Single Dad Seeks Juliet Page 30

I smile and shrug. “I guess I’m going to need it.”

  Garrett leans forward from his spot on the other side of Chloe and shakes his head, his voice low as we wait for Holley to walk down the aisle.

  “Jesus.” He laughs. “Never thought four months ago that I’d be in the middle of a divorce while you’re marrying your pregnant bride-to-be.”

  I smile, looking down at the floor as Chloe snorts.

  “I don’t think any of us would have pictured it quite this way, Garrett.”

  Chloe’s voice is full of a smile as she disputes me. “I would. I mean, maybe not the baby. But I was definitely hoping you’d be walking down the aisle to someone like Holley.” She laughs as she realizes her gaffe. “I mean, Holley walking down the aisle to you. Obviously.”

  Almost as if on cue, the music starts, and Holley’s dad steps out into the aisle, the most beautiful girl in the world, my bride-to-be, his daughter, on his arm.

  She has a bouquet of Gerbera daisies pulled in close, presumably to hide her stomach from the people she’s not quite ready to tell, and a smile on her face that I’ll never forget for the rest of my life.

  It reminds me so much of the reasons we’re here—the reasons I want to spend the rest of my life with her.

  She raises an eyebrow to smirk at me, and as if I planned it myself, bobbles slightly and trips over the fabric at the front of her dress. She catches herself quickly with the help of her dad, and I have to admit, I don’t think her walk down the aisle would have been complete without it.

  “Dude,” Garrett whispers. “You’re one lucky son of a bitch.”

  “I know,” I whisper as I lock eyes with Holley again.

  The truth is, Garrett has no fucking idea. But I hope he will. One day I hope he’ll get to experience this kind of love with a woman who actually deserves him.

  Holley’s eyes find mine, a smile on her face and a shrug to let me know that she’s more than aware that I noticed the trip.

  She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

  In a lacy white gown that sits just off her shoulders and hugs the curves of her figure, hair down in waves around her shoulders, and makeup that highlights the jade of her eyes, she clearly chose each aspect of her look with me in mind. But the truth is, I can barely see any of it.

  Because Holley’s gorgeous looks are one in a billion, but her personality—the way she makes me feel—is one in a trillion.

  She’s everything to me.

  Her dad stops their approach at the foot of the altar, and I walk down the three short steps to meet them. Phil’s head shines in the fading afternoon sunlight, and matching moisture reflects in his eyes.

  I imagine he has to be feeling about the way I’d feel if I were the one giving away my only daughter. It doesn’t matter that she’s almost thirty-four years old, to him, she’ll always be his baby.

  “Who gives this woman to be married to this man?” the reverend asks from his spot up the steps.

  Phil doesn’t disappoint with his answer. “She gives herself.” He turns to give Holley a kiss on the cheek and whispers the rest. “But she does it with my blessing.”

  I reach out to shake his hand, and he takes it firmly. There’s emotion in his throat, of that much I’m sure, so I don’t put him in the position of having to say anything else.

  Neither one of us really needs to speak, though. You can see everything you need to right in our eyes.

  We both love Holley more than anything in the world, and we’ll both go to the ends of it to make sure she feels it.

  “Shall we, Jake from the Ocean?” Holley asks when my eyes meet hers again. I nod and take her hand to step up onto the platform, but before helping her up, I tell her the truth.

  “I was drowning,” I admit softly, making her chin jerk back slightly. “And you saved me. It just wasn’t in the ocean.”

  “Jake,” Holley whispers.

  “You were exactly what I never knew I needed, Holley. And I can’t wait to marry you.”

  She laughs lightly and looks around at everyone who’s waiting for us to do just that. “I guess we should probably get on with it then, huh?”

  “Yes!” Phil interjects loudly. “For God’s sake, don’t make me break out the pickles at a wedding.”

  Everyone laughs, but I only have ears for Holley. It’s still the best sound I’ve ever heard.

  “I love you, Holl.”

  “I love you too, Jake.”

  THE END

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  Taming Hollywood’s Baddest Boy Excerpt

  Billie

  Naked lumberjacks are all the rage. Or is it that they’re full of rage?

  I’m not entirely sure, but I think maybe, just maybe, it’s a little bit of both.

  Standing beside a hot tub outside of a rustic Alaskan cabin is a bare-chested, handsome-as-hell lumberjack of a man, and he is as naked as the day he was born.

  “Who the fuck are you, and what the fuck are you doing here?” the big, burly man with a scruffy beard and piercing blue eyes asks me brusquely.

  And holy hell, what a question that is.

  I started this journey in a meeting in LA, promising my boss the world, continued it with a plane, a car, a hike and kayaking adventure in a cold, rainy Alaskan setting, and in a highly unanticipated twist, I’m ending it in what must be an issue of Playgirl magazine come to life.

