Hollywood Prince Read online

  Whipping around, I’m about to unleash my wrath upon Cam’s little sister when all I see is a tiny piece of fabric covering what I shouldn’t even be looking at.

  My heart is pounding even harder.

  My pulse, too.

  Raising my gaze, I see her looking at me with those gray eyes, so much like the storm clouds outside that I can’t manage to get my pissed-off button to work right.

  Stalking past her, I try to ignore her heavy breathing and grab two towels from Maggie’s bathroom. Striding back, I remain a good distance from her while I hand her one. “Here, you’re shivering.”

  Standing up, she takes it and wraps it around herself. “I was trying to cure my hangover,” she tells me, her teeth chattering like Mexican jumping beans.

  Water drips all over the wood floor as I stand here trying to process what the hell she said. “You were what?”

  Letting her hair loose, she pats her head with the edge of the white terry-cloth towel, revealing her curvy body once again.

  I avert my gaze, but find myself stealing a peek. Just a small glimpse at the tiny nipples protruding through the fabric of my T-shirt, and then lower to those shapely legs.

  While towel-drying her hair, she tries to explain herself. “Extreme temperature change is supposed to cure a hangover, so I thought if I took a dip, it might cure mine.”

  Lightning from outside lights up the room, and it’s then I notice the power must be out because the room is extremely dark. At first it arouses me. Causes my cock to stir even more. Then another flash finally refocuses my attention. The storm is bad. Really bad. Ignoring the power outage inconvenience for now, I fight the fury starting to bubble in my veins. “Did it?” I ask harshly.

  Amelia laughs a little. “Yes, I think it did.”

  In an attempt to tame my rising anger, I run a hand through my wet hair. “Good, I’m glad,” I manage through gritted teeth.

  As if knowing I’m upset at her actions, she attempts to explain. “The storm came up fast—I wasn’t expecting it.”

  That’s when I lose my cool. “You could have gotten killed out there. If you weren’t Cam’s little sister, I swear to God I’d take you over my knee right now and spank your little ass until it turns beet red for not listening to me when I told you to get inside.”

  Those gray eyes widen to saucer-like size and her chest rises and falls even faster than about a minute ago. I can’t tell if what I just said scared the mother-fucking shit out of her or turned her on beyond belief. “What did you say?” she asks bitterly.

  Okay, so I may not be reading her right. “You heard me.”

  We seem to be staring each other down, and then she tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and clears her throat. “I’m sorry,” she manages.

  Teetering on the edge of feeling a little bad for acting like an ass and telling her she should be sorry, I find myself clearing my own throat. “Don’t do it again. I’m a lifeguard, but if you had gotten taken away by the current, I’m not sure I could have saved you.”

  She blinks, then narrows those come-to-me eyes at me. “I meant, I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard you correctly.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “Oh, you heard me correctly.”

  We come to an impasse, so to say, both staring the other down.

  Cam’s little sister or not, I give it to her straight. “You could have hurt yourself, and I’d prefer you not do it on my watch.”

  “Your watch?” she sneers.

  Okay, so I might have taken it a bit far. “Look, all I’m saying is I’d prefer nothing happened to you.”

  At that, she takes a deep breath and then blows it out. “You’re right. I am sorry. I wanted to find my camera and phone, really just my camera. I didn’t realize how bad it had gotten out there,” she says, and then out of nowhere her eyes well up with water and tears start streaming down her cheeks.

  Oh, fuck.

  Feeling sympathetic now, I take a step closer and place my hands on her shoulders. “It’s okay. You can get another.”

  Taking in a full breath, she lets it out. “That’s just it, I can’t. My grandfather gave me that one before he died,” she says with an obvious attempt to stifle her tears.

  Before I can say anything else, a flash of lightning and an almost instantaneous crash of thunder makes her jump. She slips a little, but I am there, with a hand having shifted to her elbow to catch her. With my hold, and her small hands on my forearms, she doesn’t fall.

