Star-Crossed Assistant (Falling for Famous #4)

Chapter 1

Emma

“Sebastian! Wake. Up.”

There are many things I can say about being the assistant to movie star Sebastian Blake.

In the seven years I’ve been working for him, it’s been…

Occasionally glamorous. Often infuriating. Never boring. Some days, I’d prefer boring. And on worse days, I question every life decision that led me here.

Especially when Sebastian is late for an important appointment and I’m on wake-up duty because he’s a night owl who invariably sleeps through every alarm he sets.

I rap on his door as hard as I can. “Sebastian! Do you hear me? The reporter is here. Now.”

The most notorious celebrity journalist, Charlotte Jones, is waiting in his sitting room to interview him for Modern Man’s cover article.

I bang a little harder on the door. “Sebastian! If you don’t answer me, I’m coming in.”

Taking a deep breath, I straighten my navy-blue pencil skirt, adjust my crisp white blouse, and open the door with more badass bluster than I feel.

I firm my jaw as I step into the room. My stomach does a flip at the sight before me. Relief wars with butterflies.

He’s alone—asleep in his enormous California king bed. Dark gray pillows matching his Egyptian cotton duvet are strewn on the floor. A sheet is almost completely kicked off, covering only the bare essentials.

I hate that his unearthly good looks affect me, even after all these years of working together.

He comes by his attractiveness naturally, growing up in a family of Hollywood icons.

He went from child actor to teen heartthrob.

He was bigger than Zac. Than Justin. But he eventually rebelled.

Partying turned to addiction, leaving broken movie contracts and women’s hearts in its destructive wake.

Now, at twenty-nine, he’s somewhat reformed and has been working to regain the reputation he lost.

Sebastian has had nine damn lives.

And his latest life is entirely run by me.

This cover article, if played right, is just what he needs to boost him firmly back into the highest echelon of movie stardom.

Or it could be, if he doesn’t sleep right through it.

I’m annoyed at the PR company’s mishandling of the interview logistics.

And at Sebastian’s night-owl tendencies and habit of not checking his phone.

“Sebastian!” I cry, approaching the bed.

He makes a sound, a quiet moan, that hits me right in my core, but he still doesn’t stir.

Leaning over him, I touch his shoulder, his heat seeping into my skin. His body runs hot. Metaphorically as well as literally.

I ignore the kick of electricity at the feel of smooth skin over hard muscle.

My eyes take in his ridiculously long black lashes. Stubble softens a defined jawline. Jet-black hair falls across his forehead, making him appear younger, less sophisticated. Less jaded.

I lean across the bed farther, shove his shoulder, and hiss into his ear, “Wake up!”

He groans again, snoring lightly, and rolls toward me. At his movement, I startle and lose my balance as my heels slide on his marble floor. I tip and fall onto him.

“Eeeep!” I cry, sprawled over him awkwardly. The sleeping man’s strong arms pull me closer.

Mayday! Mayday! Inconvenient excitement runs through my traitorous body.

Keeping my cool is a skill I’ve honed over the years. I call on the armor of professionalism that I don every day and try to roll off him, careful not to impale him with my stilettos.

Though if he doesn’t wake up soon, that may be my next approach.

I poke his shoulder again, really digging in this time. “Let. Me. Go!” I grit out.

“Ow, Allegra, what the hell. I told you we’re not—” Sebastian’s brilliant blue eyes pop open, looking straight into mine.

I can tell exactly when his sleep-addled brain realizes it’s me in his arms and not the gorgeous model-actress he’s been seeing.

Because that’s when his confused expression shifts into shock. And maybe horror.

I narrow my eyes. “Not Allegra. So kindly remove your hand from my ass. Thanks.”

I used to complain about the women friends in Sebastian’s life.

It was my job to arrange for flower deliveries, make dinner reservations.

Buy generous goodbye gifts since he didn’t do relationships.

Until recently. For the first time since I’ve known him, he’s actually dating someone, and she’s lasted for months.

Allegra. I preferred the multitude.

