Praise for the Beautiful and Wild Seasons series by New York Times and #1 international bestselling author
CHRISTINA LAUREN
“Full of expertly drawn characters who will grab your heart and never let go, humor that will have you howling, and off-the-charts, toe-curling chemistry, Dark Wild Night is absolutely unforgettable. This is contemporary romance at its best!”
—Sarah J. Maas, author of Throne of Glass
“Deliciously steamy.”
—Entertainment Weekly on Beautiful Bastard
“A crazy, hilarious, and surprisingly realistic and touching adventure . . . One of the freshest, funniest, and most emotionally authentic erotic romances.”
—Romantic Times on Sweet Filthy Boy (the Romantic Times 2014 Book of the Year)
“No one is doing hot contemporary romance like Christina Lauren.”
—Bookalicious
“Will we ever stop falling in love with Christina Lauren’s fictional men? The answer to this is HECK NO.”
—Fangirlish
“Smart, sexy, and satisfying . . . destined to become a romance classic.”
—Tara Sue Me on Beautiful Bastard
“The perfect dose of romance that sexy comedy fans of the Beautiful Bastard series have come to expect and adore.”
—The Stir on Sweet Filthy Boy
“[Christina Lauren] have fast become my go-to for sexy, honest contemporary erotic romance.”
—Heroes and Heartbreakers
“[The] Wild Seasons series is equal parts hot, funny, and romantic . . . In our eyes, Christina Lauren can do no wrong.”
—Bookish
“Smart and sexy . . . Lola can’t believe that someone as wonderful as Oliver (he is rather wonderful) would ever love her, and Lauren captures her insecurities in a powerful way that will hit close to home for many.”
—The Washington Post on Dark Wild Night
“Beautiful Bastard has heart, heat, and a healthy dose of snark. Romance readers who love a smart plot are in for an amazingly sexy treat!”
—Myra McEntire, author of Hourglass
“Fresh, hip, and energetic, Wicked Sexy Liar layers earthy sexiness with raw, honest dialogue to create a page-turning keeper.”
—BookPage
“Christina Lauren are my go-to gals for when I’m in the mood for a laugh-out-loud, sizzling, sexy romance.”
—Flirty and Dirty Book Blog
“We are certified Christina Lauren superfans.”
—Romantic Times
“I blushed. A lot.”
—USA Today on Sweet Filthy Boy
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For Kristin,
and all the adventures we have ahead of us.
chapter one
evie
La Cienega Boulevard is a never-ending hell of snaking concrete, but it’s a necessary evil in this town. Running north to south in Los Angeles, it forms an enormous artery cutting through the “thirty-mile zone,” also known as TMZ, also known as the Studio Zone—historically containing all the early film studios.
In its heyday, and before other cities began offering tax credits and big incentives to lure filmmakers into shooting on location, this was where most movies were filmed. It’s been the center of hundreds of millions of dollars in movie deals over the decades, but I’ve never heard anyone in the industry throw out “TMZ” in casual conversation. Not in the way you’re thinking, anyway. Similar to a tourist shuffling around San Francisco and calling it Frisco, anyone referring to the nexus of Hollywood life as such nowadays would reveal herself as an out-of-towner who’d happened upon a detailed Wikipedia page. It’s so archaic, in fact, that many of my colleagues don’t even realize that’s where the gossip site got its name.
La Cienega looks like most surface streets here in Hollywood: rows of shops and restaurants built at odd angles and crammed into every inch of possible space, palm trees and billboards that shoot for a gray-smudged blue sky, and cars everywhere. To the north is the stuff most Hollywood dreams are made of, where a backdrop of steep hills seems to have erupted straight from the asphalt. Multimillion-dollar homes sit like Tetris blocks on the hillsides, their gleaming windows and gated drives towering above the city.
It’s one hell of a panorama if you can afford it, but like most people here in Los Angeles, I have my feet safely on the ground, and at home my only view is into the apartment across the alley, inhabited by a frequently shirtless Moroccan juggler.
There are worse sights, I suppose.
Although I hate La Cienega and its never-ending gridlock, the boulevard is as much as the crow flies as you’re going to find through LA. Any local will tell you that driving here is all about timing: leave at two, and you can get nearly anywhere in twenty minutes. Leave at five, like everyone else, and it’ll take you an hour to go five miles.
Thank God I’m usually one of the last ones out of the office.
I look up at the sound of a knock and see Daryl in all her blond-haired, blue-eyed glory standing at my door. While I’m the precise amalgamation of my two dark-haired, dark-eyed parents, Daryl Hannah Jordan is the picture of her namesake, and looks more like she just washed up on the set of Splash than grew up in San Dimas, three houses away from me.
“The workday ended over an hour ago,” she says.
“Just reading this article before I go.” My eyes narrow instinctively as I study her. Daryl was in a skirt and sky-high heels just a few hours ago; now she’s wearing a pair of scrubs and has her beach-blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. “We have that party at Mike and Steph’s tonight. Please tell me that’s your costume.”
Daryl starts to fidget and becomes increasingly interested in a nonexistent spot on the hem of her shirt, and I know I’ve been had.
