Scandalously Yours (Celebrity Love in New Orleans #1)

Chapter 1

ELIZABETH

Every good storyteller knows: never kill the dog.

It was the kind of mistake that didn’t just haunt you. It made international headlines.

And the worst part? I was supposed to be the one preventing disasters like that.

I mean, I didn’t actually kill Sparky. I accidentally sent out the pre-written press release that said he was dead instead of the one announcing his comeback for Season 10. Sparky was the beloved golden retriever on America’s favorite primetime comedy.

My mix-up set off a social media meltdown and an actual candlelight vigil in Central Park.

So, yeah. Not my best day.

I fielded calls from journalists and Sparky’s “devastated fans,” and crafted the perfect apology campaign.

By the time the actress who played his owner was on Good Morning America, assuring the world that Sparky was, in fact, still very much alive, I had survived the worst professional embarrassment of my career.

Barely.

And now? Now I was back in my hometown of New Orleans. Me, my bruised ego, and the realization that if I didn’t pull off this next job, I wouldn’t have a career left to fix.

So I wasn’t here to eat beignets and wallow in nostalgia.

I was here to work.

Not that I had much nostalgia to wallow in.

My brother and I had lost our parents when we were barely out of college, and after that, New Orleans had never really felt like home again.

Not the way it used to be. No big family was waiting for me, no childhood house filled with warm memories—just the old place we grew up in, the one Jake had stayed in, and I’d left behind.

Without my parents, there hadn’t been much pulling me back.

At least, not until now.

Logan Richards, the rock star who was supposed to be my next client, was already fifteen minutes late. Our meeting spot? The back office of Inkwell, the bookstore-slash-coffee-shop my best friend, Sarah LeBlanc, owned and had graciously loaned me as my temporary headquarters while I was in town.

If my life were a movie, this would be the part where the childhood best friend shows up for comic relief and emotional support. Right on cue, Sarah burst through the door, balancing a tray of cookies in one hand and a coffee in the other.

“Well, well, well, Elizabeth Bailey. Look at you.” She pulled me into a hug, squeezing a little too tightly. “Still in one piece. Still corporate. Still running on an unhealthy amount of caffeine?”

I huffed a laugh. I mean, she wasn’t wrong.

Sarah pulled back, shoving the coffee into my hands without asking if I wanted it. “Here. It’s black, like your soul.”

I snorted. “You think my soul is black?”

“Well, maybe a dark espresso brown.” She winked.

I took a sip, letting the warmth settle into me. Sarah stood in front of me, hands on her hips, as if taking stock. “It’s good to see you.” A beat. “Have you seen Jake yet?”

My stomach twisted. Of course, she’d ask about him. I forced a casual shrug. “Not yet. I’m planning to stop by as soon as I get my work under control.”

Sarah raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been here how long?”

I exhaled, guilt creeping in. “I flew in late last night and went straight to the hotel. I’ll stay at the house at night, but it’s good to have a hotel room in the middle of everything. Work’s been—”

“Uh-huh.” She crossed her arms. “Just say you’re avoiding your little brother and save us both the speech.”

My stomach tightened. “I’ve been busy.”

Sarah snorted. “You’re always busy.”

That was fair. I had been a workaholic since kindergarten—while other kids were learning their ABCs, I was figuring out how to recite them the fastest. Sarah never let me forget it.

“Remember field day in fourth grade?” she said, smirking. “When we were all playing tug-of-war, and you were in the corner making flashcards?”

“They were math flashcards.”

She rolled her eyes. “You skipped the three-legged race to study multiplication tables.”

“And yet, no one else in our class could do mental division faster than me.”

She groaned. “It was Field Day, not the Math Olympiad!”

I shrugged. “Greatness doesn’t take a day off.”

Sarah had always been the effortlessly cool one, her brown hair pulled back in a loose braid, her smile as easy as it had been in high school.

She was wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron—she was baking again, probably those praline cookies she used to bribe teachers with during finals.

Meanwhile, I was the one constantly hustling, always planning my next step.

And now, after everything that had happened, I needed to focus on fixing my PR career before it spiraled any further.