“Oh shit, Emma. Sorry.” Sebastian whips his hands off my body. He couldn’t have moved faster if he were going at light speed, like his character in his blockbuster movie The Wanderers.

I scramble off him, my pencil skirt straining further, and say a prayer to the clothing gods that it doesn’t rip.

That would be all I need for my humiliation to be complete.

Plus, I got this skirt for next to nothing from my favorite designer consignment shop.

It’s not easy for a girl to dress to impress in LA—not on a budget like mine.

I do a lot more than a typical personal assistant, and I’ve learned that to be taken seriously in Hollywood, you need to look the part.

Sebastian scrubs a weary hand against his too-handsome face. “Fuck. I thought you were—I thought…” He trails off and scratches his stubbled jaw.

I smooth my hair and tuck my white blouse back into my skirt.

“It’s ten fifteen. You’re late for the interview.”

There’s confusion in his gaze. “I’m not late. The meeting with that reporter is at noon.”

“Lord, you promised me you’d check your phone more often.

I’ve called you a dozen times between last night and this morning, but you never answered,” I say in exasperation.

“I had a meeting, so I wasn’t able to be here earlier, but I left you multiple messages.

The interview got moved up, and the PR agency failed to notify us.

The journalist just arrived. Marie is keeping her distracted with her famous scones. ”

When I think about the hellish traffic I just endured trying to break every land speed record to go from my apartment to the downtown offices of his charitable foundation and then to Malibu, I feel exhausted, and the day has barely started.

Sebastian shrugs and runs a hand through his perfectly cut hair. “Well, it’s not my fault someone fucked up. I was at a party last night. And then we hopped on a flight to Vegas with friends of Allegra’s. My phone died, and I didn’t have a charger.”

At my expression, Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Hey, this is not on me. I made sure I flew back for the interview. I even set two alarms to be up.”

“What is this aversion you have to answering phones and checking messages?”

“My therapist at rehab would probably say that because I spent my formative years with every waking minute scheduled, I now value my freedom,” he says with a lazy grin. “Isn’t being unplugged supposed to be a virtue?”

“That’s surprisingly self-aware. But regardless, I’m going to staple your phone charger to your ass.”

He yawns. “Why didn’t you call Marie? She would have woken me with a smile and a giant cup of coffee. Unlike some people,” he says with a raised eyebrow.

“I tried to call your saint of a housekeeper, but she didn’t answer.

” I stalk to his vast walk-in closet, grab a pair of neatly folded jeans from a stack, and then pull a white linen shirt from a hanger.

“You don’t have time for a shower. Charlotte Jones will eviscerate you if you keep her waiting much longer.

She’s the one who wrote that takedown article about Finn Lyons. ”

“Oh man,” he says with a laugh. “Is she the reporter he hooked up with? That interview is legendary.”

“I sent you her comprehensive bio when this was first scheduled. Don’t you ever read the reports I compile?”

“Em, if I read every report, I wouldn’t have time to actually do anything else, like act. Or live my life. And I read fast.”

“Sometimes it feels like I care more about your career than you do.”

“Correction. You worry more about my career.”

“Well, you need to worry about this reporter. Her article on Anton Capelli practically ended him. She made him seem like a pretentious mess when he spent three days with her, crying about his ex and quoting the romantic poets. She won’t leave out a single damaging detail.”

“I’m scared,” he says, not looking scared at all. “Remind me again why we’re doing the interview?”

“Because her profiles are guaranteed to go viral, so the studio wants this. Your job is to remind the world that you’re a serious actor, so showing up late and looking hungover won’t help.

Here.” I toss him the clothes I pulled from the closet.

“Wear these. The combination says casual but rich as hell.”

Sebastian’s bathroom door swings open, startling me. Standing in the doorway is Allegra Jameson. I hadn't even realized she was here. Or that she’d stayed over last night.

She saunters into the room in a tiny white tank top and even tinier skirt.

Allegra’s perfect body is proof that the Lord favors certain people.

It’s also further proof there’s zero chance that I’d ever make it as a model. I like cake too much. And hate the gym. Which is a good thing, really, since I have no time for bench presses. Or Pilates.