“No,” I gasp.
“I’m sorry!” She falls dramatically into the chair opposite me.
“You dick. You’re flaking?”
“I don’t want to! But I forgot I promised my uncle I’d come in tonight. Why didn’t you remind me this afternoon? You know that’s your job in this relationship!”
I slump back in my chair. Daryl worked her way through college at her uncle’s medical spa, and enjoyed the hell out of that employee discount while she was there. She’s gorgeous—with tight skin, perfect boobs, and a thigh gap you could watch TV through—but she’s also the first to admit that a chunk of that is due to the pioneering efforts of science and her uncle, Dr. Elias Jordan, Plastic Surgeon. Daryl turns thirty this year, and in addition to her job upstairs in the TV-Literary department, she’s been doing some extra work for him on the side to pay for all her recent fine-tuning. Like most people in this town, she’s determined to never grow old.
Thankfully, she doesn’t have to worry about that anymore, because I’m going to kill her.
“Well, this day has been comically bad.” I check my phone before tossing it into my purse. “Remind me why I love you?”
“You love me because I listen to your endless movie trivia and my passivity complements your need to be in charge all the time.”
I wish I could argue, but she’s made two good points. I grew up obsessed with movies; it’s in my blood. My dad was an electrician for Warner Bros. and my mom did hair and makeup for almost every st
udio around. By the time I was eight, I’d convinced them to let me ride my bike after school to the neighborhood video rental store—yes, I am old—and then talked the crusty old manager, Larry, into letting me work there for free rentals. When I was in eleventh grade he finally agreed to start paying me.
I’ve traveled the world, but LA has always been—and will always be—my home. It isn’t only because my family is here; it’s because my heart resides in the grit and chaos and unspoken rules of Hollywood. It’s why I became a talent agent. I’ve never wanted to be in movies, but I’ve always dreamed of being part of how they were made.
And I do always need to be in charge. She’s totally got me on that one, too.
“Fine,” I say. “But next time I’m set up on a terrible blind date by a client and can’t refuse, you’re putting on an Evie face and going in my stead.”
“Done.” She inspects me with a forced smile. “Not to add fuel to the fire, but is your costume in the car or are you going as a surly but fashionable banker?”
I open my mouth to tell her exactly what she can do with my costume, but I catch movement through the open doorway, over her shoulder.
“Amelia!” I call, and she pokes her head inside. “What are you doing tonight? Please, please tell me nothing, Ms. Amelia Baker, my favorite person alive.”
“I’m picking Jay up from camp,” she says, “and spending the rest of the night in my pajamas eating ravioli out of the can.”
My head drops to my desk.
I work in Features, representing actors and actresses; and Amelia is the second in command in HR. Because she got a start in adulting earlier than most of us around here, Amelia is also proud mommy to the smartest, handsomest twelve-year-old boy in the world.
I am verging on desperation. “Any chance you could get a sitter?”
Amelia steps inside and sits on the arm of Daryl’s chair. Her hair is cut close to her scalp. As much as I’d like to be able to pull off a style like that myself, it’s never going to happen—but on her, it shows off her bright smile, luminous dark skin, and cheekbones for days.
“On a Friday night?” Her tone carries an undercurrent of guffaw. “Not a chance. Why?”
“Because Daryl is the worst friend, and you’re the best friend?”
Her laugh tells me to give it up, and I groan.
“You have big plans?” With completely unmasked sarcasm, she adds, “It’s not like I expected you to have a date or something, but you know, one can hope.”
I sit up and point dramatically at Daryl. “I was supposed to go to a party with that one.”
“It’s true,” she says guiltily, “but I forgot and promised Uncle Elias I’d go through his accounts.”
Amelia points a mom finger at her. “You are not having something else done to your face.”
Daryl immediately waves this off. We rarely comment on anything Daryl has done—she’s a grown-up, and as perfect as we think she already is, she’s doing it because she wants to and, well, it’s really none of our business. Still, even I’ll admit she’s been a bit . . . overzealous lately.
“Just a little light dusting.” Daryl gives a prim flourish of her hands and then turns back to me. “Speaking of, I need to get going.”
“I guess I’ll head out, too. No sense prolonging the inevitable.” I move to slip some work files into my bag, but then I remember what I’d been reading. “Hey, real quick: did either of you see the article about Brad in Variety?” I lower my voice and look out into the empty office. “Wait, is he still here?”
Amelia peeks out and down the hall toward the office of Brad Kingman—vice president of Price & Dickle, head of Features, and asshole extraordinaire—and returns, shaking her head. “Just us and Dudley, I think.”
I point to my computer screen, and the two of them huddle behind me, reading. “It wasn’t about him, exactly.” I point to the article in question. “Just a mention of how he was seen having dinner with Gabe Vestes.” Gabe is an A-list movie star who’s signed with our rival agency, CT Management. And, funny thing: everyone knows Brad and Gabe hate each other, although no one really knows why.
Daryl straightens, unimpressed. “That’s it? I thought this was going to be something tawdry and scandalous.”
I give her a little growl and look back down at the article. I’m not reassured by her certainty that this is meaningless; suspicion itches at me.
