Chapter 2
MAX
W hat the hell am I doing here ? I asked myself for the umpteenth time as I stood on the periphery of the first-class lounge in New York City’s busiest airport.
I should be enjoying the summer break with my daughter but instead I was flying to France for a ghostwriting job.
Okay, the problem wasn’t the location—because, well, France—but the fact that I had to take the job.
It burned like the worst kind of irritation.
And all because my asshole of an ex-husband, Dante Rossi, had seen fit to threaten me with another custody challenge.
Ironic, since he barely had the time or the inclination to parent our daughter Blake.
What he did have was loads of family money and a deep desire to punish me for the divorce.
Even though his cheating precipitated it.
Even though we’d been divorced for years.
There were not enough curse words available to describe my thoughts about my ex.
I needed to start setting money aside for another legal battle. So here I stood, waiting for a Hollywood has-been to tell me his sleazy life story so I could turn it into a best seller and fund my own family drama.
Shakespeare would be proud.
When my agent reached out with this lucrative offer, I had initial reservations.
Not the subject matter, but the timing and the special request to work in person.
I worked long hours during the school year, so I looked forward to spending quality time with my daughter and focusing on my personal writing projects in the summer.
In addition to celebrity autobiographies, I wrote a series of mysteries under a pen name.
I wasn’t a best seller by any means, but it gave me a much-needed creative outlet.
But reality trumped fun, so I signed the ghostwriting contract since I’d do just about anything for my daughter.
“Max! Over here!” I heard a voice calling out and I looked over to see Warren Quentin. He was good friends with my literary agent and had set this whole thing up. I didn’t know whether I should punch Warren or shake his hand. Only time would tell.
I glanced at the man sitting nearby, in ripped jeans and a rumpled t-shirt.
His left hand kept running through his thick brown hair, his gaze skittering around the room while his right hand tapped repeatedly on his thigh.
As I walked towards them, I finally recognized the fidgeting man as Dylan Aylmer, the Hollywood has-been in question.
Suddenly, he looked up and stunning pale-green eyes met mine.
The man before me looked like a younger, healthier version of the photos I’d seen online.
But photos had nothing on the real thing.
With sharp cheekbones and a seductive pout, it was no wonder he’d been popular.
The media dubbed Dylan ‘the modern-day James Dean,’ and now I understood why.
We’d emailed back and forth a few times, but his responses had been minimal.
Maybe he was as thrilled as I was about this project?
Then I remembered his stints in rehab for alcohol addiction and the fact he hadn’t been in the public eye for two years.
As much as I loathed having to take this job, I needed to remember this was a personal project for Dylan.
I was to refine his story, not insert my opinions. Act professional and courteous.
Warren stood up and offered his hand. “Nice to see you, Max.”
I shook Warren’s hand and turned to Dylan, who slid out of the booth to greet me.
He was an inch or two shorter than my six feet but broader, with a gym-honed physique.
When his warm, callused palm gripped mine tightly, I jolted.
I guess I wasn’t entirely immune to the thrill of meeting a Hollywood icon in person.
Not that I was starstruck or anything ridiculous like that.
I had worked with celebrities before, but usually via email and agents.
I pulled my hand back, gripping my neck comfortingly as I began to sweat despite the frigid air conditioning.
“Dylan, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you in person,” I greeted him.
“Likewise, Max,” Dylan replied politely in a slow drawl, but his guarded eyes said the opposite. His cool gaze surveyed me like he was wondering what the hell I was doing here. You and me both, Dylan.
“Let’s grab a bite and get acquainted,” Warren interjected.
I slid in beside Warren on one side and faced Dylan on the other. An awkward silence blanketed the table. Thankfully, a server greeted us warmly and requested our drink orders. Dylan and I stuck to iced tea while Warren ordered coffee.
“So Max, are you ready for this job?” Dylan asked as he thrummed his fingers on the table. I detected the faint echo of his Texas accent, the gentle lull of it sparking my curiosity while I perused the menu. I noticed the quick grimace on Warren’s face, but he stayed silent.
Was I ready?
“Of course. You needed an experienced ghostwriter, and I needed a contract. And here we are,” I replied casually as our server placed the drinks on the table.
Dylan nodded. “I’ll be honest, I still have concerns. Not about your writing ability, which is impressive, but our compatibility. And this is a collaboration, since I have the raw material and you have to package it nicely and make it sound pretty.”
“You can think of the process like an extended interview,” I replied, using an analogy that would resonate.
“We each have our respective roles. You provide the substance and feedback on content of the final draft. Mine is research, compiling questions, making sure the content flows in a way that carries the reader forward. It’s really a very simple process,” I said as I took a long sip of the cold iced tea to quench my rising irritation.
“I get that. But are you sure you’re ready to write a story like mine? It ain’t all glamour and roses. And I don’t plan to sugarcoat anything. All aspects of my life will be laid bare.” Dylan’s green eyes swirled with skepticism as he rubbed one finger near his mouth.
If he was trying to make me pull out of the contract, he could forget it.
“If you’re referring to sex, drugs, and alcohol, I write about them in my books.
