Chapter 1
I’m on a mission. Weaving through people like a running back at the Super Bowl making the play of his life. I hurtle past drunk partygoers, nearly bulldozing through the birthday boy’s enormous present table, placed smackdab in the middle of the main living room of the beach house. Damn, that’s not good. On one end, the table is covered with small bags from Cartier and Valentino, and top-shelf liquor. On the other end, it’s a buffet of bongs, pills, and neat lines of snow-white powder that seems inevitable at celebrity birthday parties these days. We’re screwed. Chase specifically told us to keep his party tame this year, but I’ll worry about that later. My end zone is the bathroom, which is nearly in sight…
“Wait!Adam!”
For the love of all that is holy.
Pretending I don’t hear her, I continue down the hallway, but I hear her stilettos clicking faster behind me. “Adam,” she scolds, knowing I’m purposely ignoring her.
Pressing my palm against my thigh as if it can hold back my bursting bladder, I turn around to face Lily Raymond, who is the most annoyingly shrill, judgmental, and downright mean gossip columnist for Whispers Magazine. She has one job—to stalk major celebrities and catch them in their most vulnerable and embarrassing moments. She makes a complete meal out of roasting them in her vile column. Her target tonight is my best friend, my client, and the host of this party—Hollywood movie star, Chase Ford.
“Lily.”
“Hey, how are you?”
Is that supposed to be a smile?Lily’s face looks like she’s unwillingly chewing bark. “I’m surprised to see you here,” I say, dodging her question.
I look over her shoulder to Jay, Chase’s bodyguard. At six-foot-four and nearly two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, he could easily hoist this little troublemaker over his shoulder and set her on the front lawn. If we time it right, I could turn on the sprinklers. I think California is still in a drought and we’re supposed to water sparingly, but surely exceptions can be made for emergencies. Like hosing down a dirty rat.
“I almost didn’t make it. I found out about Chase’s birthday party just this morning. I guess my invitation got lost in the mail.”
I level a stare at her. “Nope. We just didn’t send you one.” I click my jaw and follow it with a fake smile. I probably shouldn’t provoke her, but damn I hate this woman.
“Oh, come on. I thought we were going to let bygones be bygones.”
And by “bygones” Lily is referring to the time she hired a woman to seduce Chase and then provide an interview for Lily’s infamously shameless column, in which she gave a play-by-play reenactment of their evening together. She even, in great detail, described the birthmark he has at the base of his dick, which is, quite frankly, more than I need to know about my best friend. It was more than anyone needs to know about Chase Ford. It was very fucking expensive to pay off every single complicit asshole in that scheme. Thanks to Lily’s assistant warning us about the interview ahead of time, and several bribes, including Lily’s VIP admittance to Chase’s next red-carpet appearance, we squashed the story before it got published.
“What do you want, Lily? Don’t you have photographer minions lurking around trying to catch Chase in a damning position?”
She runs her hand through her sleek, shiny dark hair and then pulls down the hem of her skin-tight black dress. Her wicked smile returns. “I’m just here to wish Chase a very happy thirtieth birthday.”
“I’ll tell him for you…meaning you can leave. Please feel free to take a bottle of champagne”—I point down the hall to the massive bar—“on your way out. Hell, take two. And some snacks. What are you eating these days? Souls? Or are you still feeding on the fear of children?”
“An IT joke? Really?” She blinks at me, unamused.
“It seemed lazy to call you the devil incarnate. I feel like a demon-possessed clown adds a touch of sophistication.”
She narrows her eyes. “Well, genius, IT is not demon-possessed. If you knew anything about Stephen King’s work, ITis a demon. It’s a shape-shifting monster that takes the form of a clown.”
I hold up my palms and take a small step backward. “Well, you would know, it’s your backstory.” Rolling her eyes, she turns on her heel. Grumbling to myself, I call after her, “Lily, wait.”
“What?” She sucks in her tongue against her top teeth, making a squealing sound as she waits for what I’m sure she’s assuming is another insult.
Relaxing my shoulders, I take in a deep breath before releasing it…and my attitude. This feud with Lily has been going on for too long, not to mention, she has the power to easily wreak havoc on Chase’s reputation. “Can you just be here to have fun? Be a person tonight, not a reporter.”
Her lips twist tightly, then finally relax. “You’re asking me to take a night off?”
