Chapter 2
Sebastian
“I don’t know why you put up with that assistant of yours,” Allegra complains, admiring herself in the mirror. She’s lounging against the counter of my bathroom sink while I splash water on my face to wake up properly so I can be interviewed by a journalist who would happily decimate me in print.
My expression hardens. “Be careful what you say. Emma’s been in my life a lot longer than you have. And she’ll still be here no matter what happens between us.”
Allegra puts a conciliatory hand on my arm. “You’re so loyal, even to the little people.”
Dating one of the most gorgeous women in the world should be tempting. Instead, I feel myself wishing she’d leave, and not only because of what she said about Em. I sigh, wondering, not for the first time, if this is what dating is supposed to feel like. Like an obligation.
I have no frame of reference. Before Allegra, I only did temporary.
Lately, though, all my friends are getting happily hitched. I’ve watched my best friend and costar Chase fall for his pen pal, Olivia. They’re engaged now, and I barely recognize the smiling bastard. Chase says that being with Olivia feels like the best version of coming home.
My friend Ryder had a similar transformation. He’s engaged to Chase’s younger sister, Daisy. I’ve never seen the rock star look so happy.
I finally decided to give the dating thing a shot, testing it out in the manner of an experiment.
For the first time ever, I’m taking things slow with a woman.
It hasn’t been hard to do. With our travel schedule, we’re rarely in the same time zone.
Hell, we haven’t even slept together yet.
But so far, this test has been a bust. It’s confirmed what I always suspected—I’m not wired for anything more than temporary.
Allegra is stunning, smart, and, best of all, she understands the weird world I live in. She doesn’t mind the incessant photographers and can deal with the constant tabloid gossip and social media conspiracy theories that come as a result of dating me.
But being with her doesn’t feel like coming home. I’ve never had that emotion in someone’s arms.
Except… A little voice niggles.
Except this morning, in those quick seconds between dreaming and waking. As I drifted into consciousness, I was surrounded by soft skin, delicious warmth, and a scent I still can’t get out of my mind. But more than that, I had an inexplicable feeling of peace. Just as Chase had described.
Thinking it was Allegra in my arms, I was, at long last, absolutely, one hundred percent happy with her. I was finally impatient to take this to the next level.
But then I opened my eyes.
And found it wasn’t Allegra after all.
It was Emma.
Though I tried to play it off, I’m left shaken. I tell myself it’s no big deal. That feeling of rightness and peace and, yes, lust, must have been the lingering effects of a dream.
I can’t think of Emma in that way. Her presence in my life is too important to risk. I may be a blunt ass most of the time, but I’m not a creep. I don’t hit on my employees. My father did that. I vowed long ago never to behave like him.
Being bad at relationships is a family tradition the Blakes pass down, like a Thanksgiving recipe or Thursday game night, not that we have either of those.
Marriage for us is especially fraught. My dad’s had three tries and fails at the altar.
My mom’s searching for husband number four.
And my grandparents weren’t much better.
Blakes have raised hurting the people they care about to an art form.
Hollywood just makes all that worse. No couple lasts here.
“Babe, are you okay?” Allegra asks. “You seem a little freaked out. Don’t tell me you’re nervous about the interview.”
I swear. The interview. I’m going to be very late.
“I’m fine,” I say, though my fingers fumble to fasten the buttons to my shirt.
I’m not freaked out, I repeat to myself. At least, not about the interview.
“Mr. Blake? Am I boring you?”
I blink at the reporter, who’s glaring at me in annoyance.
Emma was right. This journalist is a shark. She isn’t even pretending to find me charming. Most reporters wait to unleash their disdain, saving it for their articles instead of in person. But it’s clear Charlotte Jones couldn’t care less what I think of her.
“Sorry. What was the question again?” I ask with my best grin, which usually turns even my haters into fans.
She doesn’t crack a smile. And is that an eye roll?
I try to relax my tense shoulders. I rarely get nervous from media attention. Paparazzi, journalists, and fans have always been part of the landscape of my life. I don’t rail against them any more than I would yell at the sun for blazing down on me or the wind for blowing too hard.
