Cara Dee's Blog, page 3

I’m doing it!

I’m blogging again! Possibly because a reader in my Facebook group was kind enough to point out, “shouldn’t you be blogging?” To which my smooth response was, “Oh shit.”

And then Eliza, the ever present PA/babysitter/manager, told me I should too.

So here I am. And today, she is more than a PA/babysitter/manager. She’s also a bartender. We’ll be celebrating my release of Power Play in my Facebook group, and she’s got book-themed drink recipes to share! I don’t know about you guys, but I’ll be sipping on a Slapshot and Needy-Wanty tonight.

Some wicked cool authors will also stop by for giveaways and games, so you better show up. Here’s a link to the group and you’re hereby required to come.

Check out this lineup!

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So yeah, Power Play came out today! Hashtag Daddykink, gay romance, hot older tattoo artist, and younger cheeky hockey player.

I was told to do this

“You gotta be more active on social media,” she said. “It’ll be fun,” she said.

“Update your blog more often,” she said. “It’ll be fun,” she said.

Are you having fun yet?

Eliza is a PA in a managerwolf clothing. (It’s a word!) She’s bossy. And it’s kind of hard to bitch at her when she’s right, although I do try. I feel like it’s my job, you know? (Let’s pretend for a minute I didn’t give her free rein to push me to be “better.”) Thing is, I enjoy interacting with my readers and online friends; more than that, I enjoy getting to know them better. But being…who I am, I fidget for a century before blurting out the most ridiculous crap, so when I go online to be social, don’t expect anything brainy because I’m talking out of my ass.

So far this year, I’ve tweeted about cloning myself so I can enslave my other me. I’ve posted a lot of pictures of drinks with cherries, and I said I’d like to be a test bunny for Lelo vibrators when I grow up. Which is true.

Now I’m gonna blog too. Yay.

For the record, this chick, Eliza, hurricaned into the romance industry a year ago, and I think she knows more about it than me now. I’ve just been chilling here for five years, but whatevs. Annoying little bug. She’s all about sales and plans and marketing and financial structure, and I’ll be here like, “But did you see the meme I sent you.”

Anyway. Let’s blog! Like pretty much all other authors, I’m currently writing. With Power Play being edited by my fantastic, road-trippin’ editor, I’m now back to writing delicious angst. Auctioned will be a five-book series packed with action, trauma, suspense, angry sex, and of course love. If you liked my Aftermath and Outcome, this is the type of book/s for you. Here, have a looksie at the covers!

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What else can I blog about?

Oh! Here are three songs from my Auctioned playlist.

Warpath by Tim Halperin

Tear It All Down by Ed Prosek

New Kings by Sleeping Wolf

Link goes to my Spotify list for Auctioned.

Get Yourself Listed, Maybe

Hi. I like lists.

You know what they say, list-makers’ gonna list.

This is my compilation of chicks and dicks who work closely with authors. AKA, the hard-working people we wouldn’t have much to show for if they weren’t around. Okay, that’s a wonky sentence, but you get my drift. I’m running low on sleep and high on caffeine.

I’ve only just started this index, so I’ll be adding continuously to it. When it’s someone I’ve personally worked with in one way or another, I’ll add my own notes. This list will get a button on my website so I can access it easily. I’ll probably rearrange the categories as the list grows, but for now, here we go!

If you know someone who should be listed, don’t hesitate to drop a link. I’ll add anyone who’s been recommended by others. Of course, you can throw self-promo my way, too. That’s a big part of what we do. If you’re an editor or proofer, though, have a couple testimonials around and I’m happy.

The “maybe” in the title is because this is for me. I just like sharing the links and work by those who help authors. In short, this isn’t some must-have list, but every little bit of sharing helps, right? Plus, I’ll link to this in my newsletter, so there’s that. Now’s when I stop rambling. Jesus H Christmas.

Editing & Proofing

Lisa at Silently Correcting Your Grammar gets personally offended by typos and misplaced commas, and she works crazy hours to hunt them all down. She edits for New York Times bestsellers (and me! :P) and shares my passion for research and accuracy. She’s my HBIC.

Jeanne McDonald is another Grammar Nazi whose clients have made the New York Times bestseller list. Additionally, she’s one of the sweetest women I’ve met in our mad industry, and she works hard to promote her author friends.

Rach Lawrence Books. Rachel has both formatted and proofed for me, and I couldn’t be happier with her work. Her perspective is fresh, and if there’s one thing an author needs after staring at the same document for months and months it’s a new pair of eyes that see what you miss.

Love Infinity Proofreading.

Gwyneiira’s Editing Services.

Formatting

Lindsey Gray Formatting Services.

Rach Lawrence Books.

Graphic Design

Jada D’Lee Designs did the covers for Aftermath and Outcome! Can’t say enough good things about her; she’s funny, so talented, and very accommodating.

Under Cover Designs.

Mayhem Cover Creations knows excellent design. I don’t even know what to say. It’s probably best to let her portfolio speak for itself because holy crap.

PA Services & PR Agencies

Eliza at Eliza Rae Services definitely goes the extra mile. She’s very professional, works hard, and has years of experience in everything I struggle with when all I want to do is write. You know, math and silly things like that. This woman, though, gets off on spreadsheets, feels at home in Excel, and lights up at a new challenge. I’m lucky to call her my PA. You can, too!

Neda at Ardent Prose PR was amazing to work with for my relaunch of Touch: The Complete Series. I’m filing her under #CareerGoals and hope to be able to work with her again soon.

Pretty Little Book Promotion & PA Services.

IndiGo Marketing & Design.

Signal Boost PR.

Jennifer at Jennifer R. Promotions is a friend and part of my Street Crew. She’s a sweetheart who stops at nothing to pimp out the authors she takes on.

Gay Book Promotions.

More coming soon

Always looking for indie swag makers…

Pssst. Uncomplicated Choices was released today!

When life gave you lemons, you learned who stayed and made lemonade with you. Or something to that effect. And the day Ellis Hayes kidnapped me—or, he borrowed a yacht and didn’t know I was on board—he’d definitely been handed too many lemons.

We faced a dilemma when I woke up hungover in the middle of the ocean. He needed to get the hell out of town to do some soul searching and decide whether or not to divorce his wife, and I needed to get back on land because humans didn’t belong on the water. There was also better cell service on land, and I had my four-year-old daughter on vacation in Paris to check in with.

Then I remembered I wasn’t a complete tool. Ellis wasn’t doing all right, and we were practically family. I had to stay and make lemonade with him. Of course, me being me, seemingly un-dateable and complicated, I had to develop feelings for him, too.

Autism In My Perfect World

I don’t necessarily write autistic characters every now and then to make a statement, or to even raise awareness, though it’s definitely a big bonus. I write autistic characters in some of my books because they’re real.

They walk among us.

Are you sure you’re happy with your novel?

I published a new book the other day. Fist-pumps the air. The idea for this novel came to me seven years ago, title included. This was back when I wrote more fanfiction, so I still have the banner I created. January 27th, 2011. Path of Destruction. Since then, the idea of the rock-star romance has grown and developed in some dark corner of my mind. Names for characters popped up, scenes played out before my eyes, and boom, hey, let’s end the guy’s rock star career with a prison sentence, and hey, let’s research addiction and abuse for the heroine.

