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When Paul offered to turn the very first novel she had ever written—under a pseudonym—into a blockbuster, she knew she had to hear him out.

How on earth had he figured out that the pseudonym she’d used was the one and only Rebecca Finlay? She’d always kept the two identities strictly separate.

This particular story was very dear to her heart, but something about it was just wrong, and the pseudonym she’d chosen was not working for her, either.

Whatever Paul thought he knew, she had to put a stop to it.

Mervyn was worried her pen name would destroy the reputation she’d worked hard to achieve.

Not that it should matter…but she had worked too hard over the past decade to gain that stupid title.

Well, hell. Maybe the stupid title did matter to her after all.

But something fishy was going on. She wasn’t stupid. Authors saw straight through characters—and real people—and knew exactly which ones were authentic, and which were faking it. Thanks to her overactive imagination, the men she wrote about didn’t exist. And if they did, well, she’d never met one.

So, she would play along and laugh at his stupid, cliché jokes until she could figure out what he was planning.

The place he’d chosen was called the Boathouse.

Mona had scrunched her nose at that, but Mervyn—the drama queen—had clapped his hands in glee.

“He got a reservation at the fucking Boathouse.”

“So, it’s not what I think it is?”

“I’ve tried to get us in. It’s impossible without name dropping.”

“C’mon, getting into a restaurant can’t be that hard.” Mona rolled her eyes.

“Call them. Right now. Get them to tell you how far ahead they’re booked,” he dared Mona.

She grabbed her phone and searched for the number on Google. Once she found it, she dialed it.

Becky listened with eagerness to Mona’s sultry voice, arguing flirtatiously with the person on the other end of the line.

“What do you mean, you’re fully booked? What about tomorrow? Oh, I see. Hmm, can you tell me when you do have an opening?” She raised her eyebrows at Mervyn. “You have got to be shitting me.”

“Mona!” Becky hissed.

Mona waved a hand in a shushing motion. “Two years from now? I simply don’t believe that. Well, book the first opening, or please put me on the cancelation list.”

The person on the other end of the line chuckled.

Slightly annoyed, Mona said, “You’re full of yourself, aren’t you? Well, we’ll see when I get there if your little dinghy is worthy of its fame.” She punched the end button on her phone. “Arrogant asshole. He laughed and said no one ever canceled.”

“I told you,” Mervyn squeaked.

“Okay, now I’m freaking out.” Becky tried to keep her voice neutral. “How did Paul get reservations?”

“Because he’s a big shot executive from one of the most successful film production companies in the world.” Mona sulked. “If you’d let us use your name from time to time…”

“Calm down. And no, you may not use my name. I’ll check it out, bring you my leftovers.”

“Oh, I doubt they give those.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “Two fucking years.”

“See? Told you,” Mervyn gloated. “I know exactly what you have to wear to pull whatever Paul has on you out of him.”

“I’m going to look like a slut, aren’t I?”

“A little, but a sophisticated slut, and nobody will be able to take their eyes off of you tonight.”

“Are you sure you’re not a secret fashion guru?” Becky teased.

“I’m an agent, Becky. I’m your agent. I go the extra mile. Never forget that.”

Getting ready turned into a nightmare, but Becky had to admit that Mervyn knew exactly how to match an outfit with accessories.

Mona spent the primping time digging up anything she could find on the Boathouse.

By the time Mervyn was finished with her, Mona was still announcing random things she learned about the restaurant. She showed them photo after photo of the triple-decker yacht.

Becky looked sultry but not cheap, her slinky black jumper accentuating all the right curves—the boobs Phil had paid for, as well as the tummy she worked so hard to maintain with forty-five minutes of squats, lunges, and all kinds of home exercise routines.

Her heels were gorgeous and surprisingly comfortable.

This outfit was not something she’d wear in front of her kids, but for tonight, it was close to perfect.

Mervyn insisted on dropping her off at the Boathouse. When they approached, Becky and Mona’s mouths fell open in awe. The three-story yacht was mind-boggling.