They just… are.
What I hate, though, is censoring myself.
I hate that in order to build back up to unimpeachable A-list status, I need this stupid redemption-arc storyline my PR team is trying to craft.
I need to go from bad-boy to serious actor in the public perception.
But the rebellious part of me wants to trash the carefully constructed talking points because I stopped my people-pleasing bullshit years ago and don’t want to go back to it.
She tries to pierce me with her laser-like stare.
“Let’s talk about your history, shall we?
You spent your childhood building a stellar acting résumé.
But you destroyed your reputation and almost killed yourself in a car accident because of a drug addiction, all before you entered rehab at eighteen.
Do you think your family was disappointed in you?
After all, your parents and grandparents are icons in Hollywood. ”
I’m tempted to explain that my Oscar-award-winning father has never not been disappointed in me. And my mother really should go to rehab, if only I could talk her into it.
I look over at Emma. She’s lounging in a chair near the door, pretending to look at her phone, but I know she’s listening to every word.
And it’s as if she can read my mind. She widens her eyes and then shakes her head emphatically.
I raise my eyebrow, amused at her obvious panic. She shoots me another warning glance.
I go for the next best thing. “Well, considering my grandparents loved a good scandal and were involved in more than their fair share, I doubt anything I’ve done would shock them,” I joke.
Emma makes a strangled sound. The reporter’s head whips around to her.
“It’s nothing. Just swallowed wrong,” Emma says, waving her hand. But when the reporter looks away, Emma’s face sets into a fierce glare directed at me.
As much as I love teasing her, I know she’s right. I need to toe the line in this stupid interview. I’ve worked too hard to engage in my usual bullshit. Too much is at stake.
With a sigh of disappointment, I give Emma a brief nod, silently showing that I’ll play nice, even though it’s boring as hell. She has always been better at getting me to hold my tongue than my publicist, which is why she’s here.
The frowning Ms. Jones waits for me to say more. Her phone sits between us, recording the conversation.
“I wish my grandparents were still alive to give me advice,” I add with sincerity. “They were my biggest cheerleaders.” You don’t actually need to answer a reporter’s questions. Deflect, deflect, deflect. That’s what a lifetime of media training taught me, even if I often ignored the lessons.
Charlotte Jones crosses her legs, ruffles her stylishly messy hair, and leans forward.
She must know that she will get nowhere by going down that track because she says, “I understand your grandmother left you this mansion when she died.” She looks around at the airy, elegant formal sitting room that’s virtually unchanged from when I was a child.
I lived with my grandparents whenever my father and mother were otherwise occupied, which was usually.
I pick up my coffee cup to take another sip, needing the caffeine to keep my patience strong, but I frown to find it empty.
And just like that, Emma appears at my side with a fresh cup. I’m not surprised. She’s always been able to anticipate my needs before I even know them myself.
“Thanks, Em,” I say. I drum a beat on the arm of the chair with my fingers.
Her hand brushes mine in a subtle movement to settle my fidgeting as she leans over to set the drink on the table.
I freeze and look up at her. That slow brush is enough to remind me of this morning.
To remind me of the curve of her ass in my hands.
How she always smells of gardenias. How my groggy brain should have realized instantly that she wasn’t Allegra because of that scent.
Emma breathes out slowly and turns to the reporter. “Would you like another cup of tea?” she asks, a breathless note to her voice. I wonder if she’s thinking of this morning as well. But maybe I’m imagining things.
“I’d love one,” Charlotte says. She’s watching my assistant with the eyes of a hawk, taking in every detail. “If you don’t mind, could you steep this one longer? Milk and two sugars.”
Once Emma leaves the room, Charlotte pins me with a smile and a calculating look. I feel like a moth caught under a microscope. “Your assistant has been with you for a long time…”
“Yes.”
She’s silent, once again playing the waiting game to see if I’ll crack under the pressure and start blabbing to fill the space between us. But I have no problem with awkward silences.