“Yeah.” I nod. “And for what it’s worth, Chase is a really good guy who’s down on his luck. The way you, all these other tabloids, and the internet talk about him—you forget he’s not a brand. He’s a person, with a heart. And every time you spew this poison, you’re breaking someone’s heart.”
I’ve been in this industry for so long that it’s easy to lose sight of what really matters. All people in L.A. want is more money, more secrets, more drama. We forget that someone always pays the emotional price for the public’s entertainment. I’m sick of watching my best friend pay the psychological toll, feeding everyone else’s cruelty.
“You know, I come across a lot of managers. Most of them are sleazy.”
I scrunch my toes inside my shoes. I’m going to burst,but I try to hold it. I desperately need to finish this conversation because I think I might finally, after five years, be getting through to the Wicked Witch of the West over here. “You don’t say.”
“Some of them even sell me stories about their clients.”
“Shameful.”
“But not you,” she says, reaching into her clutch and pulling out her phone. “You’re a good guy, Adam. And for that? You deserve a night off too. So relax.” Spinning around so I can see, she deletes all the various photos she’s taken this evening. She holds up her hands in a show of surrender. “Tonight, I’ll just be a guest.”
I press my palms and fingers together in gratitude. “Thank you. Enjoy the party. The Dom Perignon is locked up in the silver fridge behind the bar.” Fishing in my pants pocket, I hand her a little key. “My treat.”
Tucking the key inside the cup of her bra, she rubs her hands together and flashes me a genuine smile. “All right, now it’s a celebrity party. Dom for everyone.”
Jesus.“Have a nice time, Lily.”
With that crisis hopefully averted, I burst into the nearest guest bathroom, barely shutting the door behind me before I unzip. It’s only when I’m thoroughly relieved and washing my hands that I hear a voice behind the closed shower curtain.
“I have to say, it’s really refreshing to see a man wash his hands after peeing.”
My balls shrivel up as I immediately recognize her voice. Oh, this is agonizing. I’m put off by another woman accosting me, but unlike Lily, I’m pleasantly surprised that Amani Rhodes is here at Chase’s party.
I hoped. Not like this, obviously. But fuck, I hoped I’d get to meet her in person.
“Amani?”
She yanks the shower curtain back and I see she’s lying as flat as possible so her thighs and arms are pressed against the porcelain tub. She has the guest towel—which looks drenched—draped across her forehead. Her thick, auburn-red hair is twisted into a loose bun on top of her head. I could go on…
I’ve studied the girl on social media for endless hours.
Sue me.
She’s a goddess. Of course I’ve gone down the rabbit hole of Amani’s social media. I’ve made base camp on her Instagram profile with alerts for whenever she posts a new TikTok. My excuse is that I want to represent her as a manager. If she wanted to flip that switch, Amani would have a very lucrative career in film or modeling. I could get her endless jobs in a heartbeat—but so far, she’s ignored all my DMs.
“How’d you know it was me?” Her green eyes are sparkling with challenge under the bright overhead lighting.
“Because you can credit me with at least a couple thousand of your TikTok views. I recognized your voice.”
She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Perv,” she mutters.
I shut off the faucet and shake off the excess water in the sink. The hand towel is on her forehead, so I have to settle for wiping the dampness on my jeans. “Excuse me,” I say, “you’re the one in here listening to me pee, perv. That’s an interesting kink, by the way. Good to know.” I shoot her a wink.
She tries to keep her lips pressed in a flat line, but she breaks. A small chuckle escapes her lips. “Sorry. In my defense, I would’ve said something, but it seemed like you were in a state of emergency. I thought I should let you pee in peace.”
I feel the red heat cool in my cheeks. Interesting… I didn’t expect it to be so easy to talk to her. “Why are you hiding in the bathroom at a party?”
Crossing my arms, I lean back on the bathroom counter and allow myself to soak up the view. Goddamn. She’s even prettier in person.
She’s obviously appealing—big green eyes, thick, red hair, and yes, her tits are the eighth world wonder. Even curled up in the bathtub, she looks flawless, with hair and makeup like she just walked off the red carpet. I’ll admit, I’m missing her freckles tonight… You can only see them when she’s not wearing makeup. Of all of Amani’s “looks,” it’s by far my favorite. Completely natural.
“I’m feeling a little sick.” She shrugs one shoulder.
My jaw ticks. “How long have you been here?” I ask, suddenly concerned when I notice that she’s visibly sweating and looks a little pale. “Did you leave your drink unattended? Did you feel sick after—”
“No,” she says and then exhales as she shakes her head. “No one slipped me anything. It’s nothing like that. I wanted to be a supportive friend for Noa so she didn’t have to come alone, but I probably should’ve stayed home. I’ve been feeling like this all day.” She presses her fingertips against her closed eyelids. “Actually, a while.”