  We are touching like a game of Twister—my left hand to her left shoulder, her right hand to my right arm, my right hand to her right elbow.

  Should we spin again and see what else we can connect?

  Another rumble follows another flash. Suddenly, it’s even darker inside. Although it is still early in the morning, outside it is getting very dark, very quickly.

  Her body is trembling, and somehow we seem to be pulled closer together. A little too close.

  My balls might still be shriveled up from the cold, but my cock has been recovering rather quickly. He doesn’t seem to understand the forbidden circumstances surrounding this closeness because he’s beginning to do more than the little wakey, wakey of minutes ago.

  The lights flicker on and jolt me out of my lustful haze.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  That is not the way I should be thinking . . . at all.

  Pulling back, I try not to stare at her, not to look at her, not even to breathe on her. “I’ll look for it when the storm clears.”

  “You will?” she asks in surprise.

  “Yeah, sure, who knows—maybe the sand covered it. For now, though, why don’t you get changed and I’ll do the same.”

  I mean if she wants to get changed now, with me in the room and the lights back on, I’m cool with that, too.

  No wait, no I’m not.

  Cam would fucking cut my balls off if he knew I saw her in her panties, her very skimpy panties at that. Who knows what he’d do if he found out I saw her naked.

  Better not to find out.

  The question is—better for whom?

  SILVER LININGS PLAYBOOK

  Amelia

  As a former Goody Two-shoes, I remember the awkwardness of high school well.

  I was a good girl with good grades, who was constantly paralyzed with fear over everything. Smoking a cigarette under the bleachers—what if my brother Cam saw me? Leaving campus to grab lunch with my friends—what if we got caught and the headmaster called my father? Kiss a boy in public—what if my brother Brandon knocked his teeth out?

  As crazy as it sounds, I didn’t realize my peers were even having sex until one day someone (gasp!) dropped a condom.

  I’m not lying. In fact, my high school yearbook quote should have been, “I can’t. I’ll get in trouble,” instead of the lame, “There is a princess inside each of us.”

  Seriously, the only edge I lived on was the edge of my classroom desk, front row and center, carefully taking notes on stuff that wasn’t going to ever come up again in my whole damn life. But I did it just in case it would be on the next quiz.

  I had to get those grades.

  Then I went to college.

  And slowly, almost painfully, things began to change—I began to change.

  Experiment.

  Figure out what I like, what I don’t.

  Lose my virginity.

  Even kiss a girl, and no, I did not like it.

  I did, however, find things I was passionate about, and somehow that allowed me to stop worrying so much about what I should be doing and do more of what I wanted to do.

  Even then, though, I never stopped worrying about what my father would say, how he would react, what he would think if he knew.

  So I hid most of my life from him.

  My boyfriends.

  My crazy clothes.

  My hopes and dreams.

  You see, the problem with being a former Goody Two-shoes is that you never quite leave that persis
tent little ghost of yourself behind, no matter how supposedly chill your adult self is.

  Now, my brothers, they were never afraid to go after what they wanted, the wrath of my father be damned. They lived their lives freely. No, perhaps freer is a better term; they still walked the edge of the Waters line—until the day there was no more line.

  A year after Brandon died, Cam took off, and all that was left was me. And me, I became the good little princess once again, and did what was expected—went to work for my father.

  Well, I’m done with what’s expected.

  I’m done with good.

  In fact, I’m more than done.

  Stepping out into the hallway, a chill catches me and I can’t believe how cold it is here in California.

  On the plus side—my hangover is cured. Looks like some myths aren’t just myths after all.

  Dressed in yoga pants and a tank top—and no underwear, damn it—I head toward the small galley kitchen. Maggie’s house might not be big, but it is really nice. Dark hardwood floors, ivory-colored walls, top-of-the-line appliances, and granite countertops surround me. There’s even a wine chiller, although there are more water bottles than wine bottles in it.