I lived and breathed that novel once I really started writing. I questioned myself at every turn, I dreamed about it and woke up with ideas and lines and various crap I just had to include in the book, I—as usual—stopped existing in real life, and I had notes everywhere that I swear some little gnome move around when I’m not looking.

Since I value realism and plausibility as much as I do, research is a big part of my work. It’s something I take pride in. For this particular novel, there was a lot to learn. Lincoln, my main guy, has spent the past ten years in prison, and can you imagine? He missed the internet explosion. He’s new to social media, and he can’t for the life of him understand why people text so fucking much. When he leaves prison, he thinks Walkman is still a thing. He’s overwhelmed and has a short fuse.

Rewind: my first thought, no matter how brief it was, was about reuniting him with the girl he lost when he was arrested. Then I thought, well…hold up, he’s been to prison, and ten years have passed. Let’s find out how he’s actually going to react. Freedom comes before the girl. The world has changed.

Step by step, I brought him out of that facility. Literally, step by step. He’ll register the familiar sounds of the locks and heavy doors, the comfort of the only clothes he’s worn for a decade, and when he’s given some pocket change, he notices the design of the money’s changed.

Research brings a story to life on another level, in my opinion. Whether I’m reading journals from inmates who have spent years and years locked up, or I’m asking my musician husband about Lincoln’s guitar playing, I try to cover everything I can think of. A book is a puzzle. Everything has to fit. Does the way he speak match his education and background, would Jesse and Abel accept Lincoln’s presence quickly or would there be issues, and when the hell can Lincoln and Adeline finally get together?

I’m rambling. I actually have a point to make, believe it or not.

When picking beta readers, the last thing I want is a group of ass-kissers. I want their honesty about everything, and I did get some criticism. Thank fuck. Because if they didn’t catch it, it would fall on the readers to get dissatisfied. So I went back and did some changes; my editor and I went back and forth for weeks, too. Then my proofer had her go, and again, some changes, very minor this time.

Last reading round, I was so fucking happy with Path of Destruction. The puzzle was complete, and I heard enough “This is your best book yet; I’ll never forget it” to make me soar.

Of course, me being me, I suck at promoting myself, so this is hardly a book that will hit any bestseller lists. But, no matter what, I’m very happy with my work. I continue to write what I want to read, and I actually read it yesterday. I recommend it.

As I write my book, I think some crazy shit

I’m going to focus. Concentrate. Hard. I’m going to write this bitch so good. I see the scene in my head, the one that will end up somewhere in the middle of the book where the hero shoves the heroine up against the wall and growls “I’m done pretending” before kissing her until her panties are ruined. Y’all know that scene. I see it, so I’m going to focus. Concentrate. Hard. I wonder how different the scene would look if I wrote heroin instead of heroine…

Focus!

*puts on headphones and stares at empty document.*

A familiar sight. New chapter. I should upgrade from Office 2003, but I hate change so much that… I just don’t like change. To some, it’s a regular personality trait. To some, it’s autism. It’s been a while since I went on Pinterest to look for Aspie memes…

Fuck, now I lost concentration. I’ll just play Blossom Blast on my phone for ten minutes, and then I’ll be ready to write this bitch. So. Good.

Ten minutes is silly, though. I have five lives; I might as well stick it through until I can’t. I’m no quitter!

*plays Blossom Blast.*

A human interrupts me. “You hungry?”

I glare at him. Can’t he see I’m busy? “I’m working! How many times do I have to tell you that when I’m wearing my headphones, I’m busy–”

He points to my phone. “It doesn’t look like work.”

I suppress a sigh. He wouldn’t understand. Muggle.

“I’m not hungry,” I say, returning to my Blossom Blast game.

I run out of lives and rub my hands together. Then I lose track of time as I write my next masterpiece. Oh it’s going to be so good. My hero’s past is tragic. He doesn’t have any parents. They died because I don’t want to write them. Boring. Now I don’t have to include them. I don’t have to think about them. There won’t be any in-between takes where he goes to visit his folks, no boring phone calls from his mother. It’s really easy to kill off parents in books.

*tilts head.*

I wonder how many orphans there are in fiction. Many. Do other writers kill them off for the same reason? Or just to build up the hero’s tragic past? Ugh. This is not original. Maybe mine will simply be a bitter bastard, not because he lost his folks but because…um. Oy, this is getting complicated.

*kills off parents.*

There. Done.

“How was work, hon?”

“Good, I killed some people.”

I have five lives on Blossom Blast again!

I get to the next level before I’m out of lives. It was a good break. I check the time and wonder where the time went. Shit. Well, I did refill the lives a couple times… A two hour break is perfectly fine, because now I’m ready to write this bitch so good.

Two paragraphs later, I’m hungry like whoa. I’m also stuck, so it’s best to take a break again. I cook dinner and get my fill of human interaction. I do human things, and it gets me thinking on realism. I like that in my books. My characters get hungry. They go to the bathroom. You rarely see that in the fluffier romance novels. Even rarer in BDSM books. They can go out for a Mexican bean fest for dinner and then they hit the lavish playroom for some good ‘ol anal sex and maybe even a fisting. Or a bondage session. And I’m sitting there, wondering if the sub never has to pee.

“What’re you thinking about?”

I snap out of my thoughts. “Um…realism?” I raise a solidarity fist. “Buttsex before burrito.”

He’s looking at me funny. “Right… I’m not sure if you’re asking for anal or if you’re still hungry.”

“I’m full.”

“So you wanna…?”

I forget to answer, already getting back into work mode. I make sure my character goes to the bathroom before he gets on his flight, because really, he’s six foot two and airplane bathrooms were built for…children. I don’t know the PC protocol. Is it okay to say midget? Dwarf? Little person? I’m useless about that. When I’m around people I’m comfortable with, I use the r-word and justify it with a diagnosis. I’m entitled to use the word like some black comedians can’t crack a joke without that other word. You know the one.

Another word many seem to dislike so much in books is cunt. I think it’s about exposure. I used to think it was too crass, or best used as an insult. But I’ve changed my mind after reading smut where it was all cunt, cunt, cunt.

It can be hot when used right.

I snicker. That’s what she said.

I’m such a fucking dork.

Focus!

Right. It’s been a while since I played Blossom Blast…

Then I realize it’s late, so I might as well call it a day. I got little to fuck-all done, but I’ll write this bitch so good tomorrow instead. Grammatically, I know it’s write this bitch so well. I’m not completely r-worded.

I’m asked how work went today.

I answer, “I put on my headphones but forgot to push play. How was yours?”

The next day, I’m unreachable. Everything just clicks, and I write forty pages in no time at all. I don’t understand it sometimes, how motivation and determination work, but I’m thankful it does work on occasion. Otherwise I’d have to get a normal-person job.

Gross.

 

The prologue of Noah, Julian’s POV

Copyright © 2016 by Cara Dee

All rights reserved

 

Edited by Silently Correcting Your Grammar, LLC.

*

Buy Noah on Amazon.

  This is the prologue of Noah that didn’t make the cut in the book.

Prologue

Then

Julian Hartley

Maybe it was a phase.

I shut down my laptop and placed it next to me on the bed. From downstairs, I could hear Uncle Noah had arrived, judging by the sheer volume of his booming voice and everyone in the family greeting him—always so loudly. It bugged me, though I tried not to let it show.

