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)
I owed Sebastian Rourke a debt I could never repay. Baxter was the role of a lifetime, and I knew most actors never came close to sniffing an opportunity like it. But if Seb had taught me anything, it was that you had to look out for Number One in this town. I had no idea how long he planned to keep the Baxter franchise going. Indefinitely, I hoped. If that wasn’t the case, it was smart to play the game and act as though I were in awe of some of these schmucks before sitting next to my date at our table with Seb, his husband, Trent, and the Rourke Studios team.
As expected, the ceremony was a tad dull.
Don’t get me wrong. I loved the casual ambience of clinking china and muted conversation while bejeweled emcees gave canned speeches and told jokes they couldn’t get away with at the Academy Awards. But it was the same spiel as usual. At least the food was good, and the drinks were plentiful.
I tipped back my third glass of champagne and happily accepted my fourth, leaning aside so the extremely hot waiter could hand over a flute to my date without spilling. Christ, he was fucking gorgeous. Blond hair, blue eyes, dimples…sold.
My gaze was locked on his ass when he bent to retrieve the empty glasses. He straightened and caught my stare, then flashed a lopsided sexy grin.
“Can I get you something else, Mr. Allen?”
I opened my mouth to say fuck knows what just as Sebastian spoke up.
“Thank you. We’re all set here.”
“Yes, sir. Let me know if you need anything.” Mr. Hottie nodded at my boss but stole one more lingering sex-charged glance my way before moving on.
Yeah, I craned my neck like a cartoon character to get another peek at the perfect round globes in those snug trousers. I couldn’t help myself. The dude was smokin’ hot, and I was…tipsy.
Nope. Drunk. Definitely drunk.
Was it me, or was it hot in here?
Trent kicked me under the table and inclined his chin meaningfully. “Daphne was just telling me about a recent episode on her podcast. What was it again— ‘The Demise of Femme Fatales in Film’?”
“That’s right,” Daphne replied. “Girls need stories about strong female role models who can take care of themselves. I couldn’t believe the response. I mean, Sebastian Rourke contacted us about using our material for a miniseries and suddenly, I’m here, at the Golden Globes…with Pierce Allen, no less.”
I set my hand over hers impulsively and squeezed. “And don’t forget we’re getting married, too.”
Her answering toothy smile was so bright it almost blinded me. “In June.”
“Oh, yeah?” Trent narrowed his gaze, his lips curled at the corners in amusement. “For some reason, I thought you’d just met.”
“When you know, you know,” I slurred, waggling my brows.
My date practically launched herself onto my lap and threw her arms over my shoulders just as the photographers descended.
Current situation: I was riding the high of a lifetime in the spotlight, buzzed on quality champagne, surrounded by important people, with a gorgeous woman wrapped around me like a koala. Should I kiss her?
Sure, there’d be rumors to deal with in the morning, but the morning was hours away and I was only human. And yes…schnockered.
So, I kissed her.
And you know, it was a nice kiss. It wasn’t going to change my life or anything, but kissing was fun and she was sweet and single—I hoped.
I broke for air amid the barrage of clicking cameras and rested my forehead on hers.
“Everyone is looking at us,” she purred.
“Probably. Hey, what was your name again?”
I thought she answered, thought I told myself to remember, but the night got fuzzy fast in a haze of lights, music, applause, laughter, and mindless chatter.
Someone must have been managing me to some extent. I was aware of being coaxed to drink water and to not smile quite so much. I vaguely recalled thinking Seb looked pissed and wondering why. I mean, he knew Baxter didn’t stand a chance at winning best picture.
Shit. Did I say that out loud?
I might have, ’cause he’d glowered and said something about a meeting in the morning. Trent patted my shoulder like an indulgent parent and told me to find someone named Daphne. I had no idea who the fuck Daphne was. I hung out at the bar instead, flirting with a famous director who kept running her fingernails along the inside seam of my tux till my bladder protested.
I must have made my way to the restroom and—boom! There he was. Mr. Hottie.
I really wished I could remember what happened next. It had to have been good. We probably made out and maybe even got frisky in a bathroom stall before I suggested taking the action somewhere private. But I honestly had no memory.