Chapter 2
ROMAN
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I grind my teeth to stop from losing my shit. The hotel suite is crawling with people, most talking over one another. This is one of those rare instances where I wish I had my people with me—and usually I want the opposite.
I fucking pay people to deal with this crap. But of course, I had to sneak out of Hollywood, didn’t tell a soul, and now there’s no one here to handle this mess except me.
Alone. That’s what I wanted—to block out the media bullshit and get my head on straight before Monday’s meeting. My dreams are coming true, and I should be on top of the world.
This trip to Houston is my chance to make a good impression and prove them all wrong. This is my chance to prove to the media and the haters that my new position as top movie producer at AK Studios and heir to my father’s dynasty isn’t just another example of nepotism at its best.
Despite being only twenty-three, almost twenty-four, I earned this position and I’ll be damn good at it. But public opinion says otherwise. Most think I’m just a mediocre actor despite the awards and accolades, a player, and I’m only where I am because my parents are Hollywood royalty.
Fuck ’em.
And fuck tonight.
So much for solitude. It’s past midnight and I’m waist deep in this clusterfuck. As if my life can’t get any more complicated.
The hotel manager, security guards, and two more of the hotel staff are all kissing my ass. No one is listening to what anyone else has to say. Well, that isn’t entirely true.
She’s listening. The woman I found in my bed. Or maybe she isn’t, but at the very least, she’s quiet. Not uttering a fucking peep.
Like a mouse, she trembles in the corner of the living room, wedged between one of the statues and a bookcase. Arms wrapped around her middle, chin tucked into her chest, her long, dark hair wet and wild.
Dammit.
She is gorgeous.
I shouldn’t be noticing her beauty or thinking about her in any other way than as a stranger. Just like everyone else in this suite.
Despite the circus as the group of men try to figure out how this happened, one thing is clear—she isn’t an obsessed fan who broke into my room. I’ve had my fair share of fanatics, and that’s why I freaked out when I found her lying next to me.
At the sight of her, I was catapulted back to Casey Jones, the fan who broke into my Pacific Palisades home when I was sixteen. I found her in my shower.
I was scared shitless and shell-shocked. That was the first time I’d ever come face-to-face with someone obsessed with me. No, not me. JJ Springs, the character I played for nearly ten years in the hit series Laguna Beach.
The hugely popular streaming show not only made me a household name, but it opened doors to a comic franchise and several blockbuster movies. There were many Caseys after that night, but she was the only one who’d ever gotten close to me. That is, until tonight.
But I got it wrong tonight. I’d overreacted without asking questions. This woman, whoever she is, isn’t a stalker. The hotel simply, inextricably, fucked up.
Now at my breaking point, I harshly clap my hands together. “Everyone, get out.”
All of them shut their mouths—ah, silence—and their heads swivel to stare at me. Even the woman in the corner snaps to attention, eyes widening, and I think she’s holding her breath.
I watch her, and naturally, everyone follows my gaze. “What did you say your name was?”
She burrows into the wall, hands clutching at the robe. “Jane Hastings.”
“Jane, go to the bathroom. Get dressed.”
She tried to do so earlier, when everyone descended on the suite, but I wasn’t about to let her out of my sight. I had too many questions and didn’t know who she was.
In retrospect, I could have let her go to the restroom. Hotel security was here and we were going to call the police, though we never did.
Now I wish I had let her get changed. Jane is in a room with only men, in a bathrobe, naked underneath.
Shit.
No wonder she’s terrified.
Jane stares, hesitant and hopeful, but unmoving, and I can’t really blame her. I’ve been nothing but a tyrant.
“It’s okay.” I soften my tone and features. “Go. We’ll talk when you come back.”
The manager, an attractive middle-aged man, a little too slick for my liking, steps closer. “Mr. Kingsley, I wouldn’t—”
I hold up a hand to stop him from saying any more and nod encouragingly at Jane. Without waiting for another word, she races down the hallway, and within seconds the living room echoes with her slamming of the bathroom door.
“Mr. Kingsley.” The manager tries again. What doesn’t this guy understand about shutting the fuck up? “Let us make this right. My sincere—”
“Enough. You’ve already explained, and damn straight, you’re going to make this right. You fucked up. To confirm, you don’t have any available rooms; is that correct?”
