Cane and ducked into the privacy of the elevator. At least the flared skirt she had on was black and hard to muss.
Abby had only been temping at Tate & Cane as one of the CEO, Olivia Cane’s executive assistant for a few months, but she’d gotten the rhythm and routine down pat; not only the office’s inner workings and her temporary boss’s highly organized and even more highly perfectionist ways of doing things, but also in regards to Olivia’s personal preferences. The most important of which was her morning coffee. The woman loved a large cup of inky joe and Abby loved the look on her boss’s face when she presented the steaming jolt of java first thing.
Abby also loved that she’d gotten Olivia hooked on The White Rabbit’s dark roast. It was certainly a gourmet coffee shop and ordinarily Abby wasn’t one to splurge on a five-dollar cup, but the expense was easy to justify between her decent temping rate and the fact that her new boss—a woman who Abby greatly admired and sought any and every opportunity to bond with, even if only over their shared love of radically overpriced dark roast—had grown accustomed to her morning cup.
Though Tate & Cane was across the street, Abby slipped inside the bustling, gourmet coffee shop and glanced briefly at her delicate wristwatch. Five of, she noticed. She would be right on time. Or so she thought. When she lifted her gaze, she discovered a long, inching line at the counter.
Shoot.
Well, an addiction was an addiction, and neither her or Olivia would be in a very good mood if they didn’t get their fix.
She joined the line of customers and began absentmindedly fidgeting with the cross around her neck as she idly glanced around The White Rabbit at the overall ambience of the place. The rustic wooden tables. The potted orchid centerpieces at each one. The large scale, black and white photographs mounted on the walls, their images boasting both artistry and humor since they were all of fluffy bunny rabbits. The famous actor, Zach Canning sitting at one of th
e tables in front of the large, picture windows—
Wait, what?
Abby did a double take, her eyes rounding as wide as saucers, as she stared shamelessly at the heartthrob, who, much to her utter shock and pulse-racing, heart-fluttering, mind-bending excitement, also happened to be staring right back at her.
Was she breathing? Had she stopped breathing? Why didn’t it feel like air was hitting her lungs anymore?
He must be looking at something or someone behind her, she reasoned, toying with her cross necklace more and more nervously as doubts commingled with what felt like a thrilling surge of unbridled hope inside her tightening chest.
She diverted her gaze in an awkward attempt to get ahold of herself and it was then that she was able to fully process what had been the dead-sexy sight of him.
Those tight, green eyes of his. So intense and just as piercing as they’d looked on her flat screen TV. Even more so, she realized, because he’d been boring his smoldering gaze right at her. His nearly black hair was bedraggled and though he certainly had a pretty face, the light dusting of dark stubble across his jaw gave him that bad boy edge that had become his signature look whenever he wasn’t filming.
Classic Irish good-looks.
It was so her thing, and even though she was well aware that #Blessed was aimed at a much younger audience, Abby had been watching the show—religiously—season after season. Yes, it was a bit of a guilty pleasure, but hey, pleasure was pleasure, right? And her sole reason for tuning in, week after week, was now staring at her from across a crowded coffee shop.
She peeked over her shoulder at him—yup, still staring!
What. Is. Happening? she thought, unable to get an actual grip. Every time their eyes touched and his perfect mouth quirked from a mischievous grin to a suggestive one, Abby felt a light bout of dizziness sweep through her otherwise racing mind.
Was she swooning?
Was this what swooning felt like?