“Maybe they patched whatever up?” Amelia offers.
I hum, unconvinced. “I don’t think that’s a thing that happens to Brad unless there’s money involved.”
“You go ahead and think on that, Nancy Drew,” Amelia says, “but Jay is waiting, so I gotta jet.” She turns to leave but stops just shy of the door. “And before I forget, a memo ran by my desk today—it’ll probably hit your box this week, Evie—Brad is postponing your department’s annual retreat, so you can take it off your calendar for now.”
“Postponing? Did it say why?” My spidey senses are heightened now. Brad has held our Features department retreat in Big Bear the same week every November for as long as anyone can remember.
“Didn’t say,” Amelia tells us. “All I know is that it’s been delayed indefinitely and I’m sure I won’t hear you complain about skipping an entire weekend in the woods with that guy.”
• • •
When you’re my age and living alone in an apartment with a common entrance, endless hallways, and tiny buzzers on the doors, you forget that creeping hopelessness you get walking up to a real house. A house with a porch, and a Craftsman door, and a knocker that tells you a little something about the people inside.
An iron dragon.
A brass rose.
Maybe a copper gargoyle.
I stare at the perfectly tarnished cherub on Steph and Mike’s front door and scowl, suddenly feeling a lot less satisfied with my life than I did only a few hours ago. They’re six years younger than I am and they’re already knocker people. Front door people. Homeowners.
I can’t commit to the yearly plan for Netflix and don’t even own the car I just parked two blocks down the crowded street. I am a terrible adult.
I glance at my black robe, at the burgundy-and-yellow tie, at the wand in my hand, and wonder why I ever agreed to this. I’m thirty-three years old and at a costume party dressed as a teenage Hermione Granger.
Jesus, Evie.
Damn you, Daryl.
And it takes some bravery, let me tell you, to come here alone, dressed like a teenage Hogwarts character. There’s this instinctive panic, that Bridget Jones tarts-and-vicars-induced anxiety that the door will open and everyone will stare at me with jaws agape and Steph will whisper in empathetic mortification, Didn’t you get the email saying we weren’t doing costumes?
At least with Daryl at my side that outcome would be funny, and we could drink and tease each other about how we ended up here on a Friday night. But alone? Not so much. Here’s to hoping the Come As You Are theme held, because a girl who needs a time turner to get everything done each day is a perfect alter ego for a single woman working in Hollywood.
I lift the knocker with some effort—using both hands. It’s surprisingly heavy.
When I let it go again, it doesn’t make the soft, deep knock I imagine, and instead strikes with a deafening metallic crack against the wood. The sound reverberates in the tiny brick courtyard and for a single, terrifying heartbeat the giant cherub wings wobble on their hinges as if they might crash to the ground.
Jumping back, I notice the perfectly normal doorbell on the outside wall: clean, obvious, and to all appearances, completely functional.
So . . . not a knocker then.
The door flies open, letting out a roar of laughter that, from the way everyone is staring at me, seems to be directed at the racket I’ve just caused. Steph steps forward, bringing a waft of her Prada perfume with her. With a graceful, manicured hand, she stills what is obviously, in hindsight, a metal door decoration.
“Evie’s here
!” She pulls me into a hug. “You’re here!”
I like Steph. We used to work together at the Alterman Agency when I was a young, shiny new agent and she was an intern. She’s still there, a full agent now, and to this day she holds the honor of being the colleague—past or present—whom I least frequently wanted to strangle. She’s warm, she’s accomplished . . . but once I step inside, I’m reminded again that she is frantically trying to cling to her teenage aesthetic even though she’s neck-deep in her twenties. Case in point: her costume. I’m pretty sure she’s dressed as “Wrecking Ball”–era Miley Cyrus in a cropped white tank and a white bikini bottom with boots. Also? I spy a table in the corner with an artful arrangement of Red Bull cans and a selection of fancy vodkas.
Ushering me in, she says—too loudly—“That thing is just decorative, you goose! You scared everyone! And oh my God! Hermione! You look amazing. You are so great for coming alone. My brave little Evie!”
Brave?
The sound you heard? The one that sounded a little like tires screeching? That was my confidence, coming to a standstill just inside the door.
I look around at an assortment of expectant faces wearing polite smiles, waiting for introductions.
A friendly looking redhead dressed as Ariel, with her arm around the waist of a tall Hispanic Prince Eric.
An aloof brunette dressed as a vampire, whispering something to her vampire boyfriend.
A few couples across the room who had been engaged in a group convo but are now staring at where I’ve just brought singledom into a party clearly meant for pairs.
“Everyone, this is Evie-slash-Hermione! Evie, this is . . . everyone!”
I wave, muttering to Steph out of the side of my mouth in my best Bogart, “You didn’t tell me this was a couples thing.”
“It’s not, really. It just ended up that way!” she chirps, pulling me deeper into the living room. “I promise it will be great.”
For a second, when I spot two women dressed as Beyoncé and Nicki Minaj snuggling on the couch, I think she might be right. This is an open-minded group, and I am a strong female choosing to embrace her independence and attend a party alone. Nothing to feel out of place about here.
Dating You / Hating You Page 1