TAMING HOLLYWOOD’S BADDEST BOY Page 6

“What are you, fucking deaf? I said I’m not interested! Get the hell out of here!” I yell, unable to hold back. I left Hollywood a long time ago, and just the idea of going back makes my skin crawl.

  She recoils at the harshness of my response, but I don’t fucking care. If she’d have gotten the point the first fucking time, I wouldn’t have to yell so goddamn much.

  I breeze past her and head inside, slamming the back door shut behind me—for the second time today.

  Bailey whines, but he doesn’t leave her side.

  I shake my head as I head toward the kitchen to brew a fresh pot of coffee. The pot gets the brunt of my anger as I slam it around the sink and stove like a ping-pong ball. It’s only after I’ve calmed down enough to actually put the water on to boil that I look out the window. The princess is down by the water—as is my fucking dog—and she’s wrestling with a kayak that says Earl’s on the side.

  Of course, fucking Earl Harry helped her…he sees tits he’s never seen before and goes weak in the knees.

  Watching her struggle to wrangle the thing like a fucking mouse in a pit of snakes makes me wonder how in the hell she managed to kayak herself across Mud Bay and up the river without falling the fuck in the water in the first place.

  I grit my teeth as a pang of guilt over knowingly putting her safety at risk makes my temple throb. The sun’s already set, so there’s no way she’s going to make it back down the river and across the bay before it’s pitch-dark—the kind of dark she’s never encountered in her life, I’m sure. Around here, there’s nothing but whatever moon we’ve got and the stars in the sky.

  And tonight, there’s not even that. Rain’s supposed to be moving in within the hour.

  I war with myself as she finally manages to climb back inside, a dangerous rock of the boat making her brace herself against the sides and crisscross one of her hands over her heart. Bailey barks from the shore, and she uses the oar to push herself away from the rocks and back out into the flow of the river. She’s sucked up in the current pretty quickly, headed back for the bay whether she’s ready or not.

  Bailey looks up at the house and barks, imploring me to make the decision we both know I should. My teeth ache as I clench my jaw.

  “Son of a bitch!” I yell, grabbing the pot off the stove and dropping it into the sink with absolutely no fucking finesse before turning off the burner. I storm over to the door and grab my rubber boots, yanking them on angrily. With a snatch of my hand, I snag my raincoat off the hook, shove open the door so hard it slams like a clap of thunder behind me, and head to grab my goddamn gear.

  So much for relaxing.

  Billie

  I’ll look at a lot of things—naked penises, weird YouTube videos, that Dr. Pimple Popper show, even though it makes me sick—but I won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially when it’s a steel horse a la “Wanted Dead or Alive” and the very difference between life and death.

  “A single moment can change everything,” Momma used to say. “Sometimes it’s for the good. Sometimes it’s for the bad. Sometimes it’s for reasons you can’t understand. And, sometimes, if you’re lucky, it’ll lead you to somewhere—to someone—you never saw coming.”

  A soft smile from a stranger at the Stop N’Go? That’s how she met Daddy.

  Impulsively calling in to a country music station and winning a trip to Vegas to see Waylon Jennings? That’s how she got pregnant with my older sister, Birdie.

  Not by Waylon Jennings, mind you, but Daddy.

  Uncontrollable laughter in the middle of a fancy Italian restaurant? That’s how she landed her one and only acting gig. A part in a TV show, she was a waitress in a diner. One episode. One scene. And only one line. “Whatever you do, don’t order the meatloaf.”

  But my granny, well, she had a slightly different view on luck…

  “If you’re a Harris, you’re either cursed, or you’re one of the luckiest sons of bitches alive. There are no in-betweens. No simple lives. We’re complicated country folk, and we’re either flying high or flat on our asses.”

  I used to think my momma was right and my granny was just batshit crazy.

  But unbelievably cold rain is falling on my head as I paddle my way across a bay I can’t even remember the name of—after encountering the angriest man I’ve ever met—and the only things ahead of me are a 100-mile drive, seven-plus hours of flying, and a catastrophic end to my dream career.

