Famously Fake: A Billionaire Boss Romance Read online

I grab her hand, “Please. Please don’t say anything.”

  Sienna looks down at her hand, then up at me, and I release it slowly, the heat of her still burned into my palm.

  “I won’t say anything,” Sienna says, and immediately my heart calms down. Which is ridiculous. I know she could be lying. She could easily sell this story to the tabloids. But there’s some part of me that trusts her, implicitly.

  “But you should tell me the truth. The whole truth,” Sienna continues. “Clearly this event is important to you. But I can’t plan it right if I don’t know what I’m planning. And we’re down to the wire. We don’t have time to do the guess and check method, where I don’t find out I’ve gone wrong until after I’ve already invested weeks in preparing something.” She puts both hands on the table and leans in so I know she’s serious, “I can pull this off. But I need you to trust me enough to tell me the truth. And then trust me to give you what you need.”

  I want to. I’m surprised by how badly I want to tell this woman the truth. Tell her how excited and terrified I am that this thing I want desperately is finally happening.

  But I can’t. Obviously I can’t. It’s too big a risk.

  Sienna sighs, and turns to wave the waiter over.

  “Wait, that’s it?” I ask. “You’re leaving?”

  “I’m not leaving, you doofus. I’m ordering dessert, because I have to spend months working my ass off for an event that will probably fail because my client won’t give me the details I need to do my job correctly. Which means I deserve chocolate. A lot of it.”

  I avoid her eyes and go back to my taco salad. I don’t envy the waiter who has to tell her they only serve cheesecake.

  5

  Joshua

  It’s 10:30 p.m., and I’m slouched in the window seat that overlooks my driveway. Theoretically, I’m waiting for Brittney to show up and get Poppy, who’s asleep on the couch in the living room. Really I’m sipping whiskey and trying to get what Sienna said out of my head. I’m going to fail because my client won’t give me the details to do the job correctly.

  On the one hand, she’s right. If I’m not willing to tell my event planner what kind of event she’s planning, I’m kneecapping our success from the get-go. On the other hand, I’ve known Sienna one day. I haven’t even told my family about my production company dream, let alone that I got the Ouranos script. That’s partly because they’d take it as an invitation to try to convince me to come back to New York and work in the theatre world with them. But it’s also because I hate telling people about any of my projects before they’re done. Too many of my artsy friends spend their nights smoking and drinking and talking about all of the stuff they’re going to make. And then they never make it.

  And I’m terrified of that being me.

  I hear tires squealing, and I look up to see Brittney’s black Prius with the hot pink stripe skid to a stop in my driveway. Brittney is the only woman I know who can make a Prius sound like a motorcycle without a muffler. She jumps out of the car and dances up the driveway.

  I meet her at the door, “I take it the meeting went well?”

  Brittney grabs my face and kisses each cheek, “Joshua King, you’re an angel for watching Poppy because GUESS WHO JUST LANDED THE MOST SOUGHT AFTER PRODUCER IN THE WORLD FOR HER NEXT STUDIO ALBUM???”

  “Shh! Poppy’s sleeping.”

  She mimes zipping her lips, but she can’t contain her glee, and does a little happy dance in my entryway. I hold up a hand and she high-fives it, then walks past me into my kitchen, and helps herself to a protein bar. “Unfortunately, I hear your business meeting didn’t go as well as mine,” she says, and I start.

  How could she know… “What are you talking about?” I ask.

  “You got the nanny confused with your P.R. person? Because you’re a dweeb who’s horrible with names?”

  “Oh that,” I muster a laugh.

  Brittney tilts her head, scenting a story, “Why, what did you think I was talking about?”

  This time it’s my turn to mime zipping my lips.

  Her eyes go to the whiskey in my hand, “It’s a girl, isn’t it?”

  “What? No.” Honesty makes me add, “Well, technically yes, but not like that. This is a business thing - that girl, I mean a woman.” God, I’m babbling. This is what talking about your dreams does to you. It turns you into a useless babbler. I take a gulp of whiskey, “Why would you say it was a girl?”