  And boy oh boy is the centerfold pissed…

  “Hello?” he questions harshly. “I said, who the hell are you?”

  As hard as it is, given his clothes-less state, I force myself to take a good, scrutinizing look at the rest of his face. I’m here for a reason, and with nothing more than a ramshackle convenience store owner named Earl’s vague instructions to go on, I can only hope that the here I’m at is the here I’ve spent days in a plane, car, and kayak looking for. In addition to a remarkably carved line on the inside of each hipbone, the angry man standing boldly above me has a strong jaw covered by a beard, a little scar above his right eye, miles of muscular, tanned skin, and messy, light-brown hair. I have to look a little closer to confirm my conclusion through the rolling waves of distrust and hatred coming off him, but when I focus hard enough, the star-quality glimmer in his eyes is undeniable.

  For the love of pancakes at a Sunday morning breakfast, it’s really him. />
  Luca Weaver, Hollywood’s former baddest boy—the man I’ve nearly killed myself to find—is right in front of me, and he is naked.

  At my non-answer, his jaw turns to stone. “I asked you a question. Either answer it or get fucking moving.” I jolt at the rumble of his voice, but my feet do nothing to take me in any direction. I am rooted to the spot, utterly awed over the fact that I’ve actually managed something as impossible as finding Luca Weaver and all of my normal functions are rendered useless. He scowls, unimpressed with all the hard work I’ve put in—work that he obviously doesn’t know about. “You have five seconds before I come back out here with my shotgun.”

  “Uh…” I fumble, trying like hell to grasp the English language once again. I may be distracted, but on some level, I understand the importance of getting my shit together enough to at least prevent a shotgun from joining our little meet-and-greet.

  But my brain is bus-y. And slow.

  Because Luca Weaver looks damn good without any clothes.

  Eight years older since the last time he graced the covers of Hollywood gossip magazines, Luca is a man to whom time has been seriously kind. Either his genetics are just that good, or there’s some kind of sexy voodoo in the Alaskan water.

  I mean…his penis is right in front of me, and I can’t find a single thing wrong with it. It’s straight and veiny and perfectly pink.

  “What’s the matter with you? You have a death wish or something?” he spits at the statue formerly known as my body. “This is private property.”

  His words are serious and firm, and it seems that maybe I do have a dream that’s reminiscent of the movie Fargo—fingers crossed there are no wood chippers nearby. Because for as much as I try, I can’t stop looking at my new phallic friend, even to form a few simple words.

  But, come on. Luca Weaver’s freaking dick is right there!

  It’s not hard, but still, it’s…big—so big it’s not even a dick.

  It’s a Richard. Sir Richard.

  King Richard, really.

  Shit, I’m in the presence of penis royalty, and I suddenly have the urge to curtsy.

  He is a lumberjack fantasy come to life. Instantly, my brain starts thinking about pine-scented flannel and chopping wood and giving a blow job… Wait…what?

  Stop being a moron and speak words!

  “Uh…so…you’re…naked.” Oh god, those aren’t the right words!

  He glances down, mutters something to himself, snags a towel from a few feet away, and wraps it around his waist. “I didn’t invite you here,” he says, his voice gritty with irritation—and maybe, a little with disuse. Which would make sense. It’s taken me an entire season of Running Wild with Bear Grylls to get here. I can’t imagine he’s having book clubs and dinner parties and gabbing with his pals on the regular.

  Towel adjusted and glorious goods hidden from view, he studies me with frigid blue eyes and a glare worthy of a scorned woman. I shiver.

  “I’m only going to ask you one more time. What in the hell are you doing here?”

  I fiddle with the edges of my shirt as I finally find my vocal cords. “I’m Billie…Billie Harris.”

  And I am in way over my head.

  Billie

  Three Days Earlier

  Give me coffee, and no one gets hurt. Give Charles Hawthorne coffee, and everyone gets their ass kissed.

  I suppose kissing of asses could be considered a good thing, but when it comes to Charles—my archnemesis at work—and his propensity to kiss the gluteal region of my boss, Serena, it could definitely be better.

  Speaking of, my phone lights up with a message from its spot in the cupholder, and I glance down to read the preview bubble as it populates.

  Charles: Serena, would you like me to bring you a coffee?

  Ugh. Both of us are vying for the same position—to be the right hand (wo)man to Serena Koontz, one of the biggest production company owners in all of Hollywood.

  And this is not some friendly competition turned rom-com where we fall hopelessly in love. This guy is a brownnosing, smug thorn in my side who sucks up to our boss so much his lips will eventually be permanently attached to her ass.

  Serena: No.

  She generally doesn’t even have the decency to include pleasantries when she shoots him down, but he never lets it discourage him. He’s tenacious. I’ll give him that.