“Some guy named Jack Priestley owns it,” Mona explained. She was always hip to the latest New York society gossip, but then she and Google were best friends. “You don’t suppose he’s related to Jason Priestley?”

“Who the hell is Jason Priestley?” Mervyn asked.

“Beverly Hills, 90210.”

“Mona,” Becky implored. “I’m shocked you know that. That series was, like, way before your time.”

“I love the oldies,” Mona quipped. “What can I say?”

“I’m so old.”

“You are not old. You don’t look a day over twenty-six.”

“I’m definitely not twenty-six anymore.”

“Just dial one if he tries anything. I’m ready to Tae Bo his ass,” Mona said.

Mervyn piped up. “I second that, honey.”

“I can take care of myself, guys. I’m a mother. I have children. If someone is going to knock some teeth out tonight, it will be me.”

“I like,” Mona chirped from the backseat.

Becky laughed. “Wish me luck. Let’s hope this dinner is not what we think it is.”

“Okay, good luck. Don’t break a leg,” Mervyn said.

Becky laughed again.

She slid out of the car and walked along the narrow wooden deck to the wide launch with bucking temporary stairs, that both invited and threatened her on deck of the Boathouse.

It was anything but a boathouse.

She held her head down, pretending to search for something in her bag as she followed another couple up the jerking stairs onto the yacht.

A hostess greeted guests, asking for their reservation names, and then led them to their respective tables.

Becky kept up the pretense of searching for something in her bag.

The hostess looked pensive for two seconds—enough to make Becky squirm—then vanished.

If anyone recognized her tonight, she feared she’d have to swim back to shore. She still couldn’t believe how famous she’d become, but she was reminded of it time and again at every book signing she attended.

The hostess returned. Unfortunately for Becky, she had to make eye contact in order give the hostess the name the reservation was under.

When the hostess’ eyes widened, Becky knew the gig was up.

“Please. Could I ask that you don’t make a fuss?”

The hostess smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t. It’s against my boss’ policy. I’m just a huge fan. Usually our celebrity clientele rent out the entire place.”

“I guess that’s why you’re booked two years in advance.”

“Oh, we’ll always make space for you.”

Becky huffed, then quickly covered it with a chuckle. Mervyn and Mona were so right. It was so wrong.

“Who are you joining tonight?”

“Paul Weaver.”

The hostess’ face fell, but she managed to regain her composure within a split second, changing her facial expression to one of excitement.

So, her intuition about Paul was right.

“This way, please. I guess Mr. Weaver knew what tonight would bring when he made the reservation. He requested the table be away from prying eyes. I guess he figured we normal folk would discover Rebecca Finlay was here and mob her.” She flashed a cheery grin.

Becky blushed. “I’m just a normal person, like you.”

“I knew there was a reason I liked you,” she joked.

Becky gave her a small smile.

She followed the hostess through another door to the kitchen, which was odd. For a second, she was confused, but continued to follow the hostess, keeping her head down as she could feel curious eyes following her.

She was led to a table in the corner—very intimate setting—which was situated midway between the kitchen and dining area. Best of both worlds. Paul was already seated.

Her mind, though, couldn’t stop churning. What the hell was this? It was far from the norm for a business meeting.

Paul didn’t even stand to greet her, and he certainly didn’t attempt to pull out her chair for her. He was not at all her type of person.

Grateful to the hostess for seating her, she smiled her thanks.

“Enjoy your evening.” She gave Rebecca a warm smile, but it disappeared the minute her eyes landed on Paul.

Becky was being very observant, as most authors are, and noticed that Paul didn’t seem to mind, almost like he was used to it.

She was dying to know what had happened between the hostess and Paul. The situation intrigued her so much that a new novel was unfurling in her mind.

Focus, Becky, focus.

“You look breathtaking tonight, Rebecca.”

“Mervyn’s idea, not mine. You look quite dashing yourself. Are you sure this is a business meeting?”

He laughed. “Of course.”

She forced a laugh, but luckily, he bought it.