  “Because you’re drinking whiskey at home on a weeknight. You only do that if you had an audition, or if you’re thinking about a girl. And you didn’t have an audition, so…” she shrugs.

  “That is absolutely not true.”

  She cocks her head.

  I think about it, “Ok, maybe it’s a little bit true.”

  She boosts herself onto the kitchen counter and pats the surface next to her, “Come on. Sit next to Brittney. Tell me all your problems.”

  I roll my eyes, “It’s not that big a deal.” I mean, my entire career is riding on it, but whatever.

  “Joshua,” she says, in that serious Mom voice she uses when Poppy is trying to pull something over on her. I don’t have an equivalent Dad voice, which is probably why Poppy is better behaved at Brittney’s house than mine. Brittney smacks the counter next to her empathetically, and I give up and join her.

  “Tell me what’s going on in that head of yours,” she says, and goes back to demolishing my protein bar.

  “Basically, there’s a thing I’m working on that’s… a big deal. But I can’t tell people about it. Not yet.”

  “This isn’t a problem. You’re great at keeping secrets,” Brittney says, which is true. It’s also a pretty concise explanation of why our relationship ended. Why a lot of my relationships end, now that I think about it.

  I’m not great at the whole … talking part. The part in romantic comedies where the guy stands up in front of a roomful of strangers and declares his feelings? That’s my nightmare.

  “The thing is,” I say, “I need help, on this one part, which means I might need to tell the secret. And I found the perfect person to help. But I’ve only known her for a day, and if I’m wrong to trust her…”

  “Ah,” Brittney nods sagely. “You’re worried she’s the ambitious sort. Trust your gut if this feels wrong. You’ll find someone else.”

  “No, it’s the opposite,” I hop off the counter, restless. “My gut says trust her. But that’s ridiculous, right? I don’t know her.” I pace some more, than turn to Brittney and throw up my hands. “What do I do?”

  She folds the empty wrapper carefully, and I know she’s thinking just as carefully as she replies, “My therapist says there are two kinds of people. Over-Thinkers and Over-Feelers. Neither are wrong, you just have to know which way you lean and take it into account when you’re making a big decision. For example, I’m an Over-Feeler.”

  I put a hand to my chest, “I’m shocked!”

  She ignores me, “You’re an over-thinker. So if your gut is speaking up so loud it’s finally strong enough to fight that big overthinking brain of yours, than I’d fucking listen to it. But that’s me.”

  Brittney hops off the counter and rolls her eyes, “You though, you’ll probably just research the problem to death.” She heads to the living room to get Poppy.

  Research. A lightbulb goes off in my head, “Brittney, you’re a genius.”

  It’s midnight, and I’m still at the computer. Everything on the internet supports my first impression. Sienna Bridges is squeaky clean. She was graduated from NYU on the Dean’s list, after which she moved with an actor friend named Jax to L.A. Jax’s face looks vaguely familiar – I think she might have been an extra in one of my action movies last year. Yeah, I think I remember Darian talking to her a few times.

  But once Sienna got to L.A., she changed all her social media to private, and it’s just professional stuff. A LinkedIn profile, showing six years of slowly and steadily working her way up her firm’s ladder. A few old press
releases where she’s listed as the contact. Some photos of events she’s thrown.

  I flip through the photos. Every event is stunning, and unique, and perfect for the thing she’s selling. And some of the events are for pretty high-profile clients. The kind of high-profile another person would have name-dropped by now.

  A slouch in my chair. There is no reason not to trust Sienna. She’s professional, she’s discreet, and any benefit she’d get from telling my secret would be short term, and jeopardize the reputation she’s slowly and painstakingly built.

  Plus, there’s that gut feeling Brittney was raving about.

