Page 2 of The Bodyguard

Not joking.

Honestly, that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

My mother and sister, Ivy, are a whole other story.

I was given very strong advice from many people in the industry to not throw my money around or be pressured by friends and family.

To take my time and decide what I wanted to do.

After all, my success was overnight. One minute I was waiting tables, taking whatever acting gigs I could. The next I was invited to audition for the role of Charlotte in Memories of Us. Two years later, Memories of Them was released and I’m now one of the biggest movie stars in Hollywood.

Sonic Rebel’s hit “Lovers Night” from the eighties is in the sequel, and because Hollywood is all about networking—not what you know but who you know—Nick and I were invited to Blaze Cartwright’s daughter’s wedding.

Invited is a strong word.

Encouraged to attend and wear Tiffany jewels and Dolce & Gabbana to promote their brands is more like it.

As my manager Michelle says, you’re only as hot as your last job.

“How long do we have to stay?” I ask Nick, stuffing the grape into my mouth and chewing.

“Until the speeches at least,” he says, sipping his champagne. Then slides his finger under the collar of his shirt. “Jesus, it’s hot today.”

“I’m melting,” I mumble and then smile at one of the dozens of faces staring at us.

No, I’m still not used to it.

Speaking of hot—I pluck another couple of grapes from the bunch and pop the tip of one into my mouth as I watch the wedding party arrive—one of the groomsmen is off the charts handsome.

Listen, I’m surrounded by beautiful people every day, but this man is tall with dirty blonde hair and shockingly beautiful blue eyes. He’s built like a linebacker and has a pair of dimples that must get him any woman he wants.

I wouldn’t call him dashing. He’s way too much man for that. He doesn’t even look like he’d be charming.

A shiver races down my spine as I search for the right word.

More like he’d smirk as he roughly fucked you with his thick cock, after slamming you down onto his bed.

God.

What woman doesn’t want that?

I do. I can’t have it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t crave it.

I’m not married or celibate. I just can’t go around sleeping with every guy I find attractive. The media would pay a lot of money for a story about me if someone chose to leak it.

I slept with Savannah Sinclair...blah blah blah.

Michelle, my manager, would kill me if I shagged the best man at a celebrity wedding. However, if my every move wasn’t scrutinized, I’d seriously be considering a roll in the sheets with the hunky groomsman.

Unless, of course, he was an asshole.

I haven’t had that many boyfriends. Then again, I’m only twenty-eight. I dated a few guys in high school, then left home as soon as I could.

Mom and Dad split when I was fifteen, and it’s been a nightmare since. Actually, it was beforehand. I don’t even know why they got married. But they did, and they had me and Ivy.

Now I’m a celebrity. To date me, a guy would have to meet me. To do that, they have to get through my security team, so that eliminates almost everyone except other celebrities and officials in the business I might interact with.

Speaking of my security team. George, my bodyguard, had a heart attack last week, which was very sad. Today I have a temporary guy, who is standing a few yards away, but a new company is taking over next week.

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