Page 3 of Princes of Hollywood

One of my best memories was at the beach. I don’t have many good memories to draw on.

As I wait, a white car drives slowly behind me. Could it be paparazzi? When I start to turn, they drive off. Weird.

“Yes?” The static-crackled male voice doesn’t sound like Roarke.

“Greer Morrow to see Roarke Flynn.” Time to play professional.

“For fuck’s sake, Roarke, did you order a prostitute?” It sounds like he’s yelling into the house. A second passes while he waits for a reply, and I die a little inside. Not that kind of professional.

“Oh shit. Did you hear that?” he says after a moment.

Heat claws its way up to my hairline. What the hell am I walking into? “Um, yes.”

“Fuck, sorry.” The gate buzzes and opens slowly. “Come to the main door and I’ll let you in.”

I consider backing up and just driving away. Surely, I can find another job and a place to live. Maybe I could just drive down the coast until I run out of gas or Old Betsy dies. Suddenly, I’m regretting not changing out of my oversized T-shirt and jeans with flip-flops. I could have done something with my long hair instead of leaving it in a messy bun.

When the gates fully open, I pull forward. Might as well make a complete fool of myself. At least they won’t mistake me for a prostitute. As I crest the hill, the house fills my vision. White multiple stories with enormous windows. Gorgeous. It’s massive, and as I pull up the driveway, there are two four-car garages on either side of me.

Neither Old Betsy nor I fit in here, but at least I’ll meet my Hollywood crush in the flesh. I can tell my grandkids someday that I met the Roarke Flynn, and they’ll say who? Because who knows actors from when their grandparents were younger?

I grab a tube of cherry ChapStick out of my purse and swipe it over my lips. And that’s all the makeup I have with me, so it will have to do. I’m a mess. My insides churn with nerves. Why am I even here?

Pressing my head against the steering wheel, I take a deep breath. This is insane. Bristol works in the Hollywood machine. She wouldn’t lead me astray. If she thinks I can do this, then hopefully I can do it.

Fake it till you make it.

When I step out of my car, I smell the ocean on the wind. I can’t see it from here, but I can hear the crashing waves and feel the salty air on my skin. What would it be like to live here?

Our apartment in the city is as far away from nature as possible. But here, fruit trees and greenery surround the house. The lawn is lush green grass, making me itch to slip my flip-flops off and dig my toes into it.

Drawing in a breath, I climb the stairs leading to the door. As I approach, I see the shadow of a very tall man walking toward the glass door. He comes closer. His light brown hair is an unruly mess, almost covering his hazel eyes. He’s only wearing a pair of gray sweats. His bare chest is defined, and a black tattoo crawls over his shoulder against his tan skin.

He opens the door and gives me a self-deprecating smile. “Sorry about that. You never know with Roarke.”

His voice rolls over me like warm molasses, and a shiver of awareness rushes along my spine. He holds his hand out.

“Wyatt.”

I take his hand to shake it and feel a pulse of attraction flow through me. His eyes roam over me. I’m short, so it doesn’t take him long to look me over, but his eyes are interested when they meet mine.

Shaking off the awareness, I smile. “Greer Morrow.”

His hand slides from mine. I resist the urge to rub my hand to rid it of the tingles he left behind.

“Follow me.” He backs into the house. As I follow him across the warm wood floors, I take in the white rugs and furniture with dark green throw pillows. The fireplace is black. The open room flows into a dining room with walls of accordion glass doors open to a shimmering blue pool. A wine room peeks out from behind the dining room table.

I’m used to the normal-height ceilings of my apartment, but these ceilings are at least two of me, standing on top of each other. It’s beautiful and a little cold at the same time.

At least it distracts me from checking out Wyatt’s ass. I send a silent thank-you to whatever woman invented gray sweats. Wyatt’s back is just as defined as his front, and that ink trails over his shoulder to spill down his back.

“We don’t get a lot of visitors up here.” Wyatt leads me around the wine room into what I think are supposed to be casual rooms. There’s a kitchen and another dining table and more accordion doors to the outside and another two sets of living room furniture.

“Poppet, you made it.” His dark voice is even more dangerous in real life.

I swear my panties melt, and I almost don’t want to turn to see this man. But I also can’t resist. Turning, my heartbeat ratchets up. Roarke Flynn stands before me. Golden hair, stubble on his square jaw, blue eyes shining like he has a spotlight on him, and a grin that is contagious.

I almost don’t even realize I’m smiling back. When he closes in on me, he smells as good as he looks, sandalwood and spices.

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