The Stunt (Tinseltown Dreams #1)

Chapter 1

EMMA

I used to run the trails at Runyon Canyon—headphones in, with nothing but footfalls and birdsong for company—until some photographer with a telephoto lens caught me mid-stride, sweat-soaked sports bra and all.

Three tabloids and one trending hashtag later, here I am: indoors, inhaling other people's sweat.

The gym is a boxy repurposed warehouse on Venice Boulevard, all neon lights and mirrors—mirrors everywhere, bright enough to double as an interrogation room and staged to catch every angle of your own humiliation.

Annie says it builds discipline, forcing you to face yourself.

I think she just likes keeping an eye on every possible trick of posture or fatigue.

In this light, everyone looks slightly jaundiced. Especially me.

“Four more,” Annie says. She’s watching me through the glass of her water bottle, eyes magnified and predatory.

My arms are already shaking, but the voice in my ear is calm, crisp, merciless.

“Three.” My reflection squints back at me, wild-haired and determined, spittle darkening the seam of my mouth.

I lower the dumbbells, and wipe a smear of sweat off my brow with the back of my hand.

“I’m buying you a coffin-shaped couch and a personal IV drip,” I say, before I realize how breathless it sounds.

Annie snorts. She adores suffering, but only in others.

Behind her, a trio of influencers angle their asses into the mirror, perfect teeth glittering as they compare app-provided stats.

There’s a dog somewhere under the incline benches, a Maltese splayed cheerfully while its owner squats and grunts.

“Big weekend, right?” Annie asks. She snaps off her gloves. “You want hot tips for your first press junket with top billing?”

I wrinkle my nose. “I’d rather forget the camera exists, just once.”

“That’s not how this town works.” Annie points a finger at the mirror. “You want to play the game, you hustle. Nobody waits for you to get comfortable.”

She’s right, of course, but the thought of tomorrow—my first press day for the Eclipse Run rollout—makes my stomach do a lazy backstroke. All I want is to finish this set and go home to a bath and the cheap sushi waiting in my fridge.

I’m halfway through my last rep when my phone, parked on the gym mat, vibrates so violently it nearly tips itself over. The screen lights up with “Jessie – URGENT” in all caps, four times in a row. I set the weights down with a clatter and yank my towel from the rail.

Annie sees the look on my face and says, “That better not be a fire.”

“It’s a Jessie,” I say, already dialing back. “So, probably a hurricane.”

Jessie picks up before the first ring finishes. “Em, I need to see you. Now.” In the background, the sound of traffic, a honk, the shrill beep of a crosswalk.

I clench my jaw. “I’m at the gym. I look like a raccoon drowned in Gatorade.”

“Perfect,” Jessie says. “Don’t shower. I’ll be there in ten.”

True to her word—and the urgency encoded in her DNA—Jessie barrels in seventeen minutes later, tailored blazer covering God knows what, hair pulled into a no-nonsense knot.

She looks at the gym like it’s a growing anthill, and I’m her favorite scout.

She sits on my bench before I’ve had a chance to finish my cool-down stretches.

“What’s the code red?” I ask, half stretching, half bracing for impact.

Jessie looks left, then right, lowering her voice as if the squat racks are bugged for Page Six. “Studio needs a narrative,” she says.

“I’m pretty sure I gave them one,” I say. “Remember? The script? The whole month of shooting?”

She shakes her head. “The real narrative, Emma. Off-screen. We need to tease the public, get them obsessed early. The old will-they-or-won’t-they, but modern. And, obviously, something that plays to the cameras.”

I taste salt in the back of my throat. “I’m not a character on TV. You can’t just assign me a new narrative.”

“You want the truth?” Jessie leans in. “You’re about to open this festival. You need to look interesting enough to sell your next three movies, but not so messy that they get nervous. The studio has a plan.”

I laugh. It’s a wet, unattractive sound. “And I’m what, the Bachelorette?”

Jessie bites her lower lip, eyes darting in calculation. “Not quite. They want you and Asher Dixon to pretend to be in love.”

The words hang there, an oil slick on water. I imagine Annie eavesdropping with her magnificent gym rat ears.

“You’re joking,” I say. My face is hot.

“It won’t be a big thing. Just… lean into it when you’re asked. Leave it mysterious. No comment on your private life, but play up the chemistry.”

I feel suddenly raw, the way I did on the first day of shooting Eclipse Run, when the entire crew counted backwards from ten, and all the world’s expectation landed squarely on my chest. I should have known this was part of the deal; even so, the reality of it stings.

Asher Dixon is a bonafied star. We worked together on Eclipse Run last year, though our characters barely crossed paths.

Between takes, he’d bring coffee for the entire crew, remembering everyone’s order perfectly, then casually mention his upcoming Marvel audition three times in five minutes.

He was nice enough, but the kind of nice that feels like it’s been rehearsed in front of a mirror.

His smile never quite reaches his eyes when he talks to the grips or PAs.

He’s probably done this very thing before.

But I haven’t.

Jessie stands up, smoothing her blazer. “They want lunch. Tomorrow. Just you, Asher, and the studio publicist.” She hesitates before adding, “He already said yes.”

I let my arms hang between my knees, eyes tracking a single bead of sweat as it slides down my shin. Annie rolls up yoga mats in the corner, pretending not to listen.

I stare at the polished gym floor, watching my reflection distort in the gleaming surface.

“Guess I have no choice,” I say, my voice hollow against the rhythmic thud of treadmills and clanking weights.

The studio executives sit in their sleek Century City offices with views of the Hollywood sign, making decisions about my life while I stand here drenched in sweat, my hair plastered to my forehead.

When your star is still rising—a fragile, flickering thing that could be snuffed out with one wrong move—you play whatever game they choose.

Jessie smiles, triumphant and relieved. “I’ll text you the address.”

She’s already striding for the exit, Louboutin heels clicking against the gym’s rubber flooring like a metronome counting down my dignity, when I recheck my phone.

Three notifications, all from Google Alerts, each one a tiny digital grenade.

The top article: “Emma Rowan and Asher Dixon: On-Screen Sparks or More?” accompanied by a cropped photo of me—faded black Lululemon leggings with a coffee stain near the knee, frayed gym bag that’s seen better days, face stripped bare of even tinted moisturizer—leaving Pressed Juicery on Sunset next to a blurry male silhouette in a Yankees cap pulled low.

Jesus Christ, now they’ve wrangled my bodyguard Marcus, who’s gay and happily married with twins, into these Hollywood mating rituals.

At least his hubby will get a kick out of this.

At the very least, it will make for interesting dinner conversation.

As I slip into the driver’s seat of my Range Rover, I wonder, for the thousandth time, why anyone would bother watching a movie when the city is full of stories better than fiction.