I lean back and flash her an easy grin.
“How long has she worked for you? Her name is Emma Reynolds, right?” she finally asks.
“Seven years and four months,” I say without thinking.
“And four months, huh?” she says with a small smile. She pauses for a beat. “That’s a long time. I’ve read that she got the job because her father was your addiction counselor, and she was initially hired as your sobriety coach.”
My affable look turns into a glare. Vague details about how and why I hired Emma were leaked in the media years ago, probably by someone at the rehab center where her dad worked.
Fans have always been fascinated by my longtime relationship with my assistant since she appears at my side so often in photos.
However, she’s rarely brought up in interviews.
Why would she be? She’s my assistant, not a girlfriend, regardless of my fandom’s sometimes obsessive, parasocial bullshit.
But Ms. Jones isn’t done. “There are fans who ‘ship’ you with her, believing the two of you have an intimate relationship.”
I arrange my face into a bland mask, pretending not to be concerned at Emma’s name being dragged into this interview.
I know from experience that the worst thing I can do is react.
Any strong emotion is blood in the water to reporters.
And I don’t want Emma to get pulled into the chaos that is my press.
I force myself to smile blithely, though my face feels like it might crack from the effort. “There are also rumors that I’m secretly married and have four kids with my costar from Rebels Academy,” I say lightly. “But that doesn’t make it true.”
She tilts her head down, looking at the notes in front of her. “There was speculation on social media that dating Allegra Jameson is just a smoke screen to hide your relationship with Ms. Reynolds.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I scoff.
“Yet your assistant even lived with you for a while. Tell me, Mr. Blake, are you sleeping with her?”
My control snaps. “You can write whatever the hell you want about me. But one more inappropriate comment about Emma and this ends here. You understand?”
She smiles widely. “Oh, I understand,” she murmurs. “I think I understand pretty well.”
Fuck. I knew she was baiting me. Riling me up is a classic tactic to get me to say something careless. And I played right into her hands like an amateur.
I clench my jaw. “Next topic.”
Charlotte Jones leans forward, smiling like a cat about to play with the canary.
“Let’s move on to the rumors that you’re the lead contender to take over the starring role in Dario Mancini’s final film before his retirement.
It’s the most sought-after role in Hollywood.
Practically a guaranteed Oscar. Can you comment on that? ”
My heart kicks up at the mention of the famous director. I grit my teeth. “It’s a rumor,” I dismiss.
“It’s no secret that you’re trying to prove to the world that you can live up to your family’s acting legacy. You told The Times News that you have ten prestigious directors you want to work with. And you’ll be ticking them off your list in the next few years.”
She’s right about that. I’ve worked hard trying to leave my heartthrob status behind so I can sink my teeth into meatier roles.
I may act like I don’t give a fuck, but it’s a front.
In almost every way that matters, work is all I’ve known.
I took my first steps on a film set. I don’t mark the passing of my years by what school grade I was in when I made certain memories.
I mark them by what film or television character I played.
After my flameout and rehab, almost no director would touch me.
But with the success of The Wanderers, a small indie movie that hit it big, I’ve regained a lot of my popularity and am officially back on the A-list. But I’m still not being taken seriously.
I’m the leading man you hire when you want good looks and charisma.
Not the actor you hire when you want Oscar buzz.
Or to make cutting-edge cinema. When I achieve that, I’ll finally prove that I belong.
Belong in my famous family. Because if I’m not an actor, I’m not sure who or what I am.
It’s all I’ve known since I was a kid. And clichéd as it is, I freaking love acting.
I love it all—being on set, working with other creatives, performing and escaping into a character.
Em, with her impeccable timing, shuffles back into the room with a cup of tea for the reporter, interrupting us. When she leaves, the interview continues, and I direct us to safer ground. Good questions are asked and answered. Inappropriate questions are asked and deflected.
But all the while, I’m going over our brief conversation about Emma. I revealed nothing, I reassure myself. The writer has nothing.
Emma is strictly my assistant. So there’s nothing to reveal anyway.