They chatted about the novel at length, and it seemed he had no desire to let the world know she was the author, which surprised her. It seemed that he truly believed her novel was worthy enough to be made into a movie.

However, she begged to differ—even if she liked it, she’d broken all the rules with her first novel and thought that it would explode and break into a new genre, but of course that hadn’t happened—as she hadn’t been Rebecca Finlay when she started out.

That novel had hardly sold a thousand copies.

When the main course arrived, Becky relaxed.

The waiter was nice, and he treated her like a regular person. She doubted he’d ever read any of her novels or even knew who she was, and it made her happy to feel normal again—not someone people thought was made of gold and needed to be admired.

Paul didn’t seem like such a bad guy. She had no idea how to describe his character if she had to write about him. He was a mixture of real and stereotype, and she still couldn’t pinpoint exactly who he was by the time dessert was served.

“Thank you.” She beamed as the waiter presented her with a quivering mountain of chocolate and fruit and who knew what else.

As she took her first bite, she noticed a piece of paper sticking out of one side.

Odd.

Glancing over at the kitchen staff, nothing looked out of the ordinary. They seemed to be extremely busy, running around doing their jobs. She was certain, however, that she saw the hostess among them.

“Is something wrong?” Paul asked.

“No, everything is perfect.” But the paper attached to her dessert had her worried, intriguing as it was.

As if on cue, Paul said, “Would you please excuse me? I’ll only be a second. I think the wine is doing its job.”

“Of course. Go ahead,” she said, as he stood up.

As soon as he was out of view, she delicately removed the piece of paper with her fork and opened it.

It was charred, but she could make out some of the writing.

Looking up, she caught the chef’s eyes. “Excuse me, but what is this?” she asked.

“A warning.”

The hostess appeared around the corner. “I’m so sorry, but you are such a nice person. Paul is a real Walter. You need to run as fast as you can.”

With that, she hurried away, leaving Becky to stare after her.

Glancing down, she looked at the burned note again, then quickly hid it in her lap when Paul returned.

Walter was one of the sleazeballs she’d written about.

So, Paul did have an ulterior motive.

“How’s your dessert?”

“Very interesting, actually. Like it wants you to decipher what it’s trying to tell you by its taste.”

He gave her a bemused expression. “I love the way you manage to make things sound so exciting.”

“I’m sure you do. Paul, what is going on here? We both know that book you’re trying to turn into a movie is bullshit.”

He looked a tad taken aback, then smiled. “Okay, I see you’re not someone who’s easy to impress, so I’ll come right out with it.” He leaned in and touched her hand. “I really like you, Rebecca. I think you are a strong and amazing woman. I also think we can be a great fit if you give me a chance.”

“And you couldn’t tell me that before the first course was served?” She yanked her hand from under his.

He snorted. “You celebrities are all the same. You think you can manage to keep your little title without me? You need someone like me in order to keep that title. You can be replaced just like”—he snapped his fingers—“that.”

“And now I know why people label you a Walter.”

“A Walter?”

Of course, he hadn’t read her books. She didn’t deign to explain.

“And I know that your intentions are far from what you’ve just said. I’m not one of those girls, Paul. In fact, I’m far from a girl. Women want more than just flattery. You’re the reason I’m hesitant to join the dating pool again. There are way too many wolves disguised as sheep nowadays. Well, thank you for tonight. I wish I could say it was fun, but it wasn’t. So, if you don’t mind me leaving now, please tell Samuel I do not want to deal with you anymore. And I mean…ever.”

As she made to get up, he yanked on her arm, forcing her to remain sitting.

“I’m Paul Weaver. I can crush you like a bug.”

“Yes, and I’m sure you completely believe that. But you see, I’m Rebecca Finlay. Mess with me like that again, and I’ll show you I am no bug.” She pulled her arm away and got up.

Paul started laughing. “Are you going to swim back?”

“I will if I must.” She took off her shoes.

“Please, don’t.” One of the chefs made his way out of the kitchen toward her.

A real knight in shining armor, she thought sarcastically.

“Stay out of this, Jack.”