Sarah’s teasing faded, and she placed a hand on my arm, her voice softer. “Hey, I’m sorry about everything that happened with Sparky. At least you’re back in New Orleans, so that’s something, right?”

I forced a smile. “Yeah. Except now I’m stuck fixing the image of Logan Richards, who’s basically chaos in a leather jacket.”

Sarah’s eyes widened. “Wait. The Logan Richards? The rock legend?”

“The one and only,” I muttered.

She let out a low whistle. “Wow. Good luck with that. I hate to say it, but this might be your biggest challenge yet.”

“Gee, thanks,” I deadpanned.

She grinned. “No. If anyone can pull this off, it’s you. You’re the best at what you do.”

That earned her a half-smile.

She sighed dramatically, tossing her apron onto the counter. “I was planning to stick around, show your guests where everything is, maybe schmooze a little. But, alas, duty calls. I’m in the church choir, and if I don’t leave now, I’ll be running in mid-hymn.”

“You could skip one Sunday,” I suggested.

“Tempting, but I enjoy my seat in the soprano section, and skipping would be frowned upon by, you know, God.” She grabbed her bag and pointed a stern finger at me. “It’s Sunday morning, which means the place is yours. Don’t burn it down.”

“No promises.”

Sarah rolled her eyes but grinned, gesturing around the Inkwell Café, a quirky little haven of caffeine and literature that had somehow become an institution in Mid-City New Orleans.

Then she was gone, leaving me with the scent of warm pralines, too much caffeine, and the sinking realization that I was officially on my own.

I tried to breathe through my irritation at how late Logan and his manager were, but it was no use. I could be in New York right now, rebuilding my career, instead of waiting around for some rock star who had no respect for other people’s time.

Across the room, I saw a book display titled How to Keep Your Cool When Everyone Around You Is an Idiot. I considered borrowing it.

I checked my phone. Twenty minutes late. Fantastic.

I let out a slow breath, pacing the empty room before forcing myself to stop and pretend to browse the bookshelves. If I kept myself busy, maybe I wouldn’t feel like I was wasting my time.

Thirty minutes late.

I clenched my jaw, shoving my phone back into my pocket. If Logan Richards wanted to waste my time, I wasn’t about to sit here twiddling my thumbs. I had some papers to work on in my car. I might as well be productive.

But this wasn’t just about my time. It wasn’t just about my patience.

This was my career—my reputation—my entire future on the line.

I had fought hard for this job, convinced my boss I could handle it, despite the Sparky disaster.

I was supposed to be the one who could fix the unfixable, the one who could turn a PR disaster into gold.

But I was learning that Logan wasn’t just a disaster—he was a Category 5 hurricane barreling toward self-destruction.

And if I didn’t clean up his mess, if I couldn’t turn his downward spiral into a redemption story, I wouldn’t walk away with a failed campaign. I’d walk away without a career.

Because no one wanted a PR rep who couldn’t control her client.

And right now? Logan Richards was out of control.

Something had happened in the last year.

Everyone knew it. His music had always had that raw, reckless edge, but this was different.

This wasn’t just a rock star partying too hard or a celebrity making tabloid headlines.

This was a man falling apart in real-time.

A canceled tour. No-shows at major events.

Paparazzi shots of him looking hollow-eyed and distant, spiraling into something that even his most die-hard fans couldn’t ignore.

And there I was, expected to patch him back together.

I pressed my fingers against my temples, inhaling deeply before exhaling through my nose.

As if that wasn’t enough, there was the looming shadow of his father.

That was the thing about Logan Richards—he wasn’t just famous.

He was legacy famous. His father wasn’t some washed-up rock star from the ‘80s trying to relive his glory days. He was a legendary, Beatles-level rock god, his name recognized in every household. And yet, he’d seemingly disappeared.

The industry hadn’t heard from him in years, and I suspect that Logan, despite every attempt to carve out his place in the music world, was still buried under the weight of his last name.

That’s why he was here in New Orleans.

Instead of riding out his self-destruction under the relentless glare of Los Angeles or New York, where every mistake was splashed across gossip sites within minutes, he had come to New Orleans, a city that lets its ghosts keep their secrets.