In the meantime, I was in his old room, surrounded by glimpses of his childhood. Football trophies from high school, more hockey memorabilia than I could count, and photos of him and his friends. He was ridiculously photogenic. Not afraid to take off his shirt and show his abs. He’d obviously been to many pool parties.

He lit up every picture, and I did not care for how I viewed him. Not unlike the guys I’d just watched on my laptop.

It was my ongoing trial…? I supposed. I couldn’t be blind anymore to the fact that I was attracted to guys, but now fingers were crossed it was just a phase and nothing permanent. I was only sixteen; my hormones were raging. It was a plausible explanation, and Uncle Noah was simply a handsome man. He had that kind of personality; everyone was drawn to him. But I had to wonder, was he really always that cheerful? There was something strange about people who were always in a good mood.

Having only known him for a few years, I couldn’t be certain, but the photos always showed him grinning, smiling, laughing—preeetty sure he looked giggly in one. Maybe he was intoxicated.

“Julian, honey!” Nana called from down the stairs. “Everyone’s here now!”

Duty called.

I’d kiss the ground my family walked on, but sometimes I felt so out of place. I let out a breath and stood up, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror on Uncle Noah’s door.

I made a face. My hair was a mess, I was all scrawny, and I looked as jet-lagged as I felt. Hopefully, I’d get some sleep tomorrow when we drove to the Shenandoah Valley in Virginia.

This year, we were going camping for our reunion, and I was clueless. I’d spent last week walking in my new hiking boots Dad helped me pick out because, apparently, sneakers were no good.

I left the room I’d share with my little brother JJ and headed downstairs. Dinner smelled so good it made my mouth water. Nana was making her pulled pork casserole, and I couldn’t wait.

As I was about to round the corner to get to the kitchen, I slammed into something solid. For a second, I was wrapped up in warmth that smelled better than dinner. Whatever aftershave or cologne it was, it belonged to Uncle Noah, and he laughed as he steadied me. Two firm hands on my arms, and I looked up dazedly to see his grinning face.

“Oh, hey there, Julian.” His smile widened. “I was just about to get’cha. You excited to go camping tomorrow?”

I stared like a moron. Something had changed. I should speak, but I didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t looking forward to camping at all. Could he do or say something loud and cheerful so it could bug me? I could talk easier when I was annoyed and…unmoved.

His expression changed into one of concern, and he slid one hand up to my shoulder, almost touching my neck. “You all right, kid?”

Good God, he was handsome. I hated him. He made life look wonderful. Or, scratch that, I hated myself. I wanted life to be wonderful, too. I’d heard great things about it.

Say something!

Crap.

I nodded dumbly and managed to look away from his eyes. “Yup, yes—er, sorry. I’m tired. Camping should be…fun?”

Uncle Noah laughed and ruffled my hair like I was a little child. Like I was JJ. “Lucky for you, you get my old bed all to yourself. I’m staying at a hotel.” He winked.

My face grew hot, and maybe I did hate him a little bit. What the hell was wrong with me? Now I was picturing things. Yes, much, much better he was staying at a hotel. The Hollywood golden boy. Boy, as in…big, tall, muscular, good-smelling man. And I was a freak. Someone should have me institutionalized.

“I, uh—well, I’m, um, I’m sharing with JJ,” I said, completely flustered. I needed to get away. “I’ll go, uh, help Nana with dinner.”

I made a hasty escape to the kitchen where Nana and Mom were chatting away while cooking and preparing snacks for the camping trip.

“There’s my favorite.” Mom smiled. “Come here, you can help me cut these sandwiches in half. They’ll be lunch tomorrow.”

I relaxed instantly and got to work. It wasn’t being called favorite that had made me comfortable around Mia Collins; it wasn’t what she said that had made her Mom. It was how she genuinely wanted me around and included me, which my biological mother had failed at over and over. Last time I’d called her, over a year ago, she’d answered with, “What do you want?” Whereas, Mom…sometimes still got teary-eyed just because I called her that. No one had made me feel as included in this family as her and Nana.

It was no wonder I preferred the kitchen over the living room where all the men gathered.

“You know, dear,” Nana said, checking the casserole, “Julian’s old enough to fly on his own now. He should come visit more often.”

“I don’t know, Ma…” Mom grimaced and handed me some plastic bags to put the sandwiches in. “Maybe next year. I already know I won’t be able to sleep when he goes off to Paris with his class this fall.”

I chuckled. “That’s not because I’ll be gone.”

“Oh, shut your pie hole,” she laughed.

“Am I missing something?” Nana turned to us. “I’m missing something.”

I couldn’t help but smirk. “Linda’s the fussiest baby ever, and I’m the only one who can lull her to sleep at night if she’s having a fit.” Which was a lot. She probably learned new ways to scream more often than she learned new words.

“He plays for her,” Mom gushed. “It’s the sweetest thing.”

I smiled and focused on the sandwiches as my damn cheeks burned.

*

During dinner, we talked mostly about the camping trip, and I did my best to not stare at Uncle Noah too much. Already it felt weird calling him uncle. He wasn’t even very unclelike. Maybe with JJ. Right before dinner, I caught Noah teaching JJ how to Saran-Wrap the toilet. The man was a kid like that. He also had a contest with my baby sister where they made funny faces at each other, and it was all fun and games until Linda began screaming and wanted to get away from Noah’s lap fast.

Dad and I cleared the dining room table while Nana and Uncle Noah prepared coffee and dessert in the living room. For the fucking life of me, I couldn’t stop observing him. Or maybe gawking? I wasn’t sure I knew where the line went.

“Did you hear what I said, son?” Dad chuckled.

I turned to him quickly, eyes wide, and nearly dropped a dish as I was putting it in the dishwasher. “What?”

He smirked and shook his head. “You’ve been distracted all evening. I asked if you wanted to come out in the yard and play football with us.”

Since when do I play football?

“Uh…no, thanks. I can watch, though…?”

Poor Dad. I bet he wished I was more like him, into football and soccer, guy stuff and whatnot. Luckily for him, JJ was already sold on all that.

“Fair enough.” He started to leave the kitchen, but he came back to give the top of my head a quick kiss. Then he left, and it was awkward. I was dumb, wasn’t I? Maybe I should fake it. Pretend I was into that stuff. Dad would certainly like it.

“Hey, Dad?” I called, and he popped his head in the door opening. “One game.”

He smiled widely.

*

If only dessert lasted forever, but it didn’t. Dad and Uncle Noah were itching to go outside, as was JJ, so I was doomed. I sat on the old porch swing in the backyard and tied my sneakers as Noah and Mom decided the teams. I ended up with Mom and Dad, and we were playing against Uncle Noah, JJ, and Pops.

“We’re gonna win, Uncle Noah!” JJ shouted.

“Of course we are.” Noah had just taught him how to fist-bump, so they did that every other minute when JJ ran toward him with his fist up high. Uncle Noah grinned and turned to Mom. “The fuck they changing their accents for?”

“What?” Mom frowned.

“JJ sounds more British than American, and Julian over there—” Noah jerked his chin at me “—ain’t far off.”

“I don’t sound British,” I said. That was crazy.

“They’re attending an international school until they’re fluent in German,” Dad said. “Most teachers are from the UK, so it wouldn’t be implausible for their accents to change a bit.”

“I don’t sound British!” I repeated.