  Charles: What about a croissant from that bakery you love so much? It’s on my way in.

  Serena: Have it here at ten. Morning meeting is pushed back.

  I shake my head at the new information I’ve just obtained from being a third wheel on their conversation. Considering their messages are inside our ongoing group chat, the eavesdropping is expected, but still. I wonder if anyone would have bothered to tell me about the change in meeting time if I weren’t spying on their messages like a voyeur?

  I tap my fingers on the steering wheel as “Wagon Wheel,” one of my daddy’s favorite songs, starts to blare from my stereo speakers, and I shift my mind away from workplace slights.

  There are a million and one memories to go with this song, and regardless of how I got the information, I just won an hour and a half of extra time.

  I roll down my window a crack and soak in all the glitz around me.

  Beverly Hills, Rodeo Drive. There’s nothing like it. A well-dressed woman in a little white Porsche sits at a stoplight, and a black Ferrari is illegally parked in front of a Starbucks. The sun shines differently on fancy storefronts, and people walk around in outfits that cost more than my car—an almost comical contrast to the grassroots, country twang music filling my ears.

  But that disparity is one-hundred-percent me.

  Small town, country girl—who isn’t country at all—turned Hollywood.

  Well, trying to turn Hollywood.

  At the first available opening, I gas it up alongside my fancy vehicle counterparts and take a right turn onto Melrose. Alfred’s Coffee sits on the next corner, and despite Charles’s shenanigans with the fine brown liquid, coffee always beckons. And usually, it does it from Alfred’s. Only five minutes from work, the establishment on Melrose Avenue has become my favorite coffee spot in LA.

  It takes me a few minutes to find a spot to slip into, but when I finally do, my phone has vibrated in my cupholder another three times.

  Charles: Great! Can I get you anything else?

  Serena: Nope.

  Charles: Well, just let me know if that changes!

  I pick up the phone just as he’s sending one final message: a smiley face and thumbs-up emoji.

  Goodness gracious, if he keeps this up, Serena Koontz will be the first human being alive to give birth to a fully dressed man.

  I let out a deep exhale, type my own message, keeping it short and succinct with See you at 9:45, hit send, and head inside to Alfred’s.

  Maybe it’s to my detriment, but I refuse to play Charles’s ridiculous game. I don’t want Serena to ask me to be a permanent employee at her production company because I’m the best at fetching fucking coffee. I want her to want me on her team because she sees potential in me.

  Plus, if there’s one very important thing Charles doesn’t seem to understand, it’s that Serena doesn’t like to waste words. She started out as a successful screenwriter and producer in Hollywood and turned that golden talent into the successful company known as Koontz Productions.

  Basically, her work ethic makes Jeff Bezos look lazy.

  She’s an inspiration, and after working as a PA on her latest feature film, I’m hoping and praying she chooses to keep me under her knowledgeable wing.

  PA, or Production Assistant, jobs are generally temporary. When you work as a PA on a movie or a television series, once the project comes to an end, so does the work.

  It’s a rough cycle, to be honest, but it’s necessary. If I want to be a Hollywood producer, if I want to follow in someone like Serena’s footsteps, I need to work as many PA jobs as I can. The hands-on experience is quinte
ssential to the career, and the amount you can learn under Serena is exponentially higher than almost everywhere else.

  Thankfully, a few weeks ago, after we wrapped up production on Red River—a dramatic movie that will release sometime next year—Serena sat Charles and me down and told us she wanted us to be a part of the next big project.

  It was seriously exciting news—kind of like finding a scratch-off on the ground worth thousands of dollars.

  And then…she dropped the nuclear bomb of reality checks.

  After this project, she’ll choose only one of us to mentor permanently. That person will get to move forward with her and her production company on future projects, and the other will be shit out of luck.

  To say the current state of my career is filled with a lot of unknowns would be a bit of an understatement, but big Hollywood dreams aren’t something that comes easily.

  It will take a lot of ups and downs. A lot of hard work and determination.

  Possibly killing Charles.

  You know, a lot of things.

  Coffee now in my sights, I push through the front door of Alfred’s, the aroma of coffee beans and vanilla slapping me right in the face.

  The place is positively bursting at the seams with caffeine-addicted pod-people like me, making the place I take at the end of the long line seem miles away from the hustling baristas behind the sleek black counter.

  Utensils, cups, and plates clink, and the rhythm makes Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5” start to play inside my head. If this were a coffee shop in a movie, this song would be playing on the soundtrack.

  Discreetly, I tap my right foot and bob my head a little to the music only I can hear and think of my momma.

  She always told me I would end up in Hollywood—that my strange mind was a gift. You see life like a movie, Billie, she’d tell me. One day, you’re gonna use that brain of yours to make movies of your own.