A place where fame didn’t matter as much, where people cared more about the music than the spectacle.

If there was ever a time for him to disappear long enough to get his act together—or at least make it look like he had—this was it.

This was the moment to rehab his image.

If he didn’t screw it up first.

I grabbed my half-empty coffee cup and the stack of papers I’d been scribbling on, balancing them against my phone as I pushed open the door, stepped onto the sidewalk, and slammed straight into what appeared to be a homeless man loitering outside in a hoodie and sunglasses.

Two voices warred in my head.

The New Orleans part of me: Oh, bless his heart, let’s get him a cup of coffee and some change.

The New York part of me: Absolutely not. You do not have time for this. Move him or move through him.

New York won. “The store’s closed. You can’t hang out right here.” I shifted my coffee and folder before they could spill their contents all over me.

The guy didn’t budge. Just stood there, hood up, sunglasses on, hands shoved in his pockets. I tried to shield my eyes from the brutal sun.

His voice was smooth, low, and vaguely amused. “Oh, yeah?”

I exhaled sharply. “Yeah.”

He tilted his head, unimpressed. “Seems like you made that rule up.”

I scowled, still not looking directly at him as I fumbled with the folder. “Look, I don’t have time for this. Could you please move?”

“You’re kinda bossy, huh?”

“And you’re kinda standing in my way.”

His mouth twitched. “You always this pleasant, or is today special?”

I let out a humorless laugh. “You always this difficult?”

“You tell me.” His smirk was audible, but between the sunglasses, the hoodie, and the sun blinding me, I still couldn’t get a good look at him.

I rolled my eyes and stepped to the side, just as he moved the same way.

We both stopped and shifted again, resulting in another awkward mirror move.

“Oh for—” I stepped past him, and somehow, my foot clipped his, or his clipped mine, and the next thing I knew, I was crashing into him, my folder exploding in a storm of papers.

“Unbelievable,” I muttered, dropping to my knees to gather the mess.

He let out a dramatic sigh and crouched down, too. “You know, if you were in less of a rush to boss people around, this wouldn’t have happened.”

I shot him a glare, still not seeing his face through the sun’s glare and his dark lenses. “And if you had the common decency to move, this wouldn’t have happened.”

He handed me a paper, smirking. “Wow. You’re all sunshine and rainbows.”

I snatched it from him. “Wow. You’re all manners and basic human decency.”

He let out a low chuckle and passed me another page. “Do you always greet people with this much hostility?”

“Only when they make me trip, block my path, and generally exist in an inconvenient way.”

His smirk widened. “You should try smiling. Might be good for your blood pressure.”

I narrowed my eyes, still only catching glimpses of his face in the harsh sunlight. “You should try walking in a straight line. Might be good for my balance.”

He handed me the last sheet, shaking his head. “Here are your papers. You know, most people would just say ‘thank you.’”

I huffed. “Most people wouldn’t need me to dodge around them like an obstacle course.”

Before he could fire back, a third voice cut through the air.

“There you are, Logan! I parked the car. And you must be Elizabeth Bailey, PR person extraordinaire.”

I froze. The voice belonged to an older man with movie-star confidence and just enough salt sprinkled in his dark hair to suggest power, charm, and a whole Rolodex of Hollywood clients.

But my focus snapped back to the much younger man standing in front of me, the one I’d mistaken for a homeless person and just snapped at, the one who’d blocked the sidewalk.

My eyes adjusted to the sun, and like a camera lens coming into focus, everything clicked.

Logan Richards.

The client I was supposed to fix.

The reason I was back in New Orleans.

He grinned, pushing his sunglasses down just enough to meet my stare.

His brown hair was long enough to fall into his eyes and brush just past his ears.

Sharp cheekbones, an angular jaw, and a lean, almost restless energy gave him the look of someone who lived in the moment, untethered by rules or routine.

His eyes were a deep, soulful brown that begged you to get lost in them.

And judging by his smirk, he was already enjoying how much he was getting under my skin.

Well, this was off to a great start.