Pops hemmed and hawed. “You all sound like Americans who’ve lived in England too long. You clearly need more teachers from Pittsburgh in Berlin. I can volunteer, you know. Teach them Europeans a thing or two about ‘merica.”

I sighed, and Mom said it was enough chitchat because she wanted to destroy her brother in football. That made Noah guffaw.

*

I was the weak link in our team, something Noah took advantage of way too often. JJ was focused on Mom and Dad, and Pops merely played for fun, but Noah played to win.

I had no idea what the score was. Maybe we were in the lead? Either way, it made Noah more competitive, and he kind of forgot to include JJ. Instead, he tackled Dad, ran past Mom, whom Pops was blocking, and then all I heard was incoherent yelling. Oh my God. Between Noah and the goal was just me.

“You can take him, honey!” Nana hollered.

I really, truly can’t!

I glanced over quickly at Dad, who had this hopeful look on his face. I hated the game he loved, but I guessed in some way I wanted to give him at least this. Holy hell, I was going to go down fast, but I found some inner courage and braced myself for impact.

Noah wore a dark smirk as he ran closer. I was toast. I was really toast. But if I got lucky, maybe I could stall him enough for Mom and Dad to catch up. And a second later, all thoughts flew out of my head. I intercepted Noah’s path, and he crashed into me. The ball bounced and rolled out of his reach, and I grunted as my back hit the grass.

The pain shot through me, causing me to groan, and I couldn’t breathe very well with Noah right on top of me. I didn’t know my eyes had closed, but the thought of him lying on me made them flash open.

I wasn’t the only one in pain, thank goodness. He was groaning too, and I became painfully aware of everything that wasn’t painful. His body was solid, larger than mine, and it felt…good. Oh God, it felt extremely good, and he smelled amazing.

I vaguely registered Mom grabbing the ball with a “Ha-ha!” that made Noah curse and slam his fist down on the grass. After that, he looked down at me and chuckled, half irritated, half amused.

“You okay?” he asked.

I shook my head because I was about to panic. I couldn’t fucking stop my body from reacting. “My spine,” I lied.

“Oh shit, I’m sorry, kid.” He rushed off me and grabbed my hand to help me up. It was dizzying, and I was mortified.

Putting some distance between us, I hoped no one could see how flustered I was, or how utterly embarrassed. Or that I was kind of hard. I hated myself.

I made my way over to the porch swing again and sat down, relieved it masked my arousal. When Mom and Dad hurried over to make sure I was okay, it was easier to lie.

Five minutes of fussing later, I was left alone while they finished the game without me. I blew out a breath and leaned forward. My erection had thankfully gone down, but the mortification hadn’t.

The man who was supposed to be my uncle had made me hard, for God’s sake. I needed to dig a hole in the ground and lie down. Hell, the more I thought about it, the more awful it got. What if he’d felt it? Had he? No, that was unlikely. But what if he had? I’d kill myself. I was only starting this hell ride of being controlled by hormones. It was bound to get worse.

I groaned quietly into my hands and berated myself for coming to the reunion. And we had a whole week to go before I could return home and suppress this memory.

You want to run into him again, idiot.

This wasn’t a damn phase. I was fucking gay. Just another thing to add to the list of crap that made me different from all others.

I wished I could be normal for once.

#

Dear Reviewer, You’re Wrong

In the past few days, I’ve been going through my Twitter account. I figured there’s no need to follow people who haven’t tweeted anything in three years. Plus, I wanted to find some new reviewers to follow.

As I was tracking those down, of course I saw their short bios, too. And let me tell ya, if I see another “I’m not an author, just another reviewer,” I’mma go postal. So this is my open letter to Just Another Reviewer.

You’re wrong.

You clearly don’t see how invaluable you are. A while back, I tried the promo thing. I paid x amount of ka’ching to have Breaking Free and With Brave Wings promoted like nothing else. Bloggers signed up, and I saw links being tweeted to left and right for two days. It felt…notsogood. I was invisible. I became an ad, and in today’s society we filter those out.

But you, Just Another Reviewer, take the time to read my book. There’s no one I’ll throw a book at faster than a reviewer. You make notes, rate it, and post it on social media for readers to see. You are not just another reviewer. You are my biggest support in getting the word out there.

My sales didn’t spike after doing promo. Every now and then, however, they spike because a reviewer liked my book and told people about it. A couple months after I released With Brave Wings, my sales skyrocketed, and I knew it was because of a reviewer or two. Same thing happened with Northbound and Northland, not to mention Aftermath for which I still get tagged on Facebook almost three years after the publishing date.

I don’t give a flying fuck about how small you think your following is—if you have thousands or you consider yourself a reader who “only” chats about a book online with a few friends after reading it. Publishing in the jungle that is today’s book industry would be a whole lot more difficult without you.

Sincerely,

Just another author.

Authors going mental…and some BDSM

I don’t know whether to be embarrassed or consider myself normal among other writers, but when I start having conversations with characters in my head, I gotta admit I doubt my sanity just a bit.

“One must be a little crazy to write a good novel.” ~John Gardner.

“I’m a writer. Therefore, I am not sane.” ~Edgar Allan Poe.

I believe you, guys.

I wish I could switch off my brain and go to bed with the hubster, though. I wish I never forgot to eat. I wish I always remembered when I took my last shower. (Don’t worry, it was when I woke up today around…oh, 4 pm or so.)

When my sisters wanna talk, they always text “Are you awake?” first, because they know I’m more likely to work until the sun comes up and sleep through the day than, you know, be normal.

July was going to be my vacation month. Since I came back from the States at the end of January, I’ve been writing almost nonstop, and I’ve released four novels this year alone, soon five.

Crazy.

But the response continues to blow my mind, and writing is an addiction I keep sinking deeper into with a dazed grin on my face.

I’ll eat later. I’ll sleep when I crash.

Instead, I have this chaotic mind where unwritten stories aren’t stacked on shelves. They’re floating around and have characters that leave the pages and talk to me when I’m trying to remember something important. Today it was Cade from the Touch Series who decided he’d been quiet for too long.

“I’m not like Nicholas.”

No, I know Cade is nothing like Nicholas in the first book. They’re both Daddy Doms, but yeah, definitely different.

“Nothing shocks me anymore.”

Uh-huh. That’ll change after he sees Gabriella’s transformation.

“I fucked up with Dylan.”

Big time, dude.

“I need to go after him. Texas is only a flight away.”

Too bad Gabriella will get there first. You know, to the hospital. But I’m sure a certain Daddy Dom will offer to look after Dylan (and Gabriella) while waiting for the cast to come off. One Daddy, two hurt subs… What could go wrong?

“Dylan’s moved on, hasn’t he?”

Well, he’s trying. I’ll see you in the pages, Cade.

‘Cause…who needs sanity when you have worlds to discover and put on paper?

Breaking Free giveaway and one rocky beginning!

Hi, everyone. :) As some of you know, I have a new novel coming out on June 23rd. If you’re on Facebook, I hope you’ll join us for my release party. There’ll be lots of giveaways, takeovers with other authors and bloggers, and plenty of titles to be added to your TBR.

In the meantime, I’d like to share the first three chapters of Breaking Free with you! If you like what you see, Breaking Free is available for pre-order, or you can take the chance to win an e-copy of the book as well as an Amazon gift card. :)

There are three ways of joining the giveaway.

