Wrangled By the Star (Hollow Hills Ranch #1)

Chapter 1

Aura

The single tear leaving a hot trail down my cheek isn’t mine, but it leaves me emotionally drained.

It’s almost a relief to get lost in the character’s grief rather than thinking about my own problems for a change.

But when I blink the bland room back into focus, my own pain comes rushing back to me.

Every single face seated around the oval table appears unmoved by my performance.

The gray-haired man with the jowls to my right is yawning, while the blond suit beside him with the skin stretched too tight across his face isn’t even watching.

Instead, he has the audacity to tap away on his phone while I pour my soul into my performance.

“You can go.” The one with the obvious facelift waves a hand at me in dismissal, and my heart plummets.

I clench my jaw to keep my lip from trembling. I nailed it. I know I did. It might even have been the best audition of my career, but I never had a chance.

Adrenaline is still ripping through me, and the past six months of humiliation and rejection finally catch up. I’ve got nothing left but the inferno swirling around in my chest.

“Why did you bring me in for this if you weren’t even going to watch?” They all look up in unison, confusion on their faces—the ones that can still show emotion, anyway—as I step forward, slamming my palms onto the wooden table. It’s as if they’re not used to anyone challenging them.

The jowly one recovers fastest. “She is mouthy.”

The fiery rage inside me coalesces into a ball in the pit of my stomach, and it takes every ounce of restraint to keep it contained.

“Someone owed Belinda a favor.” The loose skin on his neck stretches as he looks over at the blond suit, who has gone back to typing on his phone.

“Right.” I nod, stepping back again. Even my agent is getting desperate enough to waste favors on me. “So you were all just wasting my time. I never had a chance, did I?”

Jowls speaks, his voice dripping with condescension. “Honey, you’d be lucky to get a part as one of the murder victims on The Sci Files.”

Facelift and the others join in with his laughter as I spin around and shove out the door, not even pausing to thank them. I’m too good an actress to let them see it, but my veins are filled with liquid fire, and all I want to do is get home to hit my punching bag.

I pass Megan Jane on my way out. She had a small arc on Paisley Creek, and we were on friendly terms.

“Megan.” I offer her a megawatt smile.

She gives me a tight smile back, then drops her eyes, running her hands up and down her thighs.

Right. Of course. It’s all fucking fake. Everything and everyone in this goddamn town is fake. I need to get the fuck out of here, like, yesterday.

I throw my shoulders back and march out of the studio, putting on the best freaking show of my life. Aurelia Lane doesn’t give a shit what you think of her. It may not be true, but they don’t need to know that.

But when I get out to the lot, I realize I forgot to message my driver, so I shoot him a quick text and then reach into my bag to slip my oversized sunglasses on.

A car pulls up, but it’s not mine, so I pull out my phone, pretending to scroll as if I don’t have a care in the world.

“Aura! Surprised to see you here.” That voice rips through me, threatening to destroy my carefully constructed walls. It’s like she’s trying for bright and sunny but only manages tanning bed bulbs. Fake as fuck.

I take a deep breath, stretch my lips into the brightest smile I can manage, and look up from my phone. “Kelly. What are you so surprised about? That you and your cheating boyfriend’s ploy to end my career didn’t work?”

“What?” she says, mouth gaping like a fish on a hook, but then her smile turns mean and her eyes narrow. “So, you landed a role. Congratulations.”

“Mmm,” I say, trying for nonchalant. A black sedan pulls up, and relief floods me as Miles steps out of the car to open my door for me. I wiggle my fingers over my shoulder at Kelly, bending at the knees to slip into the buttery-soft leather seat.

The door clicks shut, tinted windows blocking me from view, but I can still see Kelly standing there staring at the place I just vanished from.

“Heading home, Miss Lane?” Miles asks.

“Could we stop at Marino’s on the way home, please?” Nothing is going to make this day better, but some sugar with a side of caffeine might at least keep me upright.

“Right on.”

Soft pop music fills the car, and I lean back in my seat, trying to relax. Traffic crawls as usual.

We pass by the café once, then twice, until I’m getting twitchy. Someone lays on their horn, blasting over the general cacophony of LA drivers, and it’s the last straw.

“Just let me out here, Miles. I’ll run in and grab it myself.”

“Miss Lane, you shouldn’t be doing that.”

“It’ll be fine. Nobody comes to Marino’s.