And it’s not my first celebrity rodeo. I’m also a man in my thirties, so feel free to tell me your stories and try to shock me.
I assure you nothing you say can and will surprise me. Or prevent me from writing about it.”
Dylan said nothing but stared at me with those haunting green eyes. I wanted to look away but didn’t give him the satisfaction. He finally nodded and looked down to his menu, and I let out a deep breath I didn’t know I was holding on to.
Score one point for me.
A sudden commotion at the front of the lounge had our heads turning. A young man pushed through the doors and rushed up to our table, pulling out a camera.
What the fuck?
Warren reacted instantly, getting up and putting himself between the man, the camera, and Dylan.
“Riley Jenkins, Entertainment News Now!” the man yelled out, but Warren kept blocking him. “Dylan, why are you here in New York? Are you headed to rehab again?”
“Mr. Aylmer has no comment. This is a private lunch and a members-only lounge. Leave now,” Warren replied tersely, holding on to the man’s camera and pushing it down.
“Just one comment,” the man whined as he tried to wriggle out of Warren’s hold.
“Head for the doors,” Warren said to us and got on his phone with one hand while holding onto the camera with the other. Dylan and I scooted out of the booth and took off like our asses were on fire. Warren grappled with the reporter, who continued his verbal assault, exchanging angry words.
“Have you had another relapse, Dylan?!” the reporter yelled out as we kept walking.
Jesus, talk about invasive. I quickly glanced back to find a security guard heading in Warren’s direction. Heads turned as we exited the lounge.
“Gate 12,” Dylan barked out as he all but ran through the terminal, and I wasn’t far behind. “Fucking pap. How the hell did he find out where I was? New York is getting as bad as L.A.”
“I guess Warren wasn’t exaggerating when he stipulated that we work at an undisclosed location,” I sighed. “My part in this book deal is supposed to be kept confidential. There’s a reason it’s called ghostwriting. I hope to hell that reporter didn’t get my photo.”
The worst-case scenarios ran through my mind, but I forced myself to remain calm.
We arrived at the gate and after we provided our ID, we were escorted to a private waiting area.
At least in this section, there were two security staff on standby.
Neither of us were in the mood for small talk and sat quietly until Warren entered the room a few minutes later.
“I had security escort that guy out of the airport. It’s all under control.”
“Are you sure about that? Did he get any photos?” I asked, concerned that my anonymity was no more.
“He didn’t, Max. And we’ve done our best to ensure your name is kept out of the press.
That’s part of the reason why you’re working on a yacht in the middle of the Mediterranean instead of downtown New York.
But Dylan is still a celebrity, and he gets attention, and yes there is always the possibility of news leaking.
You’ve done this kind of work before, so why the concern now? ”
“Usually everything is done virtually.”
“The in-person request was my idea,” Dylan replied. “Mainly because of the timing with my film and for other privacy reasons.”
“I agreed to the contract. It’s just that I have a thirteen-year-old daughter.” I ran an agitated hand through my hair. “You see where I’m going with this.”
“I do, but again, there’s no reason to be worried,” Warren replied. “It was one reporter and he got nothing.”
“If my ex-husband sees my name or my daughter’s in the tabloid news, he’ll flip out.”
“Husband?” Dylan asked with a raised brow.
“Ex. Is there a problem?” I said, turning in my seat to face him. Dylan better not have any issue with my sexuality, or I would walk out of the airport right now, contract be damned.
“Nope,” he shook his head and smirked at me. “Just nosy.”
I let out a surprised laugh, despite my growing anxiety.
“An honest answer from someone in show biz.” I placed my hand on my chest. “I’m honored.”
Dylan’s smirk faded as quick as it came, and I could sense the shift in his mood. “I can tell that you really don’t want to do this, and I won’t blame you if you want to back out. You have priorities you need to consider.”
The look of resignation on Dylan’s face touched something in me.
That was highly unusual. My ex often accused me of being unfeeling because I didn’t let my emotions get involved in certain decisions, and maybe he was right.
I tended to be more rational and analytical.
So why this man, a stranger, should spark my empathy was beyond my comprehension.
“I’m going to hit the head before we board. Thanks for seeing us off, Warren.” Dylan shook his hand and walked away, leaving a vacuum of sorts. Like he’d taken all the oxygen along with him.
Warren motioned to the exit. “Time for me to get going. And stop worrying, Max. Focus on the book. That’s the priority.
” He paused and shook his head. “Look, I won’t bullshit you.
There’ve been many times when I wanted to kick Dylan’s reckless butt to the curb.
But he’s worked hard for a fresh start. He’s got a new movie role.
And the book. I want to ensure both succeed, and Dylan along with it. ”
“I’ll do my best,” I responded as Warren nodded and walked away.
Part of me wished I’d never have to work with Dylan, but the bigger part of me called me a liar.
I didn’t even know the man and yet I was intensely curious about him, and that right there made the writer in me stand at attention.
There was more to Dylan Aylmer than a model pretty face and a salacious past.
It was those sad, hypnotic eyes. He’d cast a strange kind of spell on me, and I was determined to find out why.