I’ve shared this blog post on my Facebook page; all you do is click share.
I’ve shared this blog post on my Twitter; all you do is retweet it.
Scroll down and click the share buttons below the post. For Twitter users, it’s especially easy because it tags my name automatically, and your Twitter handle will be added. For Facebookers, make sure you’ve either liked my page or that we’re friends so you can tag me.

My Facebook page to use for the tag: Cara Dee.

My Twitter handle: @CaraDeeWrites.

The giveaway ends on June 23rd, and the winner will be contacted the following day.

Good luck! :)

Copyright © 2015 by Cara Dee

Edited by Silently Correcting Your Grammar, LLC

The Hollywood scene has always fit Tennyson Wright like a too-tight sweater. A highly respected director, he has managed to avoid the games and power plays of Tinseltown. Until now. To gain more publicity for the film he’s shooting, the studio has decided a PR relationship is in order, and soon Tennyson finds himself pushed into the spotlight with one of the actresses on set. Rich, spoiled, much younger, party princess Sophie Pierce.



Sophie, famous for being infamous, got her part in the film due to her daddy, the studio chairman. But there’s more to her than wild nights and drunken tabloid photos, and she’s aching to prove it. Under Tennyson’s protective wing, she begins to navigate the uncharted territory of responsible adulthood and takes the first steps toward a legitimate, lasting fame based on her talent, not her reputation.

But in order for Sophie to truly soar on her own, she’s going to have to shed every part of her life.

Freedom has a price.

Chapter 1

“It’s fucking ludicrous, that’s what it is.” Tennyson left the studio’s publicist in his trailer, irritated and more than a little insulted. Noah, his first assistant director, was waiting outside, and Tennyson signed off on yesterday’s dailies to be sent to the producers in LA.

“When did you want me to take the second unit and do the pickup shots?” Noah asked.

Tennyson handed back the pen. “Tomorrow before lunch should work. Don’t forget my notes.” With that done, he continued toward craft services on the other side of the massive warehouse that housed the set. But halfway there, the blasted publicist caught up.

Only a few crew members lingered on the set, preparing for the next scene inside the first floor of a simple home that had been built in front of a large green screen.

“I was only being polite, Tennyson. This isn’t just a suggestion.” The publicist heaved a breath, clearly out of shape. “We need to generate a bigger buzz. We’re two weeks in to production and hardly anyone gives a shit at home.”

One of the reasons Tennyson enjoyed filming in Vancouver was that he escaped the buzz.

“So set up the two leads,” he replied impatiently. “I don’t have time for this bullshit.”

The publicist huffed and placed his hands on his hips. “Considering Claire is America’s sweetheart, happily married, and Chris is gay, not even Hollywood would believe it.”

Tennyson gritted his teeth and folded his arms across his chest. He had to admit it was farfetched, but he refused to be a part of this. He had worked in the industry for twenty years and had an Academy Award to show for it; he was above goading paparazzi for attention.

Nobody cared about the director anyway, and that was a damn good thing.

“This is happening,” the publicist stated. “The producers and the studio are in agreement.”

Even Ash? Tennyson’s own brother?

The only reason he hadn’t insisted on producing—and therefore be able to control the project more—was because he trusted Asher, who was one of the producers.

“Who would you even set me up with?” Tennyson didn’t care he sounded pissed. “Claire’s the only woman my age.” There were a couple others, but their parts weren’t big enough to gain that awful buzz.

“Sophie.”

Tennyson must’ve misheard that. “Excuse me?”

“Sophie. Sophie Pierce.”

That wasn’t even remotely amusing. First of all, Sophie’s father was a chairman at the corporation that owned the studio, which, Tennyson might add, was most likely the reason Sophie had landed her part. Regardless, no father in his right mind would pimp out his daughter like this, no matter how fake the romance would be.

Second of all: “Are we thinking of the same Sophie? You mean the girl who plays Claire and Chris’s daughter?”

The publicist merely nodded, unfazed.

“Jesus.” Tennyson was torn between fury and nausea. “She could be my own daughter, for chrissakes!” And he wasn’t into barely legal women. Lately, he wasn’t into anyone, but that was neither here nor there. Sophie was only twenty-one, and to Tennyson’s thirty-eight she might as well have been a toddler.

She certainly acted the part at times.

“Because you would be the first older man who dated a younger actress,” the publicist deadpanned. “Be real, Tennyson. The age isn’t that much of an issue, and you have to admit she’s done well in this production.”

“That’s because she hasn’t had to break character,” Tennyson argued. “She’s practically playing herself.” Only, without the same background.

Sophie Pierce was a clichéd former child star. Rich, spoiled, moderately talented. And like many other children who grew up with parents in the industry, she had gone from a beloved sweetheart to a rebellious hellion who dated rock stars and woke up hungover with makeup caked all over her face.

She was always seen with the same dark, heavy makeup, whether it was for the film or not.

In the movie they were shooting, her parents were alcoholics who neglected their two daughters. The result was the same; Sophie’s character was unruly, foulmouthed, desperate, and irresponsible.

“Nevertheless…” The publicist didn’t look bothered at all. “The movie needs it. Sophie definitely needs it. Even you could use some publicity.”

“What?” Tennyson chuckled incredulously. “How on earth would this benefit me?”

He enjoyed a life of solitude when he wasn’t working. He could go off the grid for months, never leaving his beach house in northern California, and lose track of time while he immersed himself in scripts.

As reluctant as he was to admit it, his success wasn’t as spectacular as it once had been, but he was still a well sought after director. And this project right here, the one they were working on right now? It was what Tennyson had been waiting for. He’d devoured the script and been an active part of the development stage. It was Oscar material, and fuck if he was going to waste his time pretending to be dating a living, breathing scandal. If there wasn’t already a sex tape out there starring Sophie Pierce, it probably wouldn’t be long before one surfaced.

“Do you know why it’s been years since your last big award, Tennyson?”

Tennyson threw the man a withering look.

The publicist went on. “Because you’re the least approachable man in the industry.” He nodded. “You used to be a director kids with visions could look up to. You didn’t merely send in anonymous donations to charities you support. You took part and helped arrange dinners and functions. Remember Asher’s organization? You volunteered—of your free will, not because someone told you. You were humble. You arrived to interviews on time with a smile on your face. These days, you’re permanently undercover as an arrogant homeless person.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?” Tennyson asked wryly, though he was reeling from the man’s speech. Jeans, T-shirts, ball caps, and a beard didn’t make a damn hobo, but the rest…was that true? In his quest for peace, had he become a careless hermit?

“You do some amazing work,” the publicist continued, ignoring Tennyson’s comment. “But you’ve taken the rest too far. Actors work with you because of your name and reputation, not because you’re nice to be around. As for Sophie…” He sighed. “That one’s pretty obvious. The girl needs to save face. She wants to be taken seriously and not get stuck starring in rom-coms for the rest of her life. This film is a big deal to her, and a relationship with a reclusive director should help convince the rest of the world she’s calmed down. She’s agreed to this, too.” He took a couple steps forward and clasped Tennyson’s shoulder. “I suggest you make dinner plans with Sophie. I’ll let the when and where slip to the media—and stop looking so constipated! It’s just for show. Christ. You don’t actually have to like her.” He started to walk away and then paused to call out, “And please, for the love of God, shave before you go out.”

