Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83216 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 416(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 277(@300wpm)
Thanks for last night. It was amazing. I appreciate the tips too. I’ll call the studio tomorrow and tell them I know you. Call me sometime. Rocco
Rocco?
Rocco.
The waiter.
The guy with the perfect ass and the talented mouth. The guy I’d bumped into in the restroom and kissed…and invited to come home with me.
Shit.
I crumpled the note and raced to my cell, my heartbeat reverberating in my ear.
Trending: Pierce Allen, Baxter.
The headline: “Baxter Leaves Fiancée for Waiter.” The new couple was set to marry in June, but apparently love is on the rocks. Pierce Allen was seen leaving a party with the young actor and model.
The photos: me kissing a pretty blond woman, and then…kissing a sexy blond man. And yes, there was plenty of tongue.
And the clincher: a pic of that same sexy man exiting through the wrought iron gate in front of my house on foot to catch his Uber while the paparazzi took ten dozen photos of him from every angle possible.
I had a sinking feeling I knew what Seb’s message meant now.
Fuck. Me.
Seb Rourke paced the length of the Persian rug under his ginormous desk, striding to the windows overlooking Santa Monica Boulevard and back again—one hand on his hip, the other on his phone. He’d been muttering under his breath for a good few minutes. It could almost lull me to sleep if not for the incessant whomp-whomp pulsing in my skull. Sadly, I wasn’t in a position to ask him to hurry this impromptu meeting along.
This was the adult version of getting sent to the principal’s office. I was in trouble. Janet, my manager-slash-keeper, was probably in a little hot water too, but…it was mostly me. I was the problem.
I shifted in the leather seat, glancing over at Seb when he finally stopped moving and flopped into his executive chair. He tossed his cell onto his desk and leaned forward, casting an intense look between us.
Intense was a great way to describe Sebastian Rourke.
He was a fifty-year-old silver fox—six foot three like me, with the lean physique of a runner. We shared the same hair and eye color, though his short dark hair and neatly trimmed beard were streaked with gray, and his blue eyes were a shade paler than mine. If you hadn’t caught on, I was hired to play Baxter, international crime-fighting hero because I resembled a younger Seb Rourke.
It took a Hollywood-esque supersized ego to reinvent a modern-day James Bond character and model him after yourself. It also took big balls. Seb had both. Trust me, I’d seen them up close and personal. More about that later.
The point was…Baxter was Seb’s baby, the vehicle that had launched his studio and made him a fucking fortune. Rourke Studios was now home to a slew of cable network series, ranging from teen coming-of-age sitcoms and children’s morning programs to a new home-and-garden show. And there were always a few movies in the works anchored with the brightest stars and most sought-after directors. Rourke let others manage those enterprises like any savvy COO and CEO would.
But not Baxter.
Baxter was by far the biggest moneymaker for Rourke Studios. It was a multi-billion dollar international industry in practically every form of entertainment imaginable—video games, authorized novels, audiobooks, a podcast, and of course, merchandise. There was even an animated series set for release this coming fall, voiced by yours truly.
It was mind-blowing to be the face behind a universally loved and respected franchise. Yeah, Baxter was Seb’s creation, but those fans were screaming for me. They didn’t think about the writing and vision that breathed life into harrowing car chases and heart-stopping feats of daring in impossibly breathtaking settings around the world. The beauty of cinema was its power to transport us away from reality, if only for a little while.
Reality sucked.
And let’s be real, my fans would be seriously disenchanted if they knew how fucking boring my real life was. I woke up, went to the studio, sat in the makeup trailer for hours at a stretch, read my lines on set, worked out, went home, ordered takeout, and fell asleep on the sofa with chow mein dripping down my chin. And pressed repeat the next day.
Sometimes I felt like I lived in a goddamn cage. Or that goldfish bowl. My every move had to be sanctioned by the studio. Who I dated, where I went, what I wore. No kidding. Those exact words never came up, but it was understood that I was contractually obligated to represent Baxter in the best light possible.
And last night…I’d failed.
“I need to give the PR team a statement before two o’clock.” Seb slapped his hands on his desk and sat up straight. “So, let’s spin this shit show, shall we? We’ve got a few months till we start shooting. That gives us time to divert public attention to something…less salacious. Dating two people at once isn’t gonna fly, so choose—are you dating Daphne or the waiter?”