Then
THE THING ABOUT THESE wannabe starlets was that they were all the same. Predictable. I was pretty positive this one leaked our location to the paparazzi. When we arrived at the restaurant an hour earlier, all was calm. No one had followed us here, and magically there was a mass of photographers waiting for us outside now.
There were certain ways to play the Hollywood game, and some people played it very well. This would be the last time I allowed my agent to set me up on a date. This girl, Kylie, obviously needed a career boost. She lost my attention when she rattled on about her weekend plans to visit Malibu with her girl squad. Insert eye-roll.
As we walked down along the sidewalk, the paparazzi shouted various questions. When we got to the crosswalk, I glanced towards them to see if I recognized a familiar face to try and barter a deal. No such luck.
“Matthew, are you and Kylie dating?”
“Kylie, any truth to the rumor Matthew will star in your next music video?”
Fuck. Donna, my agent, would be getting an earful tonight. I needed a Google search for the latest news on this chick and fast.
As we walked to my car, she interlaced her fingers with mine. “Do you have time to get a cup of coffee?”
Coffee sounded like a good idea especially since it was a crisp January evening. Part of me was curious as to what Kylie was thinking, so I agreed to continue this date . . . charade. “Sure, why not.”
“Good, I know the perfect place on Melrose,” she squeaked.
Glancing at my watch, it was just after seven. The place she was most likely referring to—Molina’s—was a paparazzi hot spot. The paps practically camped out there, it’s smack dab in the middle of a celebrity breeding ground. That coffee shop closed at eight. My curiosity for the game she was playing grew by the minute.
She turned to face me, snaking her arms around my neck. “I’m so glad our agents set up this date tonight. I like you—a lot. I think I might be catching all the feels for you, Matt.”
It took everything in me not to laugh. Before I could say anything, she leaned into my frame. Kylie fluttered her blue eyes, as her fingertips danced over my neck. Flashes of light bounced off the windows, reminding me that we were not alone. I didn’t know who I was more irritated with at the moment—the paparazzi, Kylie, or myself.
My jaw flexed, rage coursed through my body. “Vultures,” I said, keeping the anger out of my voice. I used them as an excuse to not let this moment go any further. “Let’s get out of here.”
I opened the passenger door to my Range Rover and grasped her hand helping her as she climbed inside the cab. Raised by a southern debutante, my mother would have chastised me for days if the paparazzi had snapped a picture of me being anything but a true southern gentleman.
I maneuvered my vehicle through the streets of Los Angeles listening to Kylie babble on about her next album and how it changed her musical style with the experimentation of heartland rock and dance-pop. I found the conversation semi-interesting.
After listening to her name drop about a dozen celebrities, I finally asked, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-six,” she replied, without skipping a beat and then continued talking. When I pulled up to the coffee shop, she checked her makeup in the mirror and applied more glossy pink lipstick. It gave me a moment to fire off a text to Donna before exiting the car.
Me: Are you trying to get me into a music video? And if you are, is there a particular reason that you neglected to share that information with me?
The low hum of jazz filtered through the speakers as we entered the coffee shop and walked towards the counter. Kylie never lifted her eyes from her screen, except to take a selfie in front of the famous wall. She ordered a secret specialty drink that wasn’t listed on the menu. I, on the other hand, ordered an Americano—no drinks with cream, sugar, and definitely no whipped cream. Call me a purist. My phone buzzed and I swiped the screen.
Donna: I have my reasons, yes. Mainly money. You like money right, Matthew?
Me: Money is good, but I’m more concerned about my career.
Donna: You’ve got nothing to worry about, have fun. I’d never steer you wrong.
Shaking my head, I shoved my phone into my pocket. That was true enough. I’d never been in a music video before, what could I bring to the table?
The barista set my drink on the counter. “I’m a huge fan. I loved your last film.”
“Thanks, I appreciate the support,” I replied, scooping up the tiny mug.
“How about we sit over here by the window,” Kylie suggested.
Nodding I took a seat and her attention was back to her phone. While she positioned her drink in various locations on the table mumbling something about lighting, I contemplated topics of conversation. The only thing that came to mind was which Instagram filter she liked best. Nothing of substance. Our worlds were completely different.
“Kylie, babe,” a man’s voice boomed out.
My attention was drawn to the blonde standing next to him. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Kylie jumped up and for the first time since we exited the restaurant she shoved her phone into her purse. Her arms flung around the man’s neck. He was your average Hollywood producer type. The fine tailored suit was a dead giveaway. Music producers have a casual or edgy style, this guy was all business.
“I’m so happy to see you again, Max,” Kylie beamed.
“I didn’t think West Hollywood was your scene,” he replied, holding up two fingers towards the barista.