Tennyson bristled, a small flame of petulant defiance flaring up in the midst of deflation and shock. “Who do you think you are, Mr.—” Oh, damn. What was the asshole’s name, again?

The publicist faced him with a smirk, as if this proved a point. “I introduced myself to you ten minutes ago, Mr. Wright. Surely you haven’t forgotten already. Or am I not important enough?”

He pivoted and walked off the set, leaving Tennyson angry and incredibly, incredibly rattled.

He didn’t like having his ego bruised, either.

Chapter 2

Sophie entered her trailer with her new PA, Daniel, and grabbed the script off her desk. Her fingers itched to check her phone, but Daniel—who really should be referred to as babysitter—was holding it captive.

Douche.

“Eat your lunch, darling.” Daniel set a tray on the table of her little dining nook. “Do you need me right now or can I go call Zane?”

Sophie waved a hand and sat down with her script. “I don’t care what you do.” It wasn’t like he was there to make her life easier, anyway. Dad’s stipulations for the new PA had been either: gay, old enough to use a walker, or female. So Sophie had ended up with a man who was sickeningly in love with his boyfriend.

“Why?” she’d demanded of her father.

To which Dad had laughed humorlessly. “Because you spread your legs for everyone else. Now get out of my office. I have work to do.”

Sophie eyed her lunch, hungry, but only snatched up the apple. She couldn’t afford to gain weight, and she did that way too easily. Mom had gained so much weight after her miscarriage, resulting in Dad divorcing her. Sophie wasn’t gonna be thrown out by anyone, although getting away from her father had been the plan for the past year. But on her own terms.

Shaking her head, she tried to focus on her script. There was a particular scene she was dreading, and she needed to ace it. If she did a good job in this movie and managed to land a new project right after, she could finally claw herself free from Dad. She could get her own agent, not someone Dad controlled and paid for, and she would be able to afford her own life.

Living off Daddy Dearest had some serious perks, such as a life of luxury, but it wasn’t worth his tyranny. She wanted to create her own fortune instead and tell her family to fuck off.

“Useless, useless.” She fell forward and banged her forehead on the table. She couldn’t fucking focus. It had been days since she’d checked her phone, so she had no idea what was going on at home. Daniel provided a filtered version by checking her emails and texts, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out he withheld some fucking vital info.

Goddamn Canada. Why couldn’t they just film in LA? They weren’t even in the heart of Vancouver or anything. It was pretty remote, kissing hotel rooms goodbye and saying hello to goddamn trailers.

“Ugh.” Sophie tried again with the script. She had time to get it right, but there was so much work in between. She was due on set soon, and tomorrow they were going away for location shooting.

“She’s my sister,” Sophie whispered to herself, reading the lines. “Your daughter—your own flesh and blood—and you don’t care she’s disappeared?”

This was so out of her comfort zone. Romantic flicks were easier, despite that she hated being categorized. This movie took more than batting her lashes, doing a good deed, and eventually landing some hot stud before the credits rolled.

For this project, she had to show real emotions.

She took a bite of her apple, chewing slowly, and tried to remember what the director had said during rehearsals.

Tennyson Wright.

One of the best directors in the business, quiet, intimidating, tall, solid, broad-shouldered, known for shooting in sequence and working with smaller casts, did a lot of his magic in post-production with editing, and used many cameras.

According to her publicist, Sophie was supposed to go gaga and date him—if the man agreed, which she doubted.

He was decent, she supposed. For an old guy.

It wasn’t her first publicity stunt and wouldn’t be the last. She’d pretended to date uglier men. Though, with Tennyson, it wasn’t actually easy to tell whether he was ugly or attractive. He had the body; jeans and T-shirts couldn’t hide that. But his face? Fuck if Sophie knew for sure. It was clear Tennyson didn’t like to shave; he always hid his dark hair under a ball cap, and as if the cap wasn’t enough, he was grossly attached to his Wayfarer shades.

She would’ve Googled him if she had her fucking phone or laptop.

A knock on her door brought her out of her musings.

“Sophie to hair and makeup!”

Sophie recognized Steph’s voice—the second assistant director—and was quick to head out before Steph disappeared.

“Hey.” Sophie closed the door behind herself and darted after Steph. “Do you have a minute?”

Steph chuckled, tongue in cheek. “Never. But what’s up?”

“Claire,” Sophie said. “Do you think it’s possible to fit in a reading with her? Or if she could feed me lines during a scene? I’m crazy nervous about my breakdown scene, and I thought maybe she could help me. Or Chris, but most my interaction is with Claire.”

Steph’s fast pace faltered and she hummed in thought. “Claire should be available when you’re on the set, unless she’s got interviews or a photo shoot. I’ll ask her.”

“Thanks.” Sophie breathed a sigh of relief and changed direction to the hair and makeup trailer.

When Sophie got in to acting, she thought it was obvious that all actors in the same scene were present at the same time, but that was before she learned about various angles and shots. In reality, there was a part of that scene where Claire wasn’t in focus, so she wouldn’t even be required to be there, leaving Sophie to deliver her lines to an assistant behind the camera.

If Claire wasn’t going to be busy elsewhere though, that would make Sophie’s friggin’ year.

The trailer for hair and makeup was open, so Sophie stepped inside and greeted Brooklyn and her crew.

“Have a seat.” Brooklyn tapped the back of a chair, and Sophie sat down next to Kelly, the girl who played the small part of her sister in the movie. Sophie’s own part was only a supporting role, but Kelly had a dozen lines at the most. Her character was always out partying—until she disappeared without a trace.

The two women were both five foot three and had the same slim body type, and for the production, they had to dye their hair and wear contacts to look even more related. Sophie’s usual dirty blond hair was now chestnut brown, and her greenish eyes became blue with contacts.

“Quiet on the set!” she heard Noah shout in the distance.

One chick in the makeup crew closed the door, and Sophie shut her eyes so she could rehearse her lines internally.

“Hmm, your skin’s a bit dry,” Brooklyn noted. “I’ll give you a lotion you can put on before bed.”

“Okay.” Sophie was used to it. For the past two or three years, it had been a bitch to maintain her skin. Same with her hair.

About twenty minutes later, the door opened again, and Sophie expected it to be the guy from wardrobe, but it was Tennyson’s on-set PA.

“Ms. Pierce,” he said, “Mr. Wright wants to confirm dinner at eight.”

Sophie caught the lift of Brooklyn’s eyebrows in the mirror. “I don’t remember being asked in the first place, but whatever.” Sophie faced forward again. “Eight sounds good.”

“I’ll let him know. A car will pick you up, and you’ll arrive to the restaurant separately.” The PA left again, and Sophie refrained from rolling her eyes.

Why put up with the charade of going there in separate cars if they were trying to show people they were dating?

“Girl, you have some ‘splainin’ to do,” Brooklyn told her. “You and Tennyson? Really?”

“It’s just a showmance,” Sophie chuckled. She closed her eyes as Brooklyn got ready with the eyeliner. “But feel free to tweet otherwise.” She smirked.

Brooklyn laughed. “A publicity stunt does make more sense. This might be fun to watch unfold. Media’s gonna go crazy.”

That was the plan.

*

Sophie arrived on the set with Kelly, and the two watched Claire and Chris wrapping up their scene.

“Cut!” Tennyson removed his headphones and gestured to Steph, who headed over to Sophie and Kelly. “That’s ready for print,” he told Noah and then walked over to Claire and Chris. “We’ll run it from ‘one more month.’ Next take, go for anger more than sadness. You’re pissed, all right?”