” Nobody considered worthwhile in this town, at any rate.

It’s not one of the hot spots, which is one of the reasons I’ve always loved it.

That and the almond croissants, of course.

One of the few indulgences I allow myself now and again.

Not every day or even every week, but today is definitely a day when I need a treat.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, yes, let me out.” The air in the car is suffocating.

Miles hasn’t even come to a complete stop when I push the door open, jamming a baseball hat onto my head.

It’ll be fine. Based on the number of times I’ve been photographed with a Marino’s cup in my hand, it’s well known as a favorite spot of mine.

But I rarely go inside myself now. It’s always a PA or Miles.

I rush through the tourists clogging up the sidewalk, pushing open the glass front door. The barista behind the counter looks up as I walk in. He gives me his biggest smile, displaying a set of perfect white veneers. Even the baristas in this town are screen-ready.

I keep my head ducked down, trying to shield as much of my face as possible, and between the giant shades and the hat, I think I’m doing an okay job. Until he asks for my order.

I clear my throat. “Caramel crunch latte with extra whipped cream, soy milk, and cocoa powder please,” I say.

His eyes widen, but he keeps his cool. “And an almond croissant?”

I’ve been had, but this could still be fine.

I add a twenty-dollar tip to the order, hoping he’ll keep my presence under wraps until I can slide into my getaway car.

He leans over the counter, glancing around. “Can I get an autograph?”

“Can you keep this quiet until I get back to my car?”

He nods, handing me an empty white paper cup and a marker. I quickly scribble my signature on it.

After he rings me up, I slink over to a shadowy corner near the pickup counter, back pressed up against the wall so I can keep track of every person coming and going.

My arms are crossed and I’m trying to maintain a casual posture as if I haven’t got a care in the world, when in reality every muscle is tense, ready to run.

“Viv.” The barista behind the espresso bar calls my fake name out in a bored voice, and I hurry over to grab my treats. My heart is pounding in my ears, but I made it. I did it. I shoot Miles a text to let him know I’m leaving and exit the little store smiling and relieved.

The relief is blasted away by a familiar blinding flash, followed by another, and another. My heart goes into overdrive, and my breath quickens.

Voices are shouting at me amidst the relentless onslaught of cameras, hands grabbing at my clothes.

“Aurelia, Aurelia, did you leave rehab early?”

“Is it true you slashed Brad’s tires?”

“Did Kelly and Brad really take a restraining order out on you?”

“Can you confirm that you poisoned Kelly’s dog?”

Each question is more ridiculous and fictional than the last one, and it’s all too much.

The nearest pap shoves his camera in my face and I step back, jostling someone behind me.

They grab my arm, tugging me to face them, and I spin around, swinging at the invasive touch.

My fist lands with a disgusting crunch, and a hot spray hits my face.

The noise level ratchets up and my vision blurs around the edges.

Oh my god. I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t lose it here.

I’m about to swing again when someone wraps their arms around me. “It’s okay, I got you.” Miles’ voice is a lifeline in the chaos. He yells at the paps to back off, pushing his way through them.

More car horns shriek at us when we make it through the crowd. Miles jerks the door open and helps me in, shutting it gently behind me. There’s an immediate sense of relief as the car door seals me off from the crowd of people now gathered to watch the spectacle.

Miles settles into his seat, joining in on the honking to try to get us out of this mess. Palms and fists pound on my window, and I shift over to the other seat, trying to get myself as far as I can from the grasping hands.

The car finally moves with a jerk as we’re able to rejoin the flow of traffic.

I’m still having trouble breathing, and I know it’s going to take everything I’ve got to keep the panic at bay. I count backward from ten, taking deep, even breaths. I got this. I’m safe now.

Miles reaches back to hand me a cool bottle of water and I cling to the thing like a tree in a hurricane, but the water splashes over onto my shaky hand when I unscrew the top.

I grab a wet wipe from the pocket on the back of the seat and notice the contents of my coffee cup staining my shirt.

There’s slight relief in that disappointment.

At least it’s not blood. But regardless, nothing is going to save me now.

As the panic ebbs, reality sinks in. I punched someone.

A photographer, a bystander, who knows. What I do know is this could be the final nail, hammered in to seal the fate of my career.

I’m sure there’ll be a lawsuit. There will be pictures and witnesses. I can’t recover from this.