That little gesture told me that he’d called ahead and placed an order—a dead giveaway that this was anything but a random encounter. The beautiful blonde rolled her eyes and shook her head before taking a seat across from me. That was a good sign.
Max adjusted his cuffs. “I figured you’d be spending your nights at Seven, Pattern, or bluewhale.”
She laughed, and bumped my shoulder with hers. “Not tonight anyway.”
“Kylie, this is Tinley Atkinson, we’re working on a project together,” Max, the suit, said.
Tinley Atkinson, hello, beautiful.
“Possible project,” Tinley interjected, clasping her hands under her chin.
“Well, this man needs absolutely no introduction,” Kylie drawled out, cozying up to me and then tossing her long arm around my shoulder.
The suit sat back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head. “Matthew Barber, Mister Fourth of July himself. I’m a big fan, man—I’m Max Hastings.”
I nodded. “Nice meeting you, Max.”
The barista dropped off an iced beverage for Tinley and some hot water with lemon for Max. While Kylie and the suit carried on about the direction of her next video, I directed my gaze towards Tinley. She slipped off her leather moto jacket, revealing her golden tanned skin. When she walked in she’d definitely caught my attention. Now she was sitting across from me wearing a red dress that showcased some gorgeous cleavage. I had every desire to peel her out of that dress and see what was underneath.
Fuck. She’s beautiful.
If she had walked in alone, I might have pegged her for an actress or model. Hollywood had a type—blonde hair and blue eyes. Something told me that Tinley Atkinson was much more than the typical Hollywood type. Her last name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it.
It barely registered when I heard Max and Kylie on the phone with someone named Hahn. Tinley leaned across the table and whispered, “How obvious are these two.”
“Very,” I replied smoothly. “What do they have planned for me?”
“Well, I heard Miss Kylie Clemson wants you to be the leading man in her next music video.” She lifted her iced coffee drink to her lips and took a sip.
“Apparently, that’s the rumor.”
Tinley lowered the drink to the table. “It seems that her video for the song ‘Sweet Dreams’ is set to release Fourth of July weekend, and they want a tie in with your film, Assassination Day.”
“Seems like the perfect combination.”
She lifted a shoulder. “That’s Hollywood, babe.”
I huffed a laugh. “Yeah, as if I didn’t know that already.”
“Do the video, it will be a huge hit,” she said, giving me a wink. “It’s easy money . . . unless you aren’t a member of SAG, then of course you’ll get screwed on the pay.”
Her blue eyes twinkled when the word “screwed” rolled off her tongue. My choices were simple—I could toss back a sophomoric, slimy line, like “some people would enjoy a good screw.” Or keep the conversation light and say something intelligent.
“You’re funny. I snagged my SAG card a long time ago,” I replied, before taking a drink of my coffee. “Besides, I’d probably donate a majority to a charity anyway.”
“Good idea and honest to God, Max is a gifted producer—he just needs to shed that suit.” Her brows lifted and then she smiled as if she’d had a read on my thoughts the entire time. “Don’t get me wrong, there is absolutely nothing wrong with a man in a suit, but for Max it’s a bit stiff.” She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. My fingers itched to reach out and do it for her.
“Are you and the suit . . .” My brows lifted in his direction.
“Dating,” she interjected, smacking her palms to the table. “Me and Maxie, hell no—he and I are old friends. Our parents used to summer in The Hamptons.”
I didn’t like that she had a pet name for Max, yet at the same time I was comforted by the childlike feel the name Maxie carried.
“What about you and the Pop Princess?” she asked, stirring the drink with her straw.
No, we’re not dating, but I’d love to take you out.
“Set up by our agents.”
“How romantic.”
I wanted to ditch the pop star and the suit and take Tinley for drinks at the Terrace Bar over at the Sunset Tower. Even more than I wanted her body, I wanted her conversation. For whatever reason, I wanted to keep this going all night, preferably into the morning.
“Tinley, let’s jet,” Max announced, approaching our table.
No business talk? Wasn’t he going to pitch me the video? Where was all the Hollywood schmoozing?
No, don’t go. Don’t leave with this schmuck.
Tinley pushed up from her chair, and I was on my feet before I could formulate a thought. She gazed at me with those penetrating blue eyes and I melted on the inside. Yep, the badass action hero’s insides were turning to mush. Was this how Statham felt when he met Rosie?
“I’ll call you tomorrow, Max,” Kylie said looping her arm with mine.
Tinley shrugged back into her leather jacket and then scooped up her beverage. “It was so nice to have met you both.”
“See you later,” I said. It wasn’t a question. No, it was a fucking promise. Because I would see her again—come hell or high water.