Sophie tilted her head, observing Tennyson.

“I want coverage on Sophie when she comes downstairs,” he said, walking back to his chair. “If we can squeeze in Kelly’s arrival in the main shot, I want to see if that works. Behind Chris, please. And I want to feel the discomfort, guys.”

The cameramen adjusted and moved around, and Sophie followed Steph backstage and up on the platform. From there, she’d take the stairs down to the living room, as if coming from her bedroom.

“You remember your mark?” Steph asked quietly.

Sophie nodded, took a deep breath, and rolled her shoulders. This, this right here, was her life. More so than partying and sharing the spotlight with some hot actor or singer.

She just had to convince everyone she knew that she was serious.

Sometimes she had to convince herself, too.

As she listened to Tennyson’s and the first AD’s instructions, she finally found focus. The outside world disappeared, and she didn’t care about checking her social media.

The scene began, and Sophie waited for her cue, sinking into a picture of aloofness and contempt to cover her heartbreak. She stuck her hands into the pockets of her open hoodie, a gray, ratty thing with a band logo on it. Her tank top underneath was tight and bore the symbol for anarchy. Her fishnet stockings were torn in some places, and the denim skirt was short.

“One more month?” Claire scoffed downstairs, out of sight for Sophie. She could only see the back of Chris. “That’s all you ever say! You always need one more month. One more month to pay back our friends, one more month and then you’ll find a job, one more fucking month until everything’s perfect!”

Claire was amazing. She’d gone into this wanting to show America she could play something edgier, and she was killing it.

“Done yet?” Chris asked flatly. “Can I join the pity party, or is it only for you?”

Claire let out a short scream and threw a wine bottle at the wall behind Chris.

It was Sophie’s cue to leave her bedroom.

“I’m done,” Claire croaked. “You sicken me. I can get the goddamn money myself.”

Blowing out another breath, Sophie descended the stairs and paused when her “parents” turned to look at her. Claire broke out in more tears, Chris hung his head, and Sophie surveyed the damage in the living room. Sadly, it wasn’t unfamiliar to her. She’d been through this when her real parents divorced.

“Fighting again?” Sophie kicked a bottle and moved closer to the couch that stood in the middle of the space. “I’m shocked.”

“Go to your room, Anna,” Chris ordered tiredly. “Your mother and I have some things to settle—and put some damn clothes on. You’re not going out like that.”

Sophie let out a sharp, dark chuckle and sniffled, refusing to let her folks see she hated this. “As if I can’t hear you settling things from my room.” She wiped her nose with the sleeve of her hoodie and smirked at Claire through her tears. “You gotta calm down, Mom. We both know you’ll be happy as soon as you’ve stocked up the liquor cabinet.”

“Anna…” Claire’s face fell.

Sophie shook her head and moved toward the door but came up short when her sister stumbled in, drunk as a skunk.

“Oh—” Kelly straightened and grinned blearily. “Don’t mind me, I’m just packing an overnight bag.”

Chris gnashed his teeth together and checked his watch. “It’s not even seven, and you’re wasted already?”

“Ha!” Sophie spat out. “That’s rich, coming from Captain Morgan himself.”

“And cut!” The set buzzed with activity as Tennyson joined them on the stage and gave out orders to the cameramen. PAs came over to offer water and scripts, and Brooklyn’s right-hand woman was there to touch up makeup.

“Sophie,” Tennyson said, walking closer. “Next time, less despair. It was good, but we’re saving that for when Kelly disappears.”

“Oh, okay.” Sophie bobbed her head in a nod and carefully rubbed her eyes. Getting used to contacts wasn’t easy.

Tennyson walked off, telling Kelly he wanted a longer pause between her first two lines. More discomfort, more tension.

Work continued.

Chapter 3

Tennyson had to be physically nudged in the right direction by his PA before he called it a day, and for a movie set, seven PM was ridiculously early. But he had that godforsaken dinner with Sophie, so he reluctantly refrained from lashing out at his assistant.

The actors had been off for a couple hours already, and Tennyson enjoyed the quiet of going through the raw footage with his closest crew members. He’d have to watch the rest of the dailies tomorrow instead of around midnight as he usually did—unless he could cut dinner short.

That would be incredible.

Technically, he could refuse to be part of this insane farce, but he couldn’t let go of what the studio’s publicist had said about creating a buzz. The script was brilliant, and Tennyson wanted the whole world to know it. For that, he depended on PR—as fucked up as it was. A film could be breathtaking, but that meant nothing if nobody had heard of it. So with his bruised ego, Tennyson was ready to give this stunt one try. One.

Disappearing into his trailer, he took a shower and then ended up hesitating in front of the fogged-up mirror. He drew a hand over his beard, knowing it was too long to shave. To hell with it, he trimmed it a bit, but he was already late, so the rest would have to come off later. Or never.

He’d had a beard for as long as he could remember, but perhaps having it trimmed wasn’t all that bad. He looked less…unkempt.

Boxer briefs, a standard pair of jeans, and a gray button-down came on. He could live with neater facial hair and leaving his University of Michigan cap and shades at home, but he wasn’t becoming some dress-up doll.

He squinted at the bathroom light, cursing his eyes. He’d suffered from light sensitivity since he was a child, and in this business it had given him plenty of headaches. His PA had thankfully booked a restaurant with dim lighting, though.

After rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, he pocketed his wallet, keys, and phone, then walked out into the nice June evening. A car with tinted windows was waiting for him in the parking lot, and he spent the entire ride on the phone. First with Noah then with a couple of the producers.

Vancouver was beautiful at night, but it was rare Tennyson got to see much of it. Whenever he filmed up here, he was always buried in work.

They arrived at some swanky seafood restaurant by the harbor, and Tennyson got out, not spotting any reporters anywhere. But he assumed they’d be here soon enough. He’d had his PA contact the studio’s publicist with the details.

Tennyson now knew the man’s name was Richard.

He hadn’t memorized the name of his own PA, though.

“Good evening, Mr. Wright.” The maître d’ smiled politely and gestured toward the dining room. “We have reserved a table with a lovely view of the harbor for you and your guest.”

Tennyson nodded in thanks and followed a waitress who was eager to show the way. At the bar, he spotted Sophie’s assistant and deduced the female he was sitting with—her back to Tennyson—must be Sophie herself. So he told the waitress to let Sophie know he was here now.

“Right away, sir. Can I start you off with a drink, or would you like to look at the menu first?”

“I’ll have a beer, thanks.” He sat down in the corner so he faced the restaurant, a wall-sized window with the promised view to his right. “Anything you can recommend with fish is fine.”

The waitress handed him a menu and placed one for Sophie, then flitted off. Tennyson glanced around the rustic-looking establishment, old fishnets and sea glass hanging between the wooden beams in the ceiling, and he was relieved the lighting wasn’t too harsh.

A few guests had recognized him, so he occupied himself with checking emails on his phone.

Only a minute or two later, Sophie sat down across from him, and he looked up from his phone to see…something different.

Tennyson didn’t read gossip rags, but one had to be blind to avoid every little thing, such as front pages of Sophie Pierce wearing dresses that should be called lingerie. Not to mention an extreme amount of black makeup, but that wasn’t the case now, so he knew she’d put effort into this. She was trying.