“Oh, shut up, Paul. For once, you’re getting what you deserve.”

“I paid you!” he yelled.

Becky stared at the chef—Jack. His jaw was clenched with contained anger.

“Miss, I apologize for what I’m about to do.”

And on that note, he turned around and punched Paul in the face, knocking him out with that single contact.

Becky jumped back, disbelief etched on her face, as she watched Paul drop to the floor.

The kitchen staff applauded.

The chef dug a wad of cash out of his pocket and flung it to the floor beside Paul.

“That’s a lot of money. You should keep it,” Rebecca advised.

“No. What I should have done was not accept it in the first place.”

Placing his hand on her lower back, he led her out into a hall that led to the restrooms—or the head, as the jaunty signs overhead declared.

“You are more than welcome to take a seat on the private deck until we dock. I promise you’ll be safe there. There’s no need to swim back. We don’t want Rebecca Finlay to catch pneumonia and die. My mother would kill me.”

“I thought you were fully booked.”

He looked back at her, his brows furrowed.

“My assistant phoned earlier. Someone actually had the audacity to laugh in her ear when she requested to be put on the cancelation list.”

He suppressed a smile. “I apologize. It’s good for business to make up little white lies like that. But I’m sure you’re glad we didn’t fill the private deck tonight. Let me make it up to your assistant. Do you know if she likes brownies?”

“She’ll adore you. She’s convinced you don’t do leftovers or takeaways.”

“We do, just not for normal folk.”

“I see you’re not only a chef, but a comedian, too. Who’d have guessed?” she muttered.

He laughed as he led her up a lone staircase to the upper deck, and as she stepped onto the deck itself, she was greeted by elegant white couches and twinkling fairy lights that surrounded the entire area.

“You really have a beautiful place here, Jack Priestley. Tell me, are you related to Jason Priestley?”

“Okay, that just scared the living crap out of me. How do you know those things?”

“My assistant. She doesn’t like it when people deny her things.”

“Well, maybe next time she should tell us who the reservation is for. That way, she won’t be disappointed.”

“Oh, she’d get fired if she did that.”

Jack chuckled. “Lilly said you weren’t the usual type of celebrity.”

“And who’s Lilly?”

“The hostess.”

Becky nodded. “She deserves a raise for looking out for women like me.”

“Oh? And I don’t deserve to give myself a raise for my note?”

“Your note got burned in the dessert.”

“Fuck. Sorry, I’m usually more mannered.”

Becky laughed, waving it away. “I’ve heard worse, so don’t worry. But thank you for the warning. Just to be clear, though, Paul is not my type. I usually smell creeps from a mile away.”

“Noted. You’ll have to excuse me as I still have hungry guests. But it’s been nice meeting you, although I had no idea who you were. My mother and sister will be over the moon when I tell them you were on my boathouse.”

She laughed at the way he said it. Like it was some dinghy, not the spectacular culinary destination it was. “You think they’ll believe you?”

“I believed my sister when she told me she met you.”

She opened her mouth to ask when exactly had she met his sister, but changed her mind at the last second. “Good luck with that. Women aren’t as gullible as men. You need proof,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m sorry, that came out wrong, but it’s the truth.”

“You have no filter, do you?”

“No. I write novels for a living. We writers usually don’t have filters. We should, but we don’t. Where is your phone?”

“Exchanging numbers, already?”

“No, I’m offering you proof.” She chuckled as he handed her his phone. She turned the screen on and saw the Boathouse’s logo. It surprised her. Most men chose family members, or hot women as their backgrounds.

Scrolling through his phone, she found the camera app. Winking, she gestured for him to stand beside her, and snapped a careless selfie. “There. Now they will believe you.” She handed him back the phone.

“Thank you.” He shook his head. “I’ll send Lilly up to keep you company. She’ll be elated.” He gave her nod before descending the stairs.

The minute he was gone, a bartender appeared.

“Miss Finlay, may I get you a drink? On the house, with apologies for earlier.”

“Oh, yum. What cocktails do you serve?”