The waitress stands by our table. Young, blonde, with a playful smile that screams ‘Fuck me tonight.’ Her uniform is a white tank and short black skirt. Very short. I’m thinking of ways to get her number on the sly, because I need to feel a women’s body against mine.

It’s been forever since I’ve seen a pair of tits, let alone held them in my hands.

Except for Kate’s . . . but we all know how that night ended.

“Could I please have an espresso and a glass of water?” Morgan orders, her head buried in the menu.

The waitress takes her order then waits for me to answer, moving a little closer as she jiggles her little titties in front of her notepad. They were cute, but lacked that mature bounce I had grown fond of over the years.

“I’ll have the same.”

“Nice order,” the waitress says, striking up a conversation. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here?”

“I’m not, actually,” I answer politely. “I moved here a few weeks ago.”

“I hope you like California. I’ve been here my whole life. A true Californian girl,” she giggles, creating more bouncy tits. Fuck, keep going beautiful.

“I can tell.” My smirk fades as Morgan clears her throat, prompting the waitress to leave.

She scurries away, and in the corner of my eye, I try to get a glimpse of her ass in that short skirt. It’s perky but nothing special.

“Should I leave you alone with the waitress or are we here to conduct business?” Morgan voices with a touch of malice.

“Just a friendly conversation,” I insist. “Rule number one in marketing: Opportunities can present themselves anywhere.”

“Like between her breasts?” Morgan mutters, keeping her lips tight and arms folded.

The evil witch has risen. I decide to not comment, and begin asking the questions Presley gave me until Bouncy Tits comes back with our beverages. This time, not to rile the beast even further, I simply smile back at the waitress and focus my attention back on the meeting.

The first stage of the book will focus on Scarlett’s childhood and how that evolved into acting. It’s public knowledge on the internet but I was hoping to get some hidden facts that will interest the readers. An added bonus for the die-hard fans who think they know everything about her.

I tell her I’ll be recording the conversation, which she’s quick to shut down.

“I would prefer this conversation to not be recorded,” she states firmly.

Haden needs the information, and my memory isn’t the greatest. Could this bitch be any more of a pain in the ass?

“Look, Morgan. These are Presley’s questions. I’m just doing her job for the day. I’m really not understanding why it’s such a problem.”

“Because this is Hollywood. Anything you say can be held against you.”

Her stare is fierce, penetrating with an ice cold expression. The glass of water sits beside her espresso, and she carefully has a drink, then returns her attention back to me.

“Fine. If you must. Perhaps you’re not as multi-skilled as I pegged you to be.”

Did she just put me down? I’m only moments away from walking out. Taking a deep breath and remembering how much I need this job right now, I bite my tongue so damn hard I can taste the blood.

Breathe . . . one . . . two . . . three.

“So, let’s start with childhood. Hard and fast facts to clear up any misinformation in the media.” I press the record button on my recorder. “Scarlett, real name Sarah-Jo Winters, born the fifth of August nineteen-ninety in Littlerock, California.”

“Correct,” she states.

“Her father Max Winters was a farmer and mother Marjorie Winters, formerly a housewife, passed away. Siblings: Violet Winters. Two years older.”

“Uh huh.”

God. Did she suddenly climb back into that shell? I read the next lot of questions, hoping to get more of an extended answer from her.

“Okay, so growing up, Scarlett had always aspired to be a star.”

Her body gestures indicate she is bored with the questions; granted, they weren’t about her, but her boss instead. I finish my water in one go, counting down the time until this is over.

“From the age of three, she entered beauty contests in every county. Her mother would save every penny, sometimes doing odd jobs for locals, just to spend it on her outfits.”

“The American Dream, right?” I joke.

“To some.”

“Sorry, go on.”

“At the age of ten, a Hollywood producer happened to be driving through town and saw her at a local diner. She was singing and dancing for the patrons and so he dubbed her the next Shirley Temple.”

“Quite an image to live up to, don’t you think?”

With a long pause, she pulls the glass towards her mouth and drinks some water, continuing her silence. How long did I have to fucking wait for an answer?

“She dreamed of being that. So no, to answer your question, she aspired to something and she followed her dream. Not many people get that chance, Noah.”

Watching her closely, Morgan fidgets with the napkin sitting on the table. The way she said those words seemed odd, but perhaps I’m reading too much into it. The espresso was running through my veins, making me extremely alert.

“She’s determined,” I say.

With a darker tone, she responds, “That, and luck. She happened to be there at the right time.”

“Good karma.”

I laugh inside. How ironic, me believing in karma.

“Karma?” she repeats with a sinister laugh, “C’mon Noah, you can’t possibly believe in karma.”

She’s waiting for me to respond, but I’m taken aback by her odd question. When Rose asked me this question, I laughed it off. Then ten minutes later, my world completely fell apart. I didn’t want to take that chance; Karma is watching me with a magnifying glass.

“A wise person once asked me if I believe in karma. I didn’t, but five minutes later, it bit me in the ass,” I say honestly.

She arches her brows. “What do you mean?”

“We all have a past, don’t we? Mine just collided with my future.”

“I see,” she says quietly. “So, shall we continue?”

I go back to my notes. Distracted by our change in subject, I move my cursor over the next point, trying to grasp some professionalism. Why the fuck did she make me feel so uncomfortable in my own skin?

