TAMING HOLLYWOOD’S BADDEST BOY Page 5

  “Who’re you lookin’ for, darlin’?”

  I swallow hard through my dry throat. “Luca Weaver.”

  His eyes narrow as he hums. “Mm-hmm.”

  My knees start to shake a little bit as he gives me an enthusiastically thorough once-over. Probably mentally logging my physical description for when he talks to the cops.

  “You know him?” I ask, hoping to hell I haven’t already shot myself in the foot.

  He nods resolutely. “Old Earl knows everyone in these parts.”

  Hallelujah! He knows him!

  “Also know that Luca Weaver don’t have friends, ’specially not the old kind.”

  Ah shit.

  “Oh. Well. See, I’m really more of an acquaintance than—”

  “Save it, honey. I’m too old to waste any time listenin’ to bullshit stories.”

  Fackkkk.

  He leans into the counter in front of him with both elbows, sighs, and looks me deep in the eyes. “You mean Luca some kinda harm?”

  I shake my head vehemently.

  He nods once. “Good. I hope you mean that. Because if I send you up there and you’re lyin’, only one’s gonna get hurt is you. Understand?”

  I nod, my head on a spring like a bobblehead toy. I’m not sure I actually understand, but agreeing seems like the only sane thing to do here.

  “All right. Follow this interstate for another fifteen miles, and then you’ll go one-point-two miles over Mud Bay and up into the flow of the Hatchal River. Current’s not too strong this time a day, so you should be fine. The only cabin for miles and miles, if you make it before sunset, you won’t be able to miss it.”

  I exhale in relief. I can’t believe this is actually happening. He’s actually giving me directions directly to Luca Weaver!

  “I’m assuming you brought a kayak with you?”

  “Oh, I’m not planning on doing any Alaskan adventures,” I respond on a laugh. “Just a quick visit with Luca, and I’ll be back on my way.”

  “That’s all well and good, but…” A hearty chuckle laces his words together. “You’re going to need the kayak to get over to Luca’s place today.”

  My face contorts, and relief is quickly punched out of the air and replaced by confusion. “I’m sorry, what?” I ask, seeking clarification for what I’m obviously misunderstanding.

  “The tide is too high to hike across Mud Bay.”

  “Like I said,” I respond, striving to get us on the same non-adventure page. “I’m just visiting quickly. I don’t think we’ll be outside of the cabin much at all.”

  Earl smirks, and I realize what I’ve just said must sound like. I blush a little but otherwise let him believe what he must. If sexual healing is what he thinks I’m giving Luca Weaver, so be it.

  “That’s all well and good, darlin’, but you can’t drive across Mud Bay,” he clarifies, his words coming out slow and steady like he’s talking to a child. “You can usually hike or float across, but since we’ve had rain for the past week, you can’t even hike. You’re going to need a boat or a kayak because the water is too high.”

  My jaw hits the top of my cowgirl boots.

  He studies me closely before muttering, “Maybe I should call him. At least have him looking out for your arrival.”

  He reaches back for the peach-colored rotary phone on the side of the counter, and a tsunami of panic crashes over me.

  No, no, no! Do not call him!

  On instinct, I reach out and slap the receiver out of his hands. It bounces off the counter with a thud and falls toward the ground. Thankfully, its spiral cord saves it from a smacking death against the hardwood.

  I glance from the receiver to Earl, and the skin between his wild eyebrows creases like I’ve kicked his puppy.

  “Shoot. I’m so sorry,” I mutter and reach down to pick up the receiver and firmly place it back in its holder. “It’s just that I don’t want him to know I’m coming. It’ll be much better if it’s a surprise!” I exclaim and add jazz hands because, apparently, all of this fresh Alaskan air is turning me insane.

  Earl goes back to humming. “Mm-hmm.”

  I smile again, trying to make it look normal. He receives it without awkward comment, which is really all I can ask for.

  “Well, I can loan you a kayak if you need.”