“Feeling like what?”
“Like I’m on fire from the inside.” Pulling the towel off her head, she holds it out. “Would you mind?”
“Course not,” I reply, taking the towel and flipping on the faucet. “Cool or cold?”
“Freezing, please.”
Running the cold water over the towel, I wring it out so just cold dampness remains, then fold it neatly into a strip. Seizing the opportunity to show my chivalry, I ignore her outstretched hand and instead place the cool towel over her forehead. Pressing it gently into her skin, I ask, “Is that okay?”
“Perfect.” She closes her eyes, her full coral-colored lips spread into the cutest smile. Her dark eye makeup perfectly blended, her lips a kissable orangey-pink…
Not a freckle in sight.
“I’m Adam, by the way.” I bite my bottom lip, wondering if I should extend my hand. It’s funny—the day and age of social media. I haven’t formally met Amani, yet I know more about her than I bet she’d be comfortable knowing I do.
“I know who you are, Adam Montgomery.”
“You do?”
She opens one eye. “You’ve messaged me so, so many times.”
My jaw drops and I give her my most incredulous expression. “So you read my messages but just ignore them?”
“Yup.” She chuckles.
“Wow…I…” I return her laugh. “I guess I kind of expected you to deny that. Or at least attempt to feel bad about it.”
She sighs in relief as she tugs the towel off her forehead and uses it to pat her cheeks and then her neck. “Oh, come on. Do you know how many sleazy talent agents and managers slide into my DMs telling me they can make me rich and famous? You don’t think I’ve learned to spot a scam by now?”
I balance a butt cheek on the edge of the porcelain tub by her bare feet. Looking over my shoulder, I see her strappy stilettos kicked to the corner of the bathroom. “First of all, I didn’t say I’d make you rich and famous. Second of all, you know I’m not some scam artist. I manage Chase Ford. It doesn’t get more legitimate than that.”
“Good point.” She raises her eyebrows at me. “Why do you want more clients? Don’t you have your hands full with Chase?”
Yes.“You want the truth?”
“Sure.”
“I just wanted an excuse to talk to you.” I touch the tip of her toe where her bright red polish ends, like a goofy idiot. I don’t even blame her for lightly kicking my hand away. Fuck. Not smooth, Adam.
Her eyes hit the ceiling. “Of course.”
“What is that reaction for?”
Amani sits up in the empty tub and stretches her arms overhead, pushing her firm, plump breasts together as if she’s purposely trying to tease me. “You L.A. guys are all the same. You fall in love with filters, makeup, smoke, and mirrors. You’d be appalled at the real me.” She swivels her finger around her pretty makeup-filled face. “She doesn’t look like this. This took hours to achieve.”
I scoff, admittedly a little irritated now. “That’s not fair.”
“What’s not?”
“Your accusation.” I poke my tongue out at her playfully. “You know, you spend all this time trying to be incredibly sexy on the internet, and you’re”—I fake a gasp and clutch my chest—“offended when a man sees your profile and finds you incredibly sexy. How is that fair? Especially when you show up at a party I’m hosting, looking like that.”
I almost miss it. Almost. But I catch the tail end of her cheeks flushing. They reddened and returned to their normal tone so fast, I bet she thinks I didn’t see her blush at my forward compliment.
“I’m just here for Noa.”
Ah, Noa.The culprit behind this whole impromptu birthday party. After convincing sweetheart, single mom Noa to agree to be his fake girlfriend for a little PR, he needed an excuse to see her again. Making up a birthday party that she needed to make an appearance at seemed like a good excuse to fly her from Denver to L.A. so he could see her again.
“How long have you and Noa been friends?” I ask, trying to sound casual.
“Since diapers.”
“So you’re from—”
“Denver as well. Yes.”
I nod. “How long have you been in L.A.?”
She screws up her face and pinches one eye shut like she’s trying to work out the math. “A little over a year now…I think?” Her eyes pop open suddenly and she points at my chest. “Can I trust Chase around Noa?”
“Huh?”
She taps her lips pensively. “This whole PR scheme you and your team concocted only happened because Noa was here in L.A., visiting me. If this goes to shit, I somehow feel responsible. Can I trust your wrecking-ball, man-whore of a client to be kind and respectful to my best friend? Because the ink is barely dry on her divorce papers. She’s still figuring out how to be a single mom. She’s been through enough.”
