Overhearing Jeremy, Scott leaned over to Rob and whispered something under his breath. Then he turned back to Jason, eying Shayna, who unfortunately had moved her hand to Jason’s arm.

Scott smiled. “Well, I’ll be sure to tell Taylor I ran into you and your little friend here. I’m sure she’ll be very interested to hear all about it.”

Jason’s eyes narrowed at the threat. “Don’t bother, I’ll tell her myself. We’re having dinner this Thursday; didn’t she mention it?”

As the two men faced off, Jeremy apparently felt it was time to step in. He stood in front of Jason, blocking his view of Scott.

“Okay, okay,” he said to Jason. “Now that we’ve established that you have the bigger penis, I think we should leave.”

Since Jeremy had inserted himself into the fray, Scott’s friend Rob now needed to chime in as well. It was part of the sacred celebrity entourage code.

“Hey—buddy,” he jeered at Jeremy. “Who the hell are you? The comic sidekick?”

Jeremy turned around to face Rob and coolly looked him up and down.

“Sidekick? Fuck you, porky.”

Scott’s entourage gasped. For a sometimes-working Los Angeles actor, there was no greater insult.

Rob’s face turned bright red. “How many times do I have to tell you people? I’m on hiatus!” he shouted, just before taking a swing at Jeremy.

And just like that, all hell broke loose.


“YOU GOT INTO a fight with Scott Casey?”

The next morning, Jason was in the car the studio provided, being driven to the set. The minute his cell phone had rung and he saw Marty’s name, he knew what was coming.

“How do you know about that already?” Jason asked. “That only happened like”—he checked his watch—“six hours ago.”

“How do I know?” Marty shouted across the line. “I know because I know everyone, Jason. For chrissakes, you were at Hyde. I’ve got half the staff there on my payroll. You do realize those little coke parties you celebs like to throw in the bathrooms don’t actually go unnoticed, don’t you?”

Jason leaned back against the seat of the limo and closed his eyes. He had a hangover and was not at all in the mood for a lecture.

“Then you should check your sources, Marty, because I didn’t get into a fight with anyone last night. I was the one pulling my friend away from that portly D-lister with the serious stick up his ass.”

Jason could hear Marty barking orders to his secretary on the other end of the line. He could just picture his publicist, storming into the office while on his cell phone, all frantic and “Get me Us Weekly, stat!”-like.

“I’ve got four eyewitnesses who say that you and Scott Casey exchanged words, Jason.”

“Yes, well, ‘words’ are still the way human beings communicate, Marty,” Jason threw back at him.

“Just tell me this—did this alleged fight with Scott Casey have anything to do with Taylor Donovan?”

Jason bristled at the question. “No, you tell me—does the reason you’re so pissed about this alleged fight have anything to do with the fact that you’re allegedly trying to land Scott Casey as a client?” He paused for a moment to let this sit. “I know everyone, too, Marty.”

Marty fell quiet for a moment. Jason wasn’t sure if he had lost the connection or if his publicist was simply taking a moment to decide what spin to put on his answer.

Marty finally answered.

It had been the latter.

“Jason, Jason . . .” he oozed soothingly. “You know you are my number one priority. You always have been my number one priority, and you always will be—until the day you either run off to some private island in the Pacific, build a compound, and have fifteen babies with your native housekeeper, or kill me with a heart attack from all the shit you’ll still be getting into when you’re eighty fucking years old.”

Hearing Jason’s silence, Marty took a breath before continuing.

“And since you are my number one priority, I would be remiss in my obligations as your publicist if I didn’t speak to you when I sense something at odds with your image. Tremors in the force that is Jason Andrews, if you will.”

Jason repeated this to himself. Tremors in the force that is Jason Andrews. Classic.

“Dumping supermodels in London is you,” Marty went on. “Getting into petty fights at some Hollywood nightclub? That is not you. Dating international actresses, like Naomi Cross for example—that is you. Dating some lawyer from Chicago? Not you. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

“We’re not dating, Marty,” Jason said. “For the record, Taylor and I aren’t sleeping together, having an affair, or anything. We’re . . . I don’t know. Something else.”

Marty snorted at this.