  Loan me a kayak? The girl who has never kayaked in her life?

  I may’ve been born and raised in West Virginia, but I’m a city girl through and through. I wouldn’t know how to paddle my way out of a paper bag.

  “It’ll only cost you fifty bucks for the day,” Earl adds.

  Deep and heavy, I sigh.

  The mere idea of kayaking across a body of water to get to Luca Weaver’s house is downright terrifying, but I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place—crawl back to LA and lose my job, or risk my life.

  It may not be the obvious choice to stay, but I can’t give up now. I got myself into this mess of a situation, and death be damned, I will find a way to get myself out of it without ruining my future career.

  “Okay.” I pull my wallet out of my purse and slide two twenties and a ten-dollar bill across the counter toward Earl. “Looks like I’ll be renting a kayak today.”

  Cross my heart and hope not to die.

  One-point-two miles feels a whole lot longer when you suck at kayaking.

  The water sloshes and shimmies my pathetic plastic form of transportation, and I stop paddling to brace a hand on the side. Impending doom pummels my chest with its tiny fists, and my knuckles turn white from how hard I’m holding on for dear life.

  Heaven help me.

  Droplets of the bay’s icy water pelt my face, and I shiver.

  I swear to God, if I fall out of this thing, my sister will be planning a funeral for more than my career. I thought it was supposed to be spring?

  Once the kayak settles, I resume the awkward task of paddling.

  Left. Right. Left. Right. I try to maintain a steady rhythm that’s conducive to forward movement and keep it up until even the bones in my arms ache. My clothes are damp and my hair scraggly, but on a positive note, so is all the camping equipment Earl managed to sell me at an inflated price. Ah, well. At least my little internal joke makes me smile.

  I don’t have the first clue what I’m going to do with all this extra equipment, but it’s better to play it safe. A girl like me—one who has zero experience in living off any kind of land that’s not adjacent to a Target—can’t go into a situation like this without some kind of emergency backup plan.

  That’s why, before I got into this damn kayak, I snagged as much shit from my rental as possible and shoved it inside the big hiking pack. The screenplay, a phone charger, extra clothes, boots—even a few magazines and a bag of M&Ms—you name it and I’m toting it with me.

  Not too far off in the distance, lights and a curvy, billowy trail of smoke appear up on a long, sloped ridgeline. I send a prayer to the Big Guy Upstairs that this is where Luca Weaver has been hiding out for the past eight years.

  If it’s not, I should probably just retrace my steps and start applying for jobs at Auto Universe.

  Thankfully, as I get closer, the rocks and trees clear enough to reveal an actual home. A rustic yet modern-looking cabin sits perched above the rocks that lead to the water. Out in the middle of nowhere yet still blends in with the lush forest behind it, it’s an impressive sight. And, considering it’s the only house, the only anything I’ve seen since I started paddling, I sure as hell hope it’s the right one.

  The tip of my kayak bumps into the rocks and jolts me back as I try like hell to maneuver myself close enough to the shore that I can step out without getting my favorite pair of boots completely wet.

  On a deep breath, a wish, and a damn prayer, I push myself out of the kayak and onto the ground. Problem is, for as solid as it seems from my “vessel,” it turns out the top layer is just a four-inch film of icy slush.

  “Ah!” I shout into the air. “Son of a bitch!�
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  My boots slish and slosh as I pull the kayak onto a sliver of dry land to the right of the rocks and beside a long path of wooden steps that lead toward the cabin on the rocky hill. Once I’m confident the boat won’t try to sneak into the bay and head back to Earl’s without me, I snag my purse and toss it over my shoulder. The rest of my shit can stay put until I’m ready for it.

  Tiny hints of fear clench my chest and creep into my throat as I walk up the stairs, but I swallow them all down.

  I am a woman on a mission.

  I am here because I promised my boss a man I have to deliver, or else I might as well light all of my filmmaking dreams on fire.