I nod. “So has Chase.”
“I’m serious, Adam. Noa’s not the same as the other girls Chase hangs around with. And I warn you if he screws with her—”
“Amani.” I duck my head and lift my eyes to meet hers. “You’re in social media. You understand how rumors work. Whatever you think about Chase and me…I promise you—we’re not the bad guys. Chase has the best intentions and we will protect Noa from the media shitstorm. We know she’s saving our asses by going along with this.”
After challenging my stare for what seems like a minute too long, she finally nods. “Okay, fine.” She rises and then scrambles out of the tub. I hold out my hand for support, but she doesn’t need it. Amani drapes the damp hand towel half over the sink, then collects her shoes in the corner. She doesn’t put them on. Instead, she backs away from me, barefoot.
“Well, this was fun.” She glances at the toilet and then winks at me. “I’m sure I’ll see you around since our friends are friends and all.”
“Wait. Are you feeling better?” I ask. “I can take you home,” I offer, wondering if I’m sounding as desperate as I feel. After months of pining for this woman, I finally have an audience in this tiny bathroom, even if it’s after she heard me take a leak. Not exactly the way I wanted to lay down the moves, but even still, I wish she would stay.
“Nah, you’ve got a party to host.”
“I don’t have to—”
“Adam.” She arches her brows, telling me whatever I’m thinking is not going to happen.
Let it go.
She reaches for the door handle.
Desperate to have the last word, I blurt out, “You turned me on to Twirley’s.”
“What?” Her tone is softer and I know I’ve caught her attention. She lets go of the handle and spins around to face me.
“Yeah. It’s the only coffee I buy now. Twirley’s is twenty minutes out of my way from home to my meetings in Hollywood. I sit in extra traffic almost every day to get my morning coffee when I don’t brew their stuff at home.”
“Really?” She cracks a half-smile.
“Yeah. Really.”
A couple of weeks ago, Amani posted a video about a local coffee company, Twirley’s, that only orders their beans from a local farm in Mexico and insists on paying even more than fair trade standards. She passionately explained everything she’d learned about ethical farming and agriculture at her visit at that coffee shop, all without an ounce of makeup on. Her scant freckles and bright green eyes stole the show. Enough to convince me to head down to Twirley’s and buy ten bags of roasted coffee beans.
She has a superpower, especially when she’s talking about something she really cares about. It must be the damn freckles… The real Amani—unfiltered, authentic, and incredibly interesting—could convince me to buy or do anything.
She tries to hide her grin from spreading but fails. “Their stuff is good, right?”
“It’s great. But what got me in the video you made was how everything is humanely sourced. All the recycled stuff and the ten percent they donate to the local food drive. We need more businesses like that here—businesses that care. I figured if they’re going the extra mile, so can I.”
She bobs her head. The nod loosens her bun and whisps of her richly red hair fall into her face. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
She holds up one palm. “I get paid to make a lot of dumb videos, about a lot of dumb shit. But Twirley’s? I did that unsponsored. Just because I think they’re great and I wanted to help. They deserve to stay in business.” Her smile softens. “Thanks for…your support.”
The way she’s smiling at me, I take my shot. “I’d love to buy you a cup of coffee sometime. From Twirley’s, of course.”
She smirks. “To talk business?”
“To talk about whatever you want.”
She freezes in place for a moment and I swear yes is at the tip of her tongue, but she shakes it off as her jaw drops. “Damn. That was smooth.” She points at my chest. “Really smooth. Nice touch with the innocent intimate details there. You almost had me… Almost.”
Her sassiness only fuels my infatuation. “It doesn’t have to be coffee. It can be a nicer date. We could go to dinner or—” I abruptly stop myself before I can say my place.
“Or what?” she asks, narrowing her eyes.
“Lunch.”
She laughs. “I don’t think so, Adam Montgomery,” she says.
Rubbing the back of my neck, I grimace. “Ouch.”
“Ouch?” Her brows knit together in confusion.
“Yeah. It’s never fun to hear that a pretty girl doesn’t find you attractive in return.” I pretend to pout at her. “There’s only one reason you’d turn me down without really knowing me.”
Rolling her eyes, she crosses the space between us. She drops her shoes before she straightens the collar of my dress shirt with both hands, sending a shiver down my back. She’s so close I can breathe her in.
Fuck.I resist withdrawing.
