Star-Crossed Letters (Falling for Famous #1)(15)

I feel a glimmer of excitement for the summer. The summer of risk. And Daisy is right. My first risk should be falling for someone real.





CHAPTER 8





Chase



“Chase, darling, get your head out of your ass. I said look brooding. I didn’t say look like someone pissed in your cereal. Good gracious.”

Glaring at Emma, I give my profile to the camera. I’m backlit by the large window of the fancy suite that’s designated press central for the day. I’ve done enough photo shoots by now to sense the image the photographer is going for and to offer myself up, in character, with the variety of expressions and angles I’ve perfected over the years—my tilted smirk, my profile in silhouette.

The three leads of The Wanderers have been holed up here all day, alternating between interviews and photo shoots. The studio expects us to keep the fandom machine fed.

“That’s the face, sugar. A little more pout, a little less pain-in-my-ass.” Our personal assistant, Emma, keeps the insults flowing with her slight Southern accent. She can be mean as hell, but with her accent and sassy smile, you’re more likely to thank her than curse her as she bulldozes in and gets her way.

Which is why she’s such an effective personal assistant to Sebastian. And why I convinced her to work for me as well. She can make any publication print a full retraction and have them apologize to her for the inconvenience. Emma is magic in getting people to do what she wants. Usually.

But her tricks aren’t working with me today. My costars and I just did a full day of press, being polite to reporter after reporter, answering the same mind-numbing questions dozens of times, all the while trying to sound charming and humble. I have to be confident, yet pretend that I don’t realize I’m famous for my abs and face.

Doing press is never my favorite activity, but I try not to be an asshole about it because it beats being broke, jobless, and homeless like I was when I was a teen. Today, however, I’m over it.

I take a deep breath and will my patience to return as I turn back to the photographer who’s been snapping away for the last thirty minutes. “We good? Please tell me you got what you need, man.” I don’t want to be rude to the guy. He’s only doing his job, and it’s not his fault the publicists booked us so solidly I can’t breathe.

The photographer checks his camera one last time and nods. “We’ve got it. Thanks, Chase. It’s been an honor.” We shake hands before he turns and packs up his equipment. He already shot Sebastian and Ronan, my co-leads in the movie.

“No more, Emma. I’m fucking done here,” I growl.

Emma taps long, painted nails on her clipboard and rolls her eyes at me. “You may be extra feisty today,” she drawls, “but I don’t have time for it. We’ve got three more interviews to go.”

“Sorry, bro, but Emma’s right. You’re being a pain in the ass. What gives?” Sebastian asks from the corner of the room as he sprawls out on the sofa in the hotel suite.

“Boys, we don’t have time for a deep discussion. You have reporters waiting to interview the two of you. After that, y’all can braid each other’s hair and talk about your feelings,” Emma says.

“Why is she like this?” Sebastian whines.

I shrug. “She’s your assistant. It was your idea to have her help with PR for this,” I point out, cracking a smile.

Emma stalks over to Sebastian and fusses with his collar. “I’m like this because you boys need to get your work done, and I make it happen.” She narrows her eyes and gives him a once-over, patting his chest. “You’ll do, darling. You both have a ten-minute break, and then we’re calling in the next reporters.”

When Emma leaves in a whirl of skirt and clipboard, Sebastian calls over the girl who’s guarding the door. “Hey, gorgeous, can we get some beer? Or vodka?”

“Oh my God, Mr. Blake. I’m such a fan of yours,” the girl gushes with wide-eyed admiration. Sebastian grins back at her, then winks at me, apparently thinking this is going to be a slam dunk.

“But Ms. Emma said you’d ask, and she told me to tell you.” The girl frowns and flips through the papers on her clipboard. “Oh yes, here it is. She told me to say, and I quote, ‘Remember what happened on your last junket.’” Her eyes get even bigger. She looks up. “What happened on the last junket?”

Sebastian shuffles his feet. “Nothing. Never mind,” he mutters.

The girl turns to me. “Mr. James, would you like a drink? She said you’re allowed.”

I smirk at Sebastian. “I’m good. Thanks”—I try to recall the girl’s name from when she introduced herself earlier in the day—“Ashley.”

I’m not sure if I remembered it correctly, but when her smile widens like I’ve served her up Thanksgiving dinner on a platter, I figure I did. Remembering names is something I promised myself I’d do when I first made it. I spent so many years as a nameless nonentity to most people, I vowed I’d never treat anyone else that way.

“Dude. You could have at least gotten me a beer,” Sebastian says.

I ignore him, so he sighs and tilts his eyes up to the ceiling. “I swear Emma does this to torture me. It’s like having a babysitter.”