  So, now, I don’t know what to believe.

  “It’s the small things,” Momma had said. “They might seem meaningless at the time, but they have the power to change everything.”

  Well, Momma, I’ve got a lot of big things going on right now, and I don’t have a freaking clue how to handle them.

  I rub the water away from my eyes with the back of my hand and squint to try to see through the downpour. If it weren’t for the fact that it’s soaking me all the way to the bone, I’d almost believe it was a television screen filled with white noise.

  I can’t see a damn thing.

  Panic takes hold in my chest pretty quickly as I realize how serious this could get. I don’t know what I’m doing in a kayak on a good day…what happens if I end up somewhere in the storm that I don’t know how to get back from?

  Quickly, I shake my head and let out a little scream to ward off tears. Freaking out isn’t going to help me right now. My stupid phone has no service, so I can’t call Birdie for help, I can’t use it to map my location, and I can’t turn back toward Luca’s—the current is way too strong.

  I only have myself to rely on, and I have to figure out how to step up to the plate.

  I pick my oar back up and paddle it side to side to try to get control of the direction I’m heading. Now that I’m once again in a rhythm, a little smile of victory forms on my lips.

  Unfortunately, that makes it all the more surprising when the kayak jars violently against the unexpected rocky shoreline and tips far enough that I can’t stop myself from falling into the water. I fight and gulp and kick for the surface, but my boots are filled and weighing me down.

  I go under again, the icy water piercing my chest and making my lungs ache as I struggle to hold my breath. I grab one boot and yank it off, and then the other, and I’m finally able to surface again as they sink to the bottom.

  I suck in a huge helping of air and flail to grab on to something at the shoreline before getting sucked farther downstream. My muscles burn and my arms feel scraped and bruised as I finally manage to grab on to a rock and bear-hug it desperately.

  Oh God. I’m in trouble here.

  “He…Help!” I yell through shaking lips. “Please! Someone help me!”

  Oh Jesus. Tears hit my eyes, the surface of the cold rock scratching slightly against my face. Am I really going to die out here? Because I couldn’t keep my big fucking mouth shut long enough to realize Luca Weaver was a promise I couldn’t keep?

  The sound of a dog barking startles me from my crying jag, and I whip my head around to see if I can find the source. Upriver, a light shines on a small boat as it motors toward me, and the dog barks again.

  I try to turn my face and make my voice as loud as I can manage. “Help! Please! Over here!”

  A shiver racks my body, and I have to readjust the grip of both of my hands to keep them from slipping off the surface of the wet rock, but the boat keeps coming, the dog barking harder now.

  I watch as closely as I can until the light on the front shines directly on me, blinding me instantly to everything around and forcing me to close my eyes. I hear a flurry of activity as the boat pulls up beside me, and next thing I know, two strong hands are lifting me away from the slimy rock and up into the boat.

  I look up, right into familiar, intimidating blue eyes just as Luca lays me down on the bottom of the boat and grabs a blanket from his side to wrap around me.

  “Are you okay?” he asks, his voice gritty and gruesome and unbelievably sexy all at once. Streams of water run off the pointy tips of his messy w
et hair, and I get lost in staring at the tiny waterfalls flowing in front of his mesmerizing eyes.

  I still haven’t answered when the ass end of the boat starts to kick around in the current and he jumps up with a muttered, “Goddammit.”

  Bailey, Luca’s sweet Labrador, fills his void pretty quickly, though, licking at every inch of available skin on my face.

  I welcome his doggie breath—thank God I’m alive to feel it.

  Luca whips the boat around from somewhere at the rear and cranks up the engine, headed back in the direction of his house. Bailey keeps me company as I stare out toward the water and try to wrap my brain around how I managed to find myself here, soaking wet and banged-up.

  I don’t know what made him do it, but I don’t even want to think about what would have happened if Luca Weaver hadn’t come motoring down the river when he did.

  My gaze moves to him.