“Her first three movies were blockbuster hits. What insight can you give me into that?”

“She loved it. It distracted her from her mother passing away. Her sister gave up college to take over her career and made sure she stayed with the right people.”

“I guess you hear these horror stories that come from being in Hollywood. How did she manage to stay grounded?”

“The right support network.”

Morgan talks about the team that Scarlett works with. From her makeup artist to wardrobe assistant. Her PR team and her newly created social media team. She had sixteen people working for her, not including her housekeeping staff and multiple chefs. I can’t believe one person could have so many people surrounding them. It shows how in demand she is, and why directors were throwing scripts at her left, right, and center.

“Is there anything you can share that perhaps is not public knowledge?” I ask openly.

Keeping my gaze, she answers, “That’s a question best directed at Miss Winters.”

“Right, and that would be when?”

She shakes her head, keeping her smile at bay. “You’re very keen to meet her, aren’t you?”

“Well, it is the point, isn’t it?” I question her back, annoyed by her uninteresting question.

She doesn’t respond, and avoids my persistent stare. I wait patiently, wondering what comeback she will have to that.

“I’m going to make something clear, in case it isn’t already. Can you please stop recording?” she demands.

I press stop, unsure why I’m following her request.

“Scarlett’s relationships are well monitored by the tabloids. Despite some of the trash you may read, Scarlett’s team try very hard to protect her personal life,” she informs me. “Now, given your display of . . . what’s the word I’m looking for . . . interest in the waitress, I would hate to think that your interest in meeting Scarlett is anything but on a professional level.”

My jaw is clenching, biting down to stop me from saying the words I want to say. The nerve of this woman! How dare she question my integrity based on some harmless flirting with a waitress. I can feel my blood boiling and the vein on my forehead ready to burst at any moment, creating an ugly display of the hostility between us.

“I am many things, Ms. Bentley, but unprofessional is not one of them. I work hard, and yes, I play hard,” I insist, with a bitter tone.

With my anger contained, barely, I veer in the opposite direction. She’s made me uncomfortable this whole meeting, and so now, I will turn the fucking tables on her. I’ve done this over and over again, good at reading women. This bitch just needs a reality check.

“Tell me, Morgan, do you get much of a social life given the hectic schedule you have?”

Her body stiffens, taken aback by my forthcoming question. “That’s a personal question, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps, depends on your answer.”

Without saying a word, she starts packing up, answering loosely, “Not much. I’m busy. I don’t need a social life.”

“Everyone needs a social life,” I tell her, leaning slightly closer. “You’d be surprise how much fun you could have.”

I watch her sit in awe of my comment, and the way her legs twitch as she crosses them under the table. Wow, way to go. You got through to the prude’s legs. Now what?

“I have fun, but perhaps my idea of fun is slightly different than yours.”

“Really, you think?”

“I bet you,” she says, leaning in closer to challenge me.

“I don’t take bets lightly.”

“Neither do I, Noah.”

And there it happens again, that electric current that runs through my body every time she says my name. I don’t know why, I don’t know how, and every part of me knows I can’t fuck her if I want to keep my job, and of course, get to Scarlett. Kate and Charlie would kill me.

But I have difficulty letting this one go. She ruffles my feathers in THE most annoying way. I don’t know what I’ve done for her to be so resentful.

“So, tomorrow night. Why don’t we work over dinner and then have your type of fun afterwards? I’m new to Cali, so I’m sure that a local like yourself knows where all the fun places are,” I suggest, calling her bluff.

The prude wouldn’t last two seconds with me in a social event. She’d probably break out in hives and have to go straight home. I can see it now . . . she’s not that tough.

“Tomorrow? Night?” She stops long and hard, thinking about my proposition. “There’s a restaurant just off Sunset that is nice. Perhaps we can go for a walk afterwards.”

A walk is her idea of fun? Already bored with the idea, I put on a fake smile. “Sounds great.”

“I have to be somewhere at eight. Can we make it early, say five?”

“Of course. So tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” she repeats.

Her body, across the table, sits only an arm’s length away. My hand itches to run my finger across her lips, and imagine what they would feel like wrapped around my cock. Fuck. Stop thinking about this! You just want what you can’t have, and she is the most frustrating woman you’ve ever met. If her mouth was all over your cock, you’d shove it further down her throat just to see her eyes water. Maybe then, she would loosen the grip of the giant pole sticking up her ass.

She looks at her watch, telling me she needs to leave. Argh, honestly. This whole meeting was a bust. I can only imagine how boring her life must be. All work, no play.

Then home to her litter of cats.

“The cats need feeding,” I mumble beneath a breath.

With her purse and laptop in hand, she throws some bills onto the table, moving her stare back to me. “I gather you have all the information you need for today?”

“Yes, Ms. Bentley,” I respond in a formal tone.

Pushing her chair into the table, she leans forward closely towards me. The scent of her perfume lingers in the air, igniting my senses. Her expression changes. And just when I think she’ll say goodbye, her eyes become hard and hostile. A hint of fire raging inside them.

Leaning her right hand on the table, giving me the perfect glimpse at her cleavage, she watches my lips as they part with curiosity.

“Not cats, Noah, just one pussy. And yes, it does need feeding.”