All three of the hotel staff nod, each of them anxious and fidgety, but none of them dare say anything. They hang on my every word. Whatever I decree will be. It’s heady shit and also exhausting at times.
“Okay. So, here’s what you’re going to do.
” I pull out a business card from my pants pocket and thrust it at him.
“This is my assistant’s information. In the morning, you’re going to call her, explain what happened, and together, you’ll figure out how to make this right.
My team’s flying in on Sunday, and we’ll be here for a couple of days. I’m sure something can be worked out.”
I rest my hand heavily on his shoulder and steer him toward the door. Wordlessly, the others follow.
“In the meantime, get out.” I pull the door open. “Goodnight, gentlemen.”
They mutter more apologies and sentiments of regret as I shut the door in their faces. At last, I can hear myself think.
I saunter into the living room and drop down onto the sofa. Not long after, Jane appears from the hallway in high heels and a strapless, slinky dress that falls to midthigh.
The shiny blue material, the same color as her eyes, makes them seem bigger and brighter, more stunning than before. Her hair is gathered on top of her head in a bun, and she grips a large handbag—practically the same size as her—to her petite frame as if her life depends on it.
“Mr. Kingsley, I’m—”
“Call me Roman.” I stand and cautiously approach. “Mr. Kingsley’s my father.”
Her lips don’t so much as twitch at my poor attempt at humor. “I still don’t understand what happened tonight, and while I’m not sure if I’m at fault, I am sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for. The hotel has a special system for reservations and checking in celebrities, and whether it glitched or someone screwed up—I don’t know nor do I care—you’re not at fault. This mix-up is on them.”
“Okay.” Her shoulders relax a little, showing her relief that I’m not blaming her. “I’m going to leave now.” She starts for the door and falters at the sound of my voice.
“Jane, where will you go? The hotel’s fully booked, and clearly, I have enough space. Stay.”
I’m not sure why I suggest this when it goes against my reasons for coming to Houston earlier than planned. It’s just that she seems lost and…scared? No, not scared. Maybe anxious or restless.
“What?” She spins around so quickly that the strap of her bag slides from her shoulder, sending the bag flying through the air until it hits the floor with a thunk.
Stunned, she freezes, gaze flitting from the bag to me and back again. “I couldn’t. You’re…you’re you.” Her hands gesture at me as if that explains everything.
“True and you’re you, but I insist.” I grab her bag and deposit it on one of the chairs.
She rushes over to rummage through it, pulling out her phone.
“I could call a friend who’s staying in the hotel.
Maybe I can stay with her.” There isn’t any conviction to her suggestion.
She clearly doesn’t want to call her friend, or perhaps, staying with her friend really isn’t an option.
She presses a button on the side of the phone to turn it on. “That is, if she answers.”
Curious, I arch a brow and saunter across the room, taking a seat in the other chair. “Why didn’t you call her in the first place?”
Suddenly, her phone pings continuously, at least twenty or thirty times, and it reminds me of someone incessantly slapping their hand on the little bell you sometimes find at the front desk of a hotel.
She drops her phone into the bag, abandoning the idea of calling anyone. With each chime, my eyebrow inches nearer to my hairline. What is her story?
“Wow, you’re a popular woman. Someone—or more than one person—is clearly trying to get ahold of you. Is that why you turned off your phone?”
Swallowing hard, her gaze dips to her feet. “Um, yeah.” She slumps into the chair next to me and pulls her bag onto her lap on a sigh. “I’ve had a shit night, and you’re right, I don’t have a place to stay. I actually came here with my fiancé. He’s here to play in the final championship game.”
“No shit. What’s his name?”
“Montgomery Fisher.” Her head rests on the cushion and she kicks off her heels. “Actually, he’s now my ex-fiancé.” She’s matter-of-fact and I nod, holding back any commentary even if I want to know more.
Monty Fisher. I know the name. I like sports, watch what I can, and keep up with the players and team scores through the news.
This is Fisher’s first year in the major leagues, and boy, did he get lucky out of the gate.
His stats are great, the press loves him, and if they win the championship, he’ll go places.
Jane closes her eyes, and something about her—the flutter of her lashes or the soft pink hue to her cheeks; I’m not sure which—brings an odd sense of familiarity. Like a bolt of lightning, I’m struck by something else I recall about Fisher.
He just proposed to his high school sweetheart on national television at their final home game. That’s why she looks familiar.