  I stand up, and reach for my phone. I’m going to tell Sienna. I’m going to tell her the whole truth and bring her on board. It’s the right decision, but I can’t tell if I’m excited or dreading it.

  I go to dial her number, when I remember I don’t have it. And even if I did, calling a woman after midnight could be misconstrued.

  Instead, I set an alarm for 9 a.m. to remind myself to get her number and call her, as soon as we hit acceptable business hours. I go to bed, but I toss and turn, restless.

  I make a mental note to stop making life-changing decisions at night that can’t be enacted until morning. It really fucks up my sleep schedule.

  6

  Sienna

  Well, that was the weirdest conversation I’ve ever had. I stare down at my phone, while the normal background sound of the office buzzes around me.

  Joshua King wants me to come over to his house tonight after he finishes shooting so he can tell me the event he wants to plan. Excitement thrums through me, mixed with a twinge of dread that he’s actually just hitting on me, and this is going to turn into a mess I have to clean up.

  But I don’t think that’s what’s happening.

  I think he’s going to give me the information I need to actually succeed at the biggest challenge of my career.

  Still, I mentally build in time to go home and change into the least sexy clothes I own. Loose ‘90s slacks, here I come.

  Joshua lives on a secluded street that feels oddly suburban, except for the size of the houses. His home is painted a deep navy blue bordering on black, and instead of a lawn, he has a rock garden punctuated by big leafy plants. It feels efficient and stylish, but not necessarily like him.

  I park, “Right. Here goes nothing.”

  I head up to the house and ring the doorbell. He opens the door before I get a chance to step back, and suddenly I’m inches away from Joshua King. He’s strong and beautiful and restless and he smells like warm pine on a summer day. I have the strangest urge to just step into him and bury my face in his neck.

  And that’s when I have to admit I didn’t wear my loose slacks and giant boyfriend sweater for him. I wore them for me. Because if I matched with a guy like this on a dating app, I’d think I’d died and gone to heaven.

  But this isn’t a dating app. This is my career. And I’m not going to risk it by making goo-goo eyes at him like half of the other women in his life.

  I roll my shoulders back and march past Joshua into the entryway, which is sparse and vaulting and looks like something out of a magazine, except for the pile of large men’s shoes and tiny child’s shoes by the door. “Is Poppy here?” I ask.

  “No, she’s at her mom’s. I get her tomorrow,” Joshua bounces up and down on his toes. He’s practically vibrating with energy. “Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Some water would be nice,” I say, to give us both something to do until we get used to me being in his house.

  Joshua turns, and I scurry to follow him back to the kitchen – the man’s got long legs, and when he’s at home, he forgets to adjust his pace so other people can keep up. I wonder if he has that same relentless pace in bed, and then mentally slap myself on the forehead.

  Just because he’s a movie star does not give you permission to ogle him, I tell myself. He deserves a professional relationship just as much as you do.

  I try to distract myself from thoughts of Joshua by taking in his house.

  The kitchen is almost as minimalist as his entryway. Lots of white tiles, open shelving, and smooth white dishes that look simple but probably have some designer’s name stamped on the bottom.

  Joshua passes me a glass of water. “I’ve got everything laid out in the dining room,” he says, and heads off toward what I can only assume is the dining room.

  I sneak a peek at the bottom of my glass. It’s from Target.

  Ok, maybe he’s not as far gone as I thought.

  The dining room table is definitely designer — heavy, dark wood — but that’s not the first thing I notice.

  No, the first thing I notice is that it’s covered with mounds and mounds of paper. As I get closer, I realize they’re distinct piles. There’s a script and headshots of award-winning actors mixed in with those of actors I’ve never seen before in one pile, and a coffee-stained document titled “Ten Year Plan” on top of another. I circle the table, passing budgets and graphs and a thick report titled “Market Research.” I stop in front of a pile of paperwork that all seem to have “launch” and “kick-off” and “announcement” in the visible titles.

  I reach for the top one, but Joshua’s hand comes down on the paper, stopping me. I look over the table and up into his brown eyes. “I need you to promise not to tell anyone,” he says.