  Luca’s jaw is just as firm as it was when I first walked up the deck stairs to find him, but it’s different somehow—edgier. His beautiful blue eyes are nearly black as night, and his entire demeanor vibrates with way more than irritation.

  I let myself relax into the sound of the engine and the small waves that lap against the side of the boat. Exhausted from travel, stress, a level of physical exercise I’m in no way accustomed to, and nearly dying in cold, salty Alaskan water, I close my eyes, and without even realizing I’m doing it, fall asleep.

  When I open my eyes again, my body is being jostled gently as Luca picks up my arm and puts a small, wet rag to the cuts and scrapes all over it. I blink several times and quickly realize I’m no longer in the rain, no longer on the boat, not even outside.

  I’m inside. On a bed. My clothes are still wet, but my socks are off of my feet—my boots already long gone in the river—and what feels like a heated blanket covers me from neck to foot. And a handsome, broody man tends to my wounds with the kind of tenderness I would’ve never imagined was possible for the same Luca Weaver who told me to fuck right off his property earlier today.

  “W-what time is it?” My voice sounds scraggly to my own ears. I swallow thickly around my dry throat.

  “Nearing ten in the evening.”

  Good Lord. That means I’ve been out for what, like, two or three full hours?

  I mean, I can’t be sure how long my near-death experience lasted out there in the river, but considering my idea of cardio is a movie marathon, I highly doubt I would’ve lasted too long.

  “Where am I?”

  He quirks an eyebrow. “Where do you think you are?”

  Smartass.

  “I’m guessing this is the inside of your cabin.”

  “You guess right.” He nods and then refocuses on whatever scratches he’s cleaning on my arms.

  Holy hell. What a day. One that, scarily enough, could have been your last fucking day.

  I grimace at that the morbid thought.

  This guy might be a broody bastard, but he literally saved my life. It’s hard to still be pissed at him for all the f-bombs and threats when he’s the reason I didn’t meet my fate at the bottom of an icy grave.

  “Thanks for…” I start out softly, making his eyes jump back to mine. “You know, rescuing me and everything.”

  Luca glances at me and back at the cuts on my arm. “You’re welcome.”

  “How did you, um…” He flicks his eyes back to mine at my pause. “How did you find me out there in the water?”

  He jerks his head at the snoring dog lying next to me on the bed. “Bailey’s a good tracker. Knew the direction you went, but he picked up on your scent when we got close. Plus, you were yellin’ loud enough, I imagine just about everyone in Alaska heard you.”

  “I was drowning!” I snap in my defense. A tiny, unbelievable smirk finds its way onto the corner of his mouth.

  “You were on the shoreline.”

  “Do you do this often?”

  He quirks a brow. “Do what?”

  “Save uninvited guests from a fate of dying in the middle of the great Alaskan wilderness in icy waters and then berate them for handling it the wrong way?”

  A laugh escapes his throat. “Honestly, this is a first for me.”

  I don’t know why that response makes my chest turn all gooey, but it does. I mean, it’s not even nice. It’s human decency at best, but the fact that Mr. Surly dropped the bearded broody jerk act long enough to even consider my safety has to mean something.

  Right?

  Maybe I’ve grown on him a little? Maybe he realizes it was shortsighted and unreasonable to send me away without hearing me out?

  My dad always told me I had a way of giving people no option but to like me, even when I was being a pain in the ass. Maybe this is that.

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  He glances over his shoulder to look at me as he screws the cap back onto whatever he was putting on my injuries and searches my eyes. “Is this about that stupid movie?”

  Yes.

  “No,” I lie and shake my head.

  “You can ask,” he says quietly before standing up from the bed and crossing his arms over his chest, intimidating again. “But I can’t guarantee I’ll answer.”

  “Why did you leave Hollywood?” Although, the question does contain some ulterior motives, I mostly just want to know. I’ve never been able to wrap my brain around what would make someone walk away from that much work—what would make someone throw away all their success in an instant.

