Irresistible Bachelors: Books 1-5 by Landish, Lauren (classic literature books .TXT) 📗

of town, driving as fast as the speed limit will allow. Nineteen minutes later, I pull in front of the fire station, dry chewing a couple of Excedrin.

As I head to the front of the fire station, I see Miranda standing there with a photographer and a couple of women.

“What’s this?” I ask. “I thought you said he needed stuff for the trailer.”

“Thank goodness you’re here!” Miranda says. She’s smiling, and I swear she’s got a look in her eyes that’s already beginning to worry me. “You couldn’t have come at a better time. The camera man just finished setting up. Kay, come over here.” She motions one of the chicks over to me, a pretty blonde with big tits.

“Wait, hold up,” I say, backing up, barely sparing the girl a glance. “What am I doing?”

Miranda’s scowl could kill. “What do you mean? I already told you over the phone. A photo op for the movie. You know, the movie you signed a contract to act in?”

I cross my arms over my chest. I hate it, but I just need to get it over with. “Okay,” I say flatly. “What do you want me to do?”

Miranda looks at me like I’m an imbecile. “Take off your shirt and just stand there.”

Holding back a terse reply, I do as she asks, my head pounding like a war drum. One of the cameramen scrambles over to get my shirt when I have it off.

“Take the glasses off, please,” Miranda commands next.

Another sharp stab between my eyes. “Really?”

Miranda shrugs. “Just in case.”

I sigh and take my glasses off, stuffing them in my back pocket. It’s right then that my headache increases almost one hundred-fold, and I wince at the blistering sunlight.

“Good, now Kay, Alana, get on either side of him,” she orders the two models.

For the next half hour, I’m forced to pose in various poses with the models. It’s all professional, and I make sure to keep my eyes in safe places and to avoid intimate contact.

By the time it’s over, my head feels like it’s filled with shards of glass whirling around in my brain and I can hardly stand.

“Thank you so much, Gavin,” Miranda says as I’m putting my shirt back on, patting me on the back. “I know you really didn't want to do this, so I appreciate it.”

I open my mouth to say something smart, but then I realize this is one of the few times she’s actually being nice. “You owe me,” is all I say, nodding goodbye to the models and walking to my car.

“Can you believe this guy?” I hear Miranda complain behind me to one of the girls, “I get him a movie deal, he can’t even say his lines right, and I owe him?”

I take that back. She wasn’t being nice. More like she hadn’t gotten to mean yet.

* * *

Finally, after the day of shooting, my mind is only on one thing as I return to the hotel. Brianna. I want to go see her. Do something. But I feel like she’s only going to deepen my problems.

Back in my room, I lie on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. It doesn’t feel right, lying here. Not when I want her beside me.

I roll out of bed and head to the kitchen area, where I see the half-full bottle of brandy that I had last night. I’m about to grab it and pour it out when I hear a knock at the door.

Brianna. Must be.

I put the bottle back down on the counter and walk over to the door.

“Hello . . .” I start to say as I swing the door open wide with a large grin on my face. But instead of my innocent little bunny, it’s Leslie Hart standing there with an answering grin.

“Leslie, what are you doing here?” I ask. I don’t want to be a dick, but I feel like slamming the door in her face. There’s only one person I want to see right now, and it sure as fuck isn’t Leslie Hart.

Instead of answering me, Leslie steps into my room, that smile that’s lit up dozens of magazine covers still on her face.

“Hello, Gavin,” she greets sweetly.

I try to keep a polite tone of voice since I’ve pissed off enough people lately. “I’m not really looking for visitors right now.”

“Don’t worry, I only came here for a minute,” she says. “It’s kind of important.”

Keeping a lid on my frustration, I close the door and gesture at the couch. “Go ahead.”

Leslie crosses the room and sits down. She’s dressed more casually than I expect her to be, like a normal person and not a Hollywood starlet. I don’t want her to get the wrong idea, so I sit across from her in the leather chair, leaning back, my legs splayed out wide as if I own the room. “So what’s on your mind?”

She looks at me with eyes that are a lot more perceptive than what she uses on set. It’s like she’s studying me, trying to get me to reveal something. But I don’t have the time or the patience right now to figure it out. “Well?”

Leslie’s smile comes back, but it’s more real and less forced. For a second, I wonder if I’m seeing the real Leslie Hart for the first time. “I’m worried about you,” she admits finally.

You and everyone else.

“And I don't want whatever this is to continue. This problem you’re having. It affects all of us,” she says, her face morphing into a mask of concern.

“I don't have a problem.” The lie sounds hollow on my lips even as it leaves my mouth.

Leslie purses her lips thoughtfully before asking, “You sure about that? Everyone’s noticed, and everyone’s talking about it.” She leans forward in her chair, her eyes flashing. “Is it personal?”

“My personal life is just that,” I say flatly. “I haven’t asked about yours, and I expect the same courtesy.”

Leslie slowly sits back in her seat and nods.