  He’s one of the most powerful men in Hollywood, but all I can think is that he reminds me of a kid at a sleepover about to tell his big secret. I half expect him to ask me to pinky swear.

  “Do you want me to sign a non-disclosure agreement?” I ask.

  “No. No, your money doesn’t do me any good if you tell someone. Besides, you don’t have enough money to be worth suing.”

  “Hey,” I say, feeling indignant. I mean he’s right. But he could be a little nicer about it.

  “Just promise,” Joshua says, looking at me with so much focus I lose my breath a little. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone what I’m about to show you.”

  “I promise,” I say, trying to shake the feeling that I’m making a deal with the devil.

  He flashes that wicked grin of his and passes me the pile of launch papers, “Welcome to the team, Sienna.”

  Five hours later, I am sure of two things: Joshua King did not invite me over to hit on me. And, he is the most passionate man I’ve ever met.

  There’s the way his eyes light up as he talks about his plan to launch the production company with a high-profile, Oscar-bait movie that no one can ignore. And the way he seems to get more energetic the longer the night goes on and the more he tells me.

  Because he’s not just telling me about the launch part of the project, the big event where he wants to announce the production company, their first movie, and the lead actor all in one go. (The fact that it’s three months away and he doesn’t have a single actor hired yet doesn’t seem to phase him.)

  No, he’s also telling me about the movie itself. About his long-term plans for the company.

  I nearly faint when I hear how much he paid for the script.

  Joshua King is telling me everything about this project, and it’s like watching him lay his soul bare.

  It might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

  Unfortunately, I’ve got to be at the office in ten hours. Joshua might be my favorite client at the moment, but he’s not my only client.

  I stifle a yawn, but Joshua notices, and it seems to jolt him out of his flow.

  He checks his watch, “Oh my God. I’m sorry. It’s late and you’re tired.”

  “It’s fine,” I say.

  “No, it’s not,” Joshua runs a hand through his hair, sheepish. “I tend to get sucked in by this project. Which is fine for me, but not fine for you.”

  “It’s really–”

  “Sienna. Pay attention. I’m saying something important,” he says.

  So I do.

  “I know I’m the one with the power here. I hired you, I’m at a
different stage in my career–”

  I snort. That’s an understatement.

  “– so if you ever need to leave, or need me to leave, just say so. Whether you’ve got another client, or you need to actually sleep, or you’ve got a date. Whatever. I trust you to get the job done. And I’m not going to fire you, or bitch about you to your boss if you prioritize yourself over the project every now and then.”

  It’s probably just the late hour making me emotional, but my throat gets a little tight. I’ve never had a client say that before. “Promise?” I say.

  “I promise,” he says, echoing my words to him at the start of the night.

  So there we are. In a dark house late at night, promising to trust each other.

  I smile and stand, “Ok then.” I take the stack of launch papers in front of me. “I’m going to head home, but I’m taking these with me. I’ll email your assistant to set up a time to talk once I have some location proposals.”

  He scribbles a phone number on scratch paper and passes it to me, “Just text me when you think of them. I trust you. But I’m not sure I trust everyone in your firm with access to the email server.”

  I accept the paper on reflex, “Got it.”

  It’s not until I’m sitting in my car that I realize I, utterly ordinary Sienna Bridges, now have the personal cell phone number of one of the most sought after, powerful bachelors in Hollywood.

  I can’t help it. I start laughing.

  7

  Sienna

  After two weeks of Joshua shooting down my ideas via text message (and me shooting down his – the man seriously asked if it was too late to get the Hollywood Bowl) I finally have the perfect location. It makes perfect sense for the champagne launch, but it’s also romantic and grand enough for when we announce the production company.

  In fact, I’m so convinced I’m right about this, that I made Joshua agree to meet me for coffee so I can tell him in person, and talk him out of any objections before he has time to grow attached to them.