  And come hell or high water, no matter what I have to do, I refuse to let even a single stick spark up into a flame.

  Luca

  What happens in my hot tub, stays in my fucking hot tub. Unless some random woman wearing soaking wet cowgirl boots shows up to the party without an invitation.

  Head tilted back and eyes closed, I soak in the hot water and rub at the muscles in my legs with a firm hand. The knots are semi-permanent these days thanks to all the physical exertion that comes with living on a homestead like mine, but the reward of a long sit in my hot tub is always worth it.

  In a world of nothing but silence and solitude, the alien sound of wood creaking at the foot of my deck stairs catches my attention. I open my eyes and whip my head to the side to keep watch. When the noise of approach continues, I hop out of the warm water and into the cool air by swinging both of my legs over the side.

  I think I’m ready for anything, but I’m wrong. I’m sure as fuck not ready for this.

  Long blond hair, full lips, and big, surprised green eyes, the woman on my porch isn’t at all like the bear I suspected she might be.

  But it doesn’t matter how goddamn perfect-looking she is; she shouldn’t be here.

  “Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck are you doing here?” I ask gruffly.

  I didn’t tell Hollywood to fuck right off and move out into one of the remotest parts of Alaska because I wanted people to be able to find me.

  Eyes wide and mouth fixed in a tiny, perfect circle, she makes no effort to answer my question. It’s almost as if she didn’t even hear me.

  “Hello?” I prompt again. “I said, who the hell are you?”

  I watch avidly as she looks me over from top to bottom, scrutinizing the details of my body like she’ll be tested on them at a later date. I don’t bother returning the favor—at least not yet. For some reason, I can’t look away from the vibrantly green sparkle in her too-wide eyes.

  “I asked you a question,” I finally say, the cool air on my swinging dick moving from annoying to downright aggravating. “Either answer it or get fucking moving.” She’s a statue, frozen in place on my deck whether I want her here or not. Out of ways to ask her the same question and past the point of patience, I make a threat that’s guaranteed to get her to move. “You have five seconds before I come back out here with my shotgun.”

  “Uh…” she finally manages, only to stop before getting to anything worth my time.

  Goddammit. “What’s the matter with you? You have a death wish or something? This is private property.”

  Christ. I’d love to know whose ass needs to be kicked for sending this glammed-up, practically mute, inconveniencing woman up here.

  Ultimately, though, through some kind of miracle, she decides to speak words.

  “Uh…so…you’re…naked.”

  Instantly, I’m so fucking infuriated, I wish she’d just kept her mouth shut. This is my fucking cabin, and I never invite anyone up here. If I want to walk around with my dick out all day, every day, that’s my goddamn business.

  I swipe my towel from the side of the hot tub with a violent fist and wrap it around my waist.

  She watches my movements closely, probably thinking my covering up has something to do with protecting her delicate sensibilities, but she’s wrong. I’m just done with this shit.

  “I didn’t invite you here,” I state again.

  She doesn’t respond, choosing instead to keep standing there looking at me like I’ve grown two fucking heads.

  “I’m only going to ask you this one more time,” I say, locking my eyes with hers. They have to be the most insanely interesting shade of green—like the grass on the prairie when everything is in bloom. “What in the hell are you doing here?”

  “I’m…” She fiddles with the edges of her shirt, but I force my attention to sit squarely on her face. “Billie…Billie Harris.”

  “And that’s important because why?”

  “Um…”

  “Um?” I mock, raising a pointed eyebrow.

  She just stares back at me, her pretty green eyes as wide as saucers and her survival instinct clearly on a vacation.

  “Yeah, you know what, never fucking mind,” I snap and head for the back door of my cabin. “There is absolutely nothing you’re going to tell me that’s going to make me want you here, so now would be the time to take yourself back to wherever the fuck you came from.”

  Hand to the knob, I yank it open and step inside, slamming the door shut behind me.