  Helping myself to one, I screw the cap off and down at least half of the water. Food is going to be next, although I’m in a strange predicament—no car, no phone, and no idea where anything is in Laguna Beach. I do remember that the village area is walking distance from here.

  With my head turned toward the window, I blow a piece of hair out of my face and contemplate going out in the rain. In an effort to try to recall how to navigate around, I run right into a bare chest.

  My water bottle hits the floor and bounces. It makes me scream. Loudly.

  I glance up.

  Brooklyn James smiles at me with those smoldering eyes that always make him look like he is brooding.

  But oh, that grin, and those dimples, they are panty melting.

  Overcome by a strange urge to run my fingertips along the curve of his lips and force the corners up into a real smile, I have to drop my gaze to stop from doing just that.

  When I do, my eyes land right on his midsection. And, oh, those abs. They are ripped muscles that form a perfect six-pack.

  Does he know what he does to women? I have to say he does. From the little I’ve overheard from Cam, he’s a womanizer, a playboy, a manwhore.

  “Hey,” I say, my gaze steady on all that lean muscle. “You’re not dressed yet?”

  That was just dumb.

  Looking at me, he tips my chin up, and then he blinks, his grin growing more sinful as he takes a step back and crosses his arms over his very fine, very naked stomach. “Getting there. Just grabbing a shirt from the laundry room.”

  Caught in his sex appeal, I find myself once again staring up into his smoldering blue eyes and at the same time, getting wet.

  Normally, men don’t evoke that kind of illicit reaction from me. Perhaps this one has because he has saved me—twice—but a knight in shining armor Brooklyn James is not. Like I said, I’ve heard the groupie stories, know all about his reputation, not so much from my brother as from Maggie and Makayla. They had all but confirmed his player status ways when I visited two years ago. I doubt he’s changed.

  The boy I’d once forced to pretend to be my husband is anything but husband material. He’s a bad boy with a bad reputation—he drinks, he smokes, he parties, and he fucks. A lot.

  The kind of man my father would not approve of.

  Ding! Ding! Ding!

  My once Prince Charming is not so squeaky clean and it just so happens this princess is looking to dirty her tiara.

  Brooklyn casts a glance at the water bottle at his bare toes, then at my face, then down a bit. With his bad-boy grin still in place, he bends to pick the bottle up, but those blue eyes remain glued to my chest. Handing the bottle to me, he says, “Don’t get too used to having me at your feet.”

  My stomach flutters with an odd excitement. “Oh, come on. When we were ten, you bowed to me and called me a princess. This is nothing,” I respond with a smile.

  As if bothered by our closeness, he eases past me and opens the refrigerator. “That’s because you scared me back then, and I’d have done anything you wanted.”

  I laugh and take a few steps to lean against the row of cabinets. “How in the world did I scare you?”

  Setting some containers on the counter between us, he closes the refrigerator door with his foot and looks across the island. “I thought you’d tell your father on me, and he was one person I didn’t want to piss off.”

  “My father,” I whisper under my breath.

  “Sore subject?”

  The laughter that escapes my throat has a grim tone. “Brooklyn?” I ask.

  He nods.

  “How much do you know about my family?”

  “Is that a trick question?”

  This time I genuinely laugh. “No. I’m curious. What has Cam told you about our father?”

  Brooklyn clears his throat and shifts from foot to foot, and then without answering, he starts to open one of the little white boxes. “I hope you like leftover Chinese. Besides PB&J or tofu, it’s all I have. As soon as the rain lets up, I’ll make a run to the grocery store.”

  Gulping the last of my water, I set the empty bottle on the counter and rub my stomach with my hands. “I think I’d eat anything right about now, except maybe the tofu.”

  Brooklyn laughs. I kind of love the way his face lights up when he does. “That would be Maggie’s, not mine. Keen eats it too, pussy that he is—he eats what she likes to make her happy.”

  My elbows land on the counter and I set my chin on my hands. “That’s so sweet of him,” I say with a slight giggle bubbling out of my throat. “Boy! I guess he has really changed. The Keen I knew growing up was anything but accommodating, especially when it came to women.”