That smell.
She smells good, but something about that scent makes the hairs on the back of my neck rise. It’s light and floral…like… I can’t quite put my finger on it. But it’s something distinct that I remember.
Amani drops her hands to my shoulders, brushing off the nonexistent crumbs. It seems like she’s just finding any excuse to touch me. I like her hands on me. Her touch is tender, which does not match the goofy cross-eyed smile she flashes me as she pokes her tongue out. “I don’t want your poor ego taking a hit. You’re tolerable.”
I place my hand over hers and she flinches. But she doesn’t pull away as I remove her hand from my shoulder and weave my fingers between hers. “So, it’s my personality? Because I can work on that.” I give her hand a little squeeze and she must feel the little jolt as well because she rips her hand out of my grip.
Taking a small step backward, she says, “Your words, not mine.” She scrunches her nose playfully.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” Not that I’ve seen any indication of a man in Amani’s life on social media. Then again, most successful influencers these days are becoming pretty skilled at talking constantly at the world, yet keeping their private lives private.
“Definitely not,” she mutters, her tone unmistakably bitter. She bends down, her legs pressed together, to scoop her shoes by their straps. Smoothing her dark purple, skin-tight mini dress as she stands, she tries and fails to pull the hem an inch lower. The dress seems determined to ride back up, revealing her mid-thighs.
“Then what’s the issue? If you want me to earn your attention, Amani, just let me know I at least have a shot. Then, believe me, I’m willing to work for it.”
“Right there,” she says. “That’s the issue. Smooth line, Adam. Exactly what a woman wants to hear—”
“Well, I mean it—”
“Which means it’s rehearsed,” she says, cutting me off. She pumps her eyebrows twice and her expression screams that I’m caught. I just don’t know what for.
“Rehearsed?”
“Yes, you flirt. The very first thing I noticed when I walked in tonight was you making your rounds, hitting on everything with a pulse.” She laughs. “I’m not looking to join the body count.”
“I’m sorry, all I just heard is that I was the first person you noticed when you walked in. I’m really flattered. Seriously, I was beginning to think this infatuation was a little one-sided.” I gesture to the space between us while my smile grows wide. Amani seems unimpressed with my teasing, so I exhale and lazily roll my eyes. “I wasn’t hitting on anyone. It’s called schmoozing. Half the people here are playmakers in Hollywood. My literal job is making and keeping connections with these people.”
She deadpans. “The busty blonde who, gun to her head, could not spell the word orange is a Hollywood playmaker?” Her tone is full of skepticism and she’s trying hard not to laugh.
“That…is not…she…” I trail off. To be honest, I’m not stalling due to a guilty conscience. It’s just that half of the women here are blondes with sizable breasts, and most of them are so drunk and high right now, they really couldn’t spell orange. I have no idea who she’s talking about.
Hannah fits the description, and her dad owns Studio Fourteen. Despite her best efforts, it’s why I’ve never touched the girl. A messy fallout after a one-night stand is a great way to piss off her very powerful father and get Chase on the permanent shit list for one of the industry’s biggest production companies.
She holds her palms in the air. “Hey, I’m not trying to be an asshole. Your life seems fun, Adam. But right now, contrary to popular belief, it’s not what I’m looking for.”
I squint at her. “You’re not looking for fun?”
She swivels her pointer finger in the air. “I’m looking for less of this.”
“Listening to strangers pee? Or do you mean celebrity birthday party ragers?”
She chuckles at least. “Both,” she responds.
“Look, Amani, I think you have the wrong impression of me.”
But does she? This is my life. Anything pertaining to Chase is my job, my problem, or my privilege…and yeah, it involves a lot of parties, a lot of schmoozing, and very temporary relationships with women.
She turns the silver handle and steps halfway through the door before she says over her shoulder, “I’ll DM you if my life changes. How about that?” After flashing me a quick smile laced with mischief, she closes the door softly behind her, leaving the scene smooth-as-fuck. James Bond couldn’t have pulled off a better exit.
I let out a low whistle. I’m standing alone in the bathroom, head still spinning after an encounter with the infamous Amani Rhodes.
Dateless…but feeling even more intrigued at this point. I breathe in her lingering perfume one more time before it dissipates.
Honeysuckle.Dammit. That’s it, isn’t it?
Same perfume. Definitely Honeysuckle by Rainelle.
The irony. Of course the first woman I’ve offered to take on a date in years wears the same perfume as my ex-wife.