  Good-fucking-riddance, Billie Harris.

  Luca

  Dogs are only man’s best friend until a pretty woman comes along; then they’re a traitor. I still don’t know who Billie Harris is, but I do know she should’ve fucking left by now, even if Bailey, my silver Labrador, strongly disagrees.

  “Aw, you’re just a big sweetheart, aren’t you?” I hear from the deck outside my master bedroom while I dry the rest of the way off and toss on a clean pair of boxer briefs, sweat pants, and a hoodie to cover my previously naked body.

  What in the hell is she still doing here?

  I’m not subtle; there should be no fucking question about whether I want her to hang around or not.

  Thanks to her, my planned hour-long soak in the hot tub—an important part of my prep for my monthly trip out to Lou’s—was cut short by forty minutes. I shake my head.

  Today was supposed to be a day of relaxing because the hike out to his place is equally strenuous and important. I’m the only way Lou gets the medicine he needs to live. That means thirty-six miles each way, carrying the biggest pack I can manage.

  “Oh my goodness!” the annoyingly familiar female voice exclaims on a giggle. “You’re a little too big to be a lap dog, but you sure make it hard to say no.”

  Fucking two-timing dog.

  In three long strides, I’m at the doors that lead to the back deck again and stepping outside.

  And there sits Bailey, right on Billie’s lap.

  He licks her face and his tail wags, and she grins down at him as she scratches her perfectly manicured fingers between his ears.

  My blood pressure skyrockets just looking at it. There are a lot of goddamn reasons I live all the way out here, but the main one is so people don’t fucking bother me.

  How in the fuck did she get here?

  Eight years and no one has ever tracked me down before—if they had, I imagine I’d be spending most of my time in a cell at a correctional facility—but this high-maintenance, dolled-up, skinny-jean-wearing pain in the ass somehow managed it? It doesn’t make sense.

  “Why in the fuck are you still here?” I ask without preamble. But she doesn’t deserve pleasantries. Pretty woman or not, I should have had an answer about the reason she decided it was okay to trespass the minute she set foot on my property. “And how in the hell did you manage to find me?”

  She pushes Bailey gently from her lap and climbs to standing, holding out a hand for me to shake with a smile. I look at it briefly before crossing my arms over my chest and planting my feet shoulder-width apart. She pulls her hand back and tucks it into her pocket with a sigh.

  Starting at the top of her pretty little head, I give her a thorough once-over. I look at her big green eyes, her full lips, her cute little nose, her silky, wavy blond hair, and my gaze doesn’t s
top its descent until it passes over her slight curves, tiny waist, little hips, and svelte legs in a pair of tight jeans and fucking cowgirl boots.

  “Look, I understand why you’re upset, me just showing up without warning and all, but you’re a hard man to get ahold of,” she explains instead of answering my actual question.

  “Yeah,” I say with a snort. “That’s for a reason.”

  “Yes,” she says with a nod. “Of course. But I also have a reason for going to these lengths to find you.”

  “My parents or my sister dead?” I ask callously.

  She jerks back in shock and shakes her head. “No. God. No, no. I mean, I don’t know them, but as far as I know, they’re all alive.”

  “Then you don’t have a goddamn reason to be here.”

  She swallows hard but regroups pretty quickly. If I didn’t hate her so much, I might be impressed by how difficult it is to discourage her. “I’m here on behalf of Serena Koontz.”

  “Who the fuck is Serena Koontz?”

  “She’s a movie producer—”

  A barking laugh escapes my lungs. Jesus Christ. No wonder this woman is all done up. She’s from Hollywood. “Yeah. You’re definitely not welcome here. Get the fuck off my property. Now.”

  I only get two steps toward the back door before she reaches out to stop my forward momentum. Her small, cold hand grips my forearm.

  “Wait,” she says, pauses, and then quickly figures out it’d be a good idea to let the fuck go of my arm. “I have a very serious, very lucrative opportunity for you.”