  He rolls his eyes and turns to leave. “I should’ve known you weren’t gonna drop that shit.”

  “Wait! That’s not how I meant it, honest. I was just curious.”

  He shakes his head, his mouth in a firm line. “I know you’re pretty banged up and shit, and I can imagine you’re going to be quite sore tomorrow, so it’s probably best if you stay here in my guest room and let yourself rest and heal. I’ll be leaving in the morning on a hiking trip, but I’ll be back in a couple of days to run you back across the bay on the boat, and you can be on your way.”

  A sarcastic retort about why a man like him would even need a guestroom is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back and focus on the priority.

  He wants me to stay at his cabin? For more than one night?

  What in the ever-loving-hell?

  “A couple of days?” I question in absolute confusion. I’m in a cabin in the middle of freaking nowhere. “What am I supposed to do here for a couple of days?”

  “Well, there’s enough food and drink in my pantry, fridge, and freezer to last three months, so I know you’ll be good there. Other than that, I don’t know,” he says with an asshole shrug. “I’m sure you’ll find some kind of messed-up shit to snoop through.”

  “First, you wanted me to leave your property, and now, you’re okay with me staying here, without you even being here?” I question. I mean, it’s truly absurd.

  “Don’t take my kindness for a change of heart. I still want you gone,” he says without hesitation. “But I’m not completely insensitive to the beating your body just took out there in the water. You’re damn lucky you didn’t lose your fucking toes.”

  This man is downright impossible.

  “Although,” he adds. “If you want to try to kayak your way out of here again while I’m gone, I’m not going to be here to stop you—or save you. And well, I think we both know your kayaking skills are inept at best.”

  I huff out a breath. “I can’t believe I used to love you as a kid. You’re not even broody or surly. You’re broody and surly’s evil stepbrother…awful.”

  He smirks at that. “You think I’m awful?”

  I nod.

  “Good. When you leave, you’ll have no goddamn reason to come back.”

  I guess even my gift for making people like me in the midst of impossible odds has its limits.

  Unless I somehow become well versed in kidnapping, Luca Weaver isn’t getting on a plane to anywhere, let alone Hollywood to do a movie for me.

 
I throw my hands up in the air, expecting him to leave the room, but for some reason, he doesn’t. Silence stretches between us, and I half expect him to change his mind about letting me stay and send me back down to the river to find my own way again, almost-certain death be damned.

  But when he opens his mouth, I’m shocked that it’s because he’s opening up to me about something else.

  “I left Hollywood because I had to,” he says gruffly. “Drugs, drinking, women—I was on a one-way ride to an early fucking grave. And not a single goddamn person around me gave a shit. It was time that I started making decisions for myself, taking control of my life.” He drops both his arms to his sides and shakes his head. “I wasn’t even a human being anymore when I was there. I was a product to sell, a hot fucking commodity, and cleaning up my act wasn’t an option. Bad boys bring in a hell of a lot more dollar signs.”

  “That’s…horrible.”

  “It’s over.”

  I bite my lip, and he leans in with a tip of his head.

  “Over,” he repeats, each syllable pushed out from his lips in a firm, succinct way. “Understand me?”

  I nod. Oh yeah, I get it. Couldn’t miss it.

  “Now, I think it’s time you put on the dry clothes I left for you on the dresser over there and get some sleep.”

  This guy. Always with the fucking demands.

  I just nod again and watch him walk out of the room. Bailey stays rooted to his spot on the bed beside me.

  I reach out and run my fingers between his ears and think about what Luca just told me.

  He was Hollywood’s sexy bad boy, rebel without a cause—a present-day James Dean. Now, though, he’s a hot Alaskan lumberjack of a man with absolutely no desire to go back in time.

  But, too bad for him, he’s the brand-new owner of a big fat thorn in his fucking side.

  I have ten days in this state, and dammit, I will use every single one of them before I admit defeat. I have too much on the line.

  Luca

  I do not condone glamping; if I did, I’d do it alone. My dog, however, would gladly bring along another companion.