Page 48 of Not Exactly a Small-Town Romance

His toiletry bag sits on the counter, and I take a moment to sniff his soap. It’s so good. I suppress a groan. So good.

In the shower, I run through the rather meager list of men I can call relationships. Joseph in high school. Daryl at LSU. Since coming to California, I’ve struck out hard on my dates. Many didn’t even last long enough to hit second base.

Not that a California baseball field is the same. In my experience, men at Hollywood parties tend to go from “hello” to “home run” in a single pitch.

Or at least, they try.

I remember the guy on Plumeria Drive a month ago, when Zachery bloodied his knuckles. The guy was an actor going by Brad, even though we suggested something else for a stage name. He thought he could do for Brad what Chris Pratt, Chris Hemsworth, and Chris Evans have done for Chris.

He was not that handsomeortalented.

But he did try to get up my skirt.

Desdemona sent me after him to find out if Arista was getting him to read for a thriller she was casting.

I’d known we were in the danger zone when he steered me into an unoccupied cabana at the far end of the pool from the party.

Hollywood hasn’t cornered the market on people who think they can get away with anything. Most industries where there is a powerdynamic this big, where people can make or break someone’s dream, have their players who misbehave. But in Beverly Hills, the tabloids and the glamour and the stardom up the ante like nowhere else.

It’s something I would fix, if I had the power. But the lowest rungs on the ladder never have any, particularly when somebody else thinks they already wield it. Brad was one of those.

Normally I can handle myself, but Brad was wily. He got me pinned against a wall, and I wasn’t able to pop his knee. That’s my signature move when a guy gets too handsy.

It’s hilarious watching their leg collapse from such a simple move. It’s also easy to play off as an accident. I’m always all, “Oh, my! What happened?”

But it hadn’t worked on Brad. I couldn’t get into position.

Zachery must have been watching us wander away, because only seconds into the situation, Brad was jerked away from me, and his chin was in the air from Zach’s well-placed uppercut.

Zach probably would have gone unscathed, except Brad decided to come after him, so it took a second shot to discourage him, and this one broke open the skin on four of Zach’s knuckles.

We left Brad on his butt in the cabana and went to rinse the blood off Zachery’s hand. I assured him I was all right. And I was. Brad wasn’t the first to get me in a tough position, and he probably won’t be the last, not as long as I work for Desdemona. I’m in the den of vipers, especially for those new to the game, who assume casting couches still exist, and beautiful women will do anything for a part.

They have a rude awakening when they learn most casting is done via phone footage collected by people like me and Jester, and the big decisions are made without any bit players in the room.

Even so, maybe I should take a self-defense class. Some of those moves would come in handy.

But it was better that Zach did the punching, and he said as much. He could handle the negative press, should it come about, and generally it wouldn’t. Lowlifes like Brad wouldn’t want anyone to know someother man had bested him. A story about the incident would come with the risk that Brad would look like a chump in the tabloids.

Zachery is excellent at tabloids. They love calling him a playboy and an indisputable bachelor. But always a gentleman. And always a catch.

Just not one to keep.

No, the irresistible Zachery Carter is not for me.

I go through all my prep, in case it’s in the cards that today is the meet-cute to rule them all. I won’t be looking until we get to the pickle festival, but naturally, love is always unexpected, at least in the good scripts.

Shower, shave, moisturize. I take my time afterward doing makeup that looks natural, but is anything but.

I squeeze my damp hair to make soft waves rather than blowing it straight. And I choose pale blue shorts and a flowered top. Very girl next door.

And no heels. Flat sandals only. It almost feels weird, my feet on the ground. But it’ll be good. Nobody wears heels to a national landmark.

That would peg me as high maintenance, as Hollywood. I might need to buy more flats.

When I step out, Zachery is no longer on the phone, and simply waits by the window. He smiles when he sees me. “Now don’t you look like a fresh-faced southern girl?”

I turn in a circle. “Nobody would call me California like this, right?”

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