Instead of dressing indecently, she’d gone with a short-sleeved blouse—and whatever she was wearing under the table.

“Hi. Wow, you look different without your Ray-Bans.” She smiled and combed her fingers through her ponytail, bringing it forward. “Thank you for agreeing to this. I know you’re doing it for the film, but it means a lot.”

Tennyson didn’t quite know what to say, so he just nodded and focused on his menu.

He frowned, wondering why the hell the changes in Sophie wouldn’t leave his mind. It shouldn’t matter to him that black and cakey had been replaced with light and subtle.

“Is the selection no good?” Sophie asked.

Tennyson cleared his throat and forced himself to pay attention. “It’s fine.” He quickly scanned the entrees and settled for the grilled salmon with mashed potatoes.

The waitress returned, and Tennyson took a sip of his beer while Sophie placed her order. Basically, she was going to eat air. Or whatever remained of a lobster tail salad, hold the avocado, dressing, croutons, and please no extra salt or butter.

Tennyson had never understood the frenzy with diets, especially in LA. Being healthy was one thing, but many of the women today starved themselves. Sophie didn’t look like she had an ounce of extra body fat, and her bones were visible.

If she continued, she’d disappear.

“Of course, miss.” The waitress jotted down the order then paused when Sophie added a glass of water—some brand Tennyson had never heard of. “I apologize,” the waitress said, “but we don’t carry that water here.”

“I see.” Sophie was displeased. “Then why are you still standing here? I suggest you run out and get—”

That was Tennyson’s cue to interrupt. “She’ll take whatever bottled water you have,” he told the waitress. He threw Sophie a look of warning because he had no goddamn patience for diva antics. Then he placed his own order and returned the menu.

The waitress grabbed the menus and scurried away.

“What did you do that for?” Sophie asked irritably.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “It’s water. You won’t taste the difference.”

“I sure as shit do,” she replied. “I need that particular—”

“Need?” Tennyson leaned forward a bit so no one would overhear them arguing. “Do you even know what’s so special about it, or do you only want it because all your jet-set friends are drinking it?” He shook his head. “Trust me, princess, you don’t need that water.”

Sophie huffed and sat back, folding her arms across her chest.

Tennyson sat back as well and then brought out his phone when it buzzed in his pocket.

“It’s rude to be on your phone when you’re with someone else,” Sophie pointed out.

Tennyson didn’t miss a beat. “So is demanding a waitress run out and buy a brand of water they don’t have here.” He glanced at the message from his brother.

Mom is complaining that her two sons are almost forty and haven’t settled down yet. Shall I tell her about your new girlfriend? She’ll be fucking delighted!

That was the opposite of how their mother would react to Sophie, and Tennyson could bet Ash was cracking up over this. Asshole. But at least it wasn’t a real relationship. Their mother would be relieved to hear that—once she learned about the PR stunt.

He suppressed a sigh and slipped his phone into his pocket again. This was a bad idea. Think of all the work he could’ve gotten done if he hadn’t been stuck here.

“God, what I wouldn’t give to have my phone now.” Sophie sighed and tilted her head back, as if God were actually there.

Tennyson smirked faintly, having heard from her assistant that she wasn’t allowed to have her phone anymore. It distracted her too much, and Tennyson had to agree. Before and after most scenes, it had been glued to her hand, which had infuriated Tennyson and made him question the studio’s decision to cast her.

“It must kill you to miss out on all the parties at home.” He was amused, he had to say. “But I’m sure your friends will have a few drinks for you.”

“You don’t get it.” She shook her head. “My reputation depends on it. There’s always someone ready to take my place in the spotlight.”

It was she who didn’t get it, clearly. “On the contrary, if you do well in this film, it could be the beginning of a reputation that’s actually worth something.”

Sophie dropped her jaw. “Are you saying I’m worthless now?”

Holy fuck, she was a dramatic one.

“That’s not what I said, was it?” He arched a brow. “It’s your reputation we’re discussing—not you as a person.”

Sophie scoffed and flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Like, what’s the difference, anyway?”

He couldn’t believe her stupidity. Literally—he couldn’t believe it. He narrowed his eyes and studied her. Sophie stared right back, defiant, but after a while, her phony bravado gave way to fidgeting and darting glances.

“What?” She put the last of her attitude in that word.

“You’re actually playing stupid,” he said in wonder. “Why would anyone do that?”

“Excuse me?” Now she was going for insulted, but she wasn’t that good of an actress. Tennyson saw through her. It was a damn front. “In the span of five minutes, you’ve called me both worthless and stupid—”

“Cut the shit.” Tennyson rested his forearms on the table, keeping his voice low. “Give me something real.” There was no judgment or anything condescending about his tone. If anything, he was baffled. But persistent. His gut instinct told him there was more to Sophie Pierce than being an airhead. “Right here, right now. Tell me something genuine.”

Sophie glanced around, appearing to battle with herself. Her perfectly white teeth sank into the softness of her glossy bottom lip, and she hesitated.

“Like what?”

“Anything.” He was curious about what the hell was going on inside her head. “Something your so-called friends would find…uncool, perhaps. Something you keep to yourself. A hobby, a song, an opinion.”

But Sophie didn’t go down that easily, evidently. “You know, you’ve got some nerve…”

“All right.” Tennyson surrendered. “Never mind. I apologize.” When he thought about it, he didn’t even know why he’d bothered. What was he thinking? This was Sophie Pierce. She existed in another universe. They’d never be on the same wavelength.

Their food arrived, saving Tennyson from polite conversation that would’ve been too contrived, and they spent the next half hour eating in silence.

Well, Tennyson amended, he ate. Sophie picked at her food.

She looked…small. Not only in size but overall. Small in the world.

It shouldn’t bother him in the slightest.

“Was it not satisfactory?” he couldn’t help but ask. And he had a feeling he was about to receive a bullshit answer.

“Sorry?” Sophie looked up from her plate. “Oh, it was great. I’m just not very hungry.”

Yeah. Bullshit.

He’d seen enough to know it was about calories or whatnot. She ate bits of spinach and asparagus, but she didn’t touch anything that glistened with cooking oil.

This evening was a bust. As predicted. How the producers could have believed this was going to work was beyond him.

“We should probably do something,” Sophie murmured, dabbing her mouth with a napkin. “Don’t look outside, but I think I saw paps.”

Terrific.

Then an idea struck him, and he couldn’t stop his mouth from twisting up a little. “Fair enough,” he responded quietly. “Smile for me.” He gathered some salmon and mashed potatoes on his fork, struggling to withhold his smirk, and brought it close to Sophie. “Try this.”

Disbelief flashed in her eyes, followed by annoyance. But the party girl played her part and closed her lips around the fork. Wanting to see this through and ensure she didn’t spit it out in her napkin, Tennyson snatched hers up.

“It was…good.” Sophie chewed slowly, reluctantly, and threw him a look for the napkin theft. “Wow. How much butter was this cooked with?”

“Probably a lot.” Tennyson smiled genuinely and drained the last of his beer. “I take it you don’t want dessert?”

Sophie laughed softly under her breath. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I’m gonna be on the treadmill for a week because of what you did.”

“Ah. Naturally.” Tennyson had had enough, so he flagged down the waitress. “I suppose the only calories you have room for are the ones in alcohol. Check, please.”