“Thanks for taking care of me last night,” she addresses my boss. “You were so sweet. Lord, I was wasted.” She gives a throaty laugh.

He clears his throat, glancing at me. “Allegra couldn’t find her house keys, so she stayed over,” he says, as if he needs to explain her presence. Which makes no sense since they’re dating.

Strolling across the room, she grabs one of his dress shirts that’s draped over the back of a chair. She shrugs into it but doesn’t do the buttons. Her gleaming skin is still very much on display.

Allegra’s been at the house several times over the last few months, but it’s the first time I’ve seen her here in the morning.

The first year I worked for him, I’d secretly have given anything to be the one to wear his shirt and sleep in his bed.

I’d been a twenty-year-old living in Los Angeles on my own for the first time. I was not equipped for life outside of my small town or a job as an assistant in Sebastian Blake’s high-flying world. I was too soft back then for LA. I hadn’t grown armor yet.

It didn’t take me long, though, to realize exactly what I needed to survive.

And what I didn’t need. A fascination with my handsome, famous, occasionally charming, pain-in-the-ass boss, who had never shown any interest in me and had his pick of the most beautiful women in the world, was not what I needed.

Good thing that girl grew up. And my crush died a fiery death.

“Emily,” Allegra drawls. “You’re here. Again.”

She likes to play this game and pretend she doesn’t know my name. So I enjoy playing it right back. It’s fun.

“Yes, Arabella. Bless your heart, you’re so observant,” I drawl, slipping in a little of my old Southern accent. It’s nearly extinct after all these years in LA, but I still pull it out on occasion.

Sebastian coughs. I glance at him, and he covers the small smile playing on his lips with a hand.

“It’s Allegra. And you know it,” she snaps tightly.

I’m usually polite to Sebastian’s women. Over the years, I’ve even befriended a few. The nice, friendly ones. But Allegra is not a nice one. She doesn’t consider a personal assistant who carries a laptop instead of a Birkin bag to be someone worth her time.

And suddenly I’m back in my home town, feeling like the poor kid being stared down by the rich, popular girl, pathetic in my patched-up jeans and messy hair.

I remind myself that the only power she has over me is what I give to her.

“I’ll be right out, Em. Go down and stall the reporter. You’re good at bullshitting,” Sebastian says.

Allegra turns her attention back to my boss. “The reporter is welcome to interview me. I can give her glowing quotes, darling,” she says with a grin. I can already see the wheels turning in her brain as she calculates how she can gain publicity for herself.

That’s one thing about Allegra. I may not love her, but she’s got grit and is relentless in pursuing her goals. And one of those goals is to leverage Sebastian’s fame to gain a leg up in the industry.

He smiles smoothly at the beautiful model but doesn’t take her up on her offer.

He rises from the bed. The white sheet slips away.

My breath whooshes out at the sight of him in crisp navy-blue boxer shorts.

I whip my head away from further evidence that he does indeed wake happy.

“I’ll handle it. I always do,” I mutter. Then I let myself out of the big, glossy bedroom, walk down the big, glossy spiral staircase, across the foyer and into the sitting room to stall the journalist who is almost as famous as the celebrities she writes about.

I stumbled into this odd life seven years ago, and I somehow stayed on the same path.

What if I just keep walking? Stroll past the reporter. Keep on walking out of the mansion. What if I give voice to those two little words that play through my head all the time?

I quit.

I could quit the inconsistent schedule. The late nights. Being on call twenty-four seven. The travel that sounds glamorous but is really just a series of endless hotel rooms and jet lag.

What if I quit sitting on the sidelines, watching others build their careers and chase their dreams, while my own hopes lie dormant and my relationships remain nonexistent?

Because the truth is, Sebastian’s personality and fame burn so bright that they suck up all the oxygen in any room.

In the seven long years I’ve been his assistant, I haven’t figured out how to have both a life and this job.

So I wonder as I walk through the white-walled, high-ceilinged space. I wonder what would happen if I said those two words. I quit.

Would Sebastian Blake even care?