Award-winning actor Christian Strand’s house, Hollywood Hills

Pepper bobbed her head, listening to the latest Maroon 5 song as she worked. Her hips bumped from side to side, her foot tapped in time to the beat, and as the gloriously-sexy-though-slightly-petite Adam worked up to that triumphant high note in her earbuds, her voice rose alongside his, arms spreading wide with a flourish, one hand holding a feather duster, the other gripping a heavy, androgynous golden statue.

But instead of air, she felt a sickening crunch.

Dropping her arms and ripping her earbuds out in the process, she whirled around.

“For God’s sake, O’Brien,” Christian snapped.

“Oh!” Oh. Shit. Like a really, really big shit.

Now that was an unfortunate choice of words.

She bit the side of her mouth, tried futilely to hold back a giggle.

This was definitely not the time for laughter. Not when Christian—the Christian Strand—had just been punched in the face with his own award.

Snort.

Pepper’s hands flew to her face, smothering hysterical laugher, and the Oscar bumped into her mouth. “Ow.” She rubbed the sore spot—that statue really packed a punch.

And she’d hit Christian a hell of a lot harder than that.

Suddenly, amusement was the last thing she felt. “I didn’t realize you were there. I’m so sor—”

“Good God,” he moaned, palms clamping over his nose. “I’m bleeding.”

Bleeding?

Her brain went hazy. Because now that she looked, a lot of blood was pouring out of Christian’s nose.

She’d never done blood well.

The fuzziness extended down from her mind and into her limbs. Her fingers went limp. The Oscar she’d been dusting—okay, using to playact her grand stage performance with Adam Levine—fell to the marble floor.

The base broke free, and Pepper watched as the little metal plate inscribed with Christian Strand, Best Actor rolled across the tile. It wobbled to a stop under an ornate side table.

As for the male—female? gremlin? what the heck was it anyway?—portion of the statue, well, that went another direction . . . or rather, directions, since it was in more than a few pieces.

For as heavy as the award was, it should have really been more durable.

The Academy needed to look into some quality control—

“Urgh!”

Pepper jumped at the inhuman noise Christian made. He was bent over, blood—oh God, look away—dripping to the marble floor. But the sight was enough to finally get her moving.

She rushed to the kitchen, snatched up a towel from the concrete countertop and an ice pack from the freezer, and ran back to her boss.

Unfortunately, she couldn’t hold back her gasp when Christian dropped his hands to take the slip of cotton.

“It’s . . . not bad?” she tried.

“I have a call in two days,” he snapped. “Not bad isn’t going to do it.”

She bit her lip, said meekly, “I really am sorry.”

“I know.” Christian sighed. “You always are. It’s just that I can’t take the train wreck that is Pepper O’Brien anymore.” He sank to the couch as Pepper held her breath, anticipating the proverbial other shoe’s descent. “No matter who your father is.”

There it was.

Rich and famous Peter O’Brien was Hollywood’s go-to producer. Unfortunately for her, money didn’t buy her grace, and no matter what she did, disaster seemed to follow Pepper everywhere.

“I gave you this job because you asked and your father is, well, who he is—”

Being an assistant was supposed to have been safer than being on set. Turned out it was, but only for her.

Christian on the other hand . . .

Her shoulders dropped an inch in disappointment, but her tone was steady. “I understand.” She did. The Oscar, the black eye—make that eyes. “I really did screw up that dinner party.”

His voice was slightly muffled from beneath the towel. “And tripped Bethany on the red carpet. And broke my Ming vase—”

Bethany was a class-A bitch who’d thought it funny to order her around, even though Pepper wasn’t her assistant. She hadn’t meant to trip her, only to straighten the train on Bethany’s dress as ordered, but for once karma had gone the right way, at least as far as Pepper was concerned. As for the vase, well, “My father always says it’s best to invest in gold and not breakable pieces.”

A frown pulled Christian’s perfectly groomed brows together. “I like my breakable pieces. They’re classics.” He paused as though waiting for her to interrupt again. When she didn’t, he said, “And that’s not even counting the Ferrari.”

“It was an accident,” she said, rubbing the toe of her sneaker across the marble tile.

He fixed her in place with a stern look. His eyes were already ringed in black, and yet they weren’t unkind.

She’d seen that look too many times to count.

Christian understood. He was also just really, really, beyond really done.

“They’re always accidents.”

She hung her head. Yeah, they were. “I’ll go then?”

Christian folded the towel, and Pepper averted her gaze from the crimson stains on the white cotton. His nose wasn’t bleeding now, but the sight of his blood still made her stomach turn.

He nodded. “That’s probably for the best.”

“Okay.” She turned then stopped. “Oh, there’s one more thing . . .” Her teeth bit into the inside of her cheek as she remembered running into the couch while she’d vacuumed. One of the back legs was loose.

Christian’s sigh could have blown the most persistent toupee from a bald man’s head. He glanced heavenwards, presumably for patience. “Have my driver take you wherever you want to go.”

“I really—”

“Not another word,” he said through clenched teeth, any hint of kindness sliding away. “Just. Go.” With that, he flopped back against the cushions of his very expensive couch.

Crack.

The damaged leg broke off, sending one corner of the sofa to the ground.

Pepper felt the jar of the impact in the soles of her feet. “I—”

“Go!”

She went. But not before the priceless painting above the couch slid from its moorings.

The last look she had of Christian was his bruised face protruding from a very old frame, bits of canvas dotting his face.