“No offense, Jason, but having been your publicist for the last thirteen years, I think I know. You don’t do ‘something else.’ ”


THAT EVENING, JASON knocked decisively on Taylor’s front door. Marty’s words had plagued him all day and he needed to do something about it. Now.

Taylor opened the door, surprised to see him.

“Hey—I thought we were meeting later this week,” she said.

Standing on her doorstep, Jason knew the way he handled this next moment would determine everything.

“Come with me to the Pacific Design Center.” Shit—he hadn’t meant for that to come out sounding like a command.

Taylor looked at him strangely. “Why?”

Jason stared awkwardly at the ground. He definitely should’ve done a run-through of this in the Aston Martin on the way over.

“Because I need help picking out a new couch,” he said, peering up at her uncertainly. “Isn’t that what friends do?”

He watched, trying to gauge Taylor’s reaction. Seemingly unsure at first, she studied him as if debating, looking him over with those bold green eyes of hers.

Finally, she nodded. “Okay.”

Jason’s face broke into a relieved smile. “Okay.” He exhaled, glad that was over. “Should we go?”

Taylor went back inside her apartment and grabbed her keys. As she followed Jason out to his car, she tapped him on the shoulder. “Hey—can I drive the Aston Martin?”

“No.”

“But isn’t that what friends do?”

“No.”

Jason opened the passenger door for her and walked around to the driver’s side. As he got in the car, Taylor glanced over.

“My, my, you’re awfully grumpy today . . . Is something wrong?”

Jason looked at her, sitting by his side. Actually, it was the best he had felt in the last two days.

True, it was not exactly the way he had envisioned things going with Taylor. But at least it was something.

So he grinned as he fired up the Aston Martin.

“Buckle up, sweetheart,” he told her. “This ain’t no PT Cruiser.”

And with that, he gunned the car to life and they drove off into the sunset.

Twenty

TAYLOR WATCHED AS Scott expertly chopped up some asparagus and tossed it into the sauté pan simmering on the stove. He added a dash of olive oil.

“You know, when you invited me to dinner, I didn’t know you were planning to cook it,” she said. She sat across from Scott on the other side of the chef’s counter, sipping the martini he had poured when she first arrived.

“Your rules about not being seen in public don’t leave room for much else,” he grinned teasingly. Taylor noticed that a stray lock of blond hair had fallen across his forehead, nearly into his eyes, as he worked. There was something inherently sexy about a man who knew his way around a kitchen.

“Thanks for being understanding about that,” she told him. “I’m trying to keep a low profile for my trial.”

Scott shrugged this off. “No problem. This isn’t yet the best moment for me to be spotted with the famous Mystery Woman anyway.”

Taylor straightened a little in her chair. That was kind of an odd thing to say. “What do you mean?”

Scott glanced up from his cooking and saw the expression on her face. He smiled reassuringly. “Oh, I just meant you’d probably be hounded even more if the press saw us together.”

Taylor’s nodded, softening. “Oh. Of course.”

Stop being so suspicious, she told herself. Trying to relax, she glanced around what she could see of his house. The kitchen, foyer, and living room suggested that Scott (or his decorator) had ultramodern taste. With stark white walls, metal staircases, slate countertops, and stainless steel cabinets, Taylor found the decor a little . . . cold. In her opinion, the best feature of the house was the deck outside that opened to a spectacular view of downtown Los Angeles.

Deciding to take a closer look, she grabbed her martini and headed over to the sliding glass doors.

“Do you mind?” She gestured outside.

Scott shook his head. “Not at all. Make yourself at home.”

Taylor stepped out onto the deck and felt the cool breeze cutting across the Hollywood Hills. She leaned against the railing and gazed out at the twinkling lights of the city.

For what had to be the hundredth time that week, she wondered what the hell she was doing.

She had debated over and over whether she should cancel her date with Scott. She had a whole list of reasons ready: she was too busy with her trial, she barely knew him, she didn’t want to get involved in a relationship in Los Angeles, et cetera. But none of those reasons had sounded particularly convincing, even to her.

Scott Casey had asked her out on a date.

Scott Casey.

Taylor knew that millions of women would die to be in her position that night. And that had been the clincher: she had realized that if she couldn’t say yes to a date with Scott Casey, then she seriously needed to examine what was stopping her. Or rather, who was stopping her.