  Brooklyn moves on to the remaining container. “Yeah, I guess you could say he changed, and so did Maggie. I’ve never seen either of them happier. Hey, whatever works, right?”

  I nod and try to ignore the touch of sadness that suddenly seems to fill me up. “Yes, I guess sometimes it really is as simple as finding the right one.”

  There’s contemplation in his eyes as he gathers the food in his arms.

  “By the way,” I say, “I don’t think I’ve told you this yet, but thanks for letting me stay here. I hope it’s not too big of an inconvenience.”

  Easing around, he pops the food in the microwave and looks over his shoulder at me. “It’s no problem. I had little planned this weekend except work.”

  The doubtful look I give him isn’t meant to be seen, but he catches sight of it as he whirls around.

  He shrugs. “Okay, so I have a little engagement party thingy for one of my friends on Saturday night, but I’ll be happy to blow it off,” he tells me.

  “No, you can’t do that; wedding events are always so entertaining.”

  Leaning against the counter, he smirks at me. “In what world do you live in?”

  I take a seat at the breakfast bar, and excitement flares to life with each word I speak. “I’m serious; I’ve been to at least twelve weddings in the past three years.”

  He shakes his head. “That sucks for you.”

  I ease back on the stool. “No, it doesn’t. I was there to assist the photographer, but even so, not a single one was boring. You have to think of yourself as a wedding crasher—you know, like Vince and Owen—and that you’re just there for the food and drinks, and to watch the dynamics, of course.”

  “What do you mean, ‘the dynamics’?”

  Excitement bubbles up as I speak. “Things like the fact that the dresses are always ugly, the groomsmen are typically mismatched with the bridesmaids on purpose, and either the groom or the bride is always jittery. And then there’s who is sneaking off with whom.”

  He raises a brow. “Go on.”

  “Well, someone is always hooking up, and as long as
it isn’t the bride or the groom with someone else, things usually go on without a hitch, but later in the night there are always catty arguments. I don’t know; I like to sit and watch. I mean, not in a bad way. You can’t change it, but you can observe it. Learn from it, even.”

  This time his grin is devilish. “Amelia Waters, you are so coming with me.”

  “No, I can’t do that. It’s not like I’d be working the event.”

  “You can come—my invite says plus one.”

  I contemplate the offer. “Hmmm . . . well, it could be fun. Who is the happy couple?”

  “A buddy of mine, Chase Parker, and his fiancée, Gigi Bennett.”

  My excitement returns. “Oh, I’ve heard of Gigi—she’s on some television show, isn’t she?”

  He nods. “Yeah, the show is called Where’s My Latte?”

  I point my finger at him. “That’s right! It’s about a woman and her assistant in Hollywood. I’ve watched it a few times; it’s pretty funny.”

  Brooklyn claps his hands together as if equally excited. “It’s settled, then—you are so coming with me.”

  “Okay, but only if you insist,” I mock protest, a little more eager to be a part of the Hollywood scene than I would have thought.

  “You’re not going to get stars in your eyes, are you?”

  I shake my head. “You don’t know me well enough, Brooklyn. I am anything but a fangirl.”

  That triggers something, and he seems to lose himself in his thoughts.

  Uncertain as to why, I shift uncomfortably. “Just for the record, crasher is still the better way to go.”

  Snapping out of it, he laughs and says, “We can always pretend.”

  Pretend. I’ve been doing it so long, what’s a little longer? Now I find myself the one lost in my thoughts.

  The microwave dings and with another laugh, he strides over to remove the containers. Setting them on the island, he grabs two plates, four chopsticks, and two bottles of water. Looking at me, he bows. “Your meal is served, Princess Amelia.”

  The laughter that escapes my throat and the snort that leaves my nose is anything but ladylike. “I did make you say that, didn’t I?”

  He nods. “You sure did. Except I believe I was serving soda and Doritos. Cool Ranch Doritos, to be exact.”