Taming Hollywood's Baddest Boy - Max Monroe Page 0,18

slamming the door shut behind me.

Good-fucking-riddance, Billie Harris.

Luca

Dogs are only man’s best friend until a pretty woman comes along; then they’re a traitor. I still don’t know who Billie Harris is, but I do know she should’ve fucking left by now, even if Bailey, my silver Labrador, strongly disagrees.

“Aw, you’re just a big sweetheart, aren’t you?” I hear from the deck outside my master bedroom while I dry the rest of the way off and toss on a clean pair of boxer briefs, sweat pants, and a hoodie to cover my previously naked body.

What in the hell is she still doing here?

I’m not subtle; there should be no fucking question about whether I want her to hang around or not.

Thanks to her, my planned hour-long soak in the hot tub—an important part of my prep for my monthly trip out to Lou’s—was cut short by forty minutes. I shake my head.

Today was supposed to be a day of relaxing because the hike out to his place is equally strenuous and important. I’m the only way Lou gets the medicine he needs to live. That means thirty-six miles each way, carrying the biggest pack I can manage.

“Oh my goodness!” the annoyingly familiar female voice exclaims on a giggle. “You’re a little too big to be a lap dog, but you sure make it hard to say no.”

Fucking two-timing dog.

In three long strides, I’m at the doors that lead to the back deck again and stepping outside.

And there sits Bailey, right on Billie’s lap.

He licks her face and his tail wags, and she grins down at him as she scratches her perfectly manicured fingers between his ears.

My blood pressure skyrockets just looking at it. There are a lot of goddamn reasons I live all the way out here, but the main one is so people don’t fucking bother me.

How in the fuck did she get here?

Eight years and no one has ever tracked me down before—if they had, I imagine I’d be spending most of my time in a cell at a correctional facility—but this high-maintenance, dolled-up, skinny-jean-wearing pain in the ass somehow managed it? It doesn’t make sense.

“Why in the fuck are you still here?” I ask without preamble. But she doesn’t deserve pleasantries. Pretty woman or not, I should have had an answer about the reason she decided it was okay to trespass the minute she set foot on my property. “And how in the hell did you manage to find me?”

She pushes Bailey gently from her lap and climbs to standing, holding out a hand for me to shake with a smile. I look at it briefly before crossing my arms over my chest and planting my feet shoulder-width apart. She pulls her hand back and tucks it into her pocket with a sigh.

Starting at the top of her pretty little head, I give her a thorough once-over. I look at her big green eyes, her full lips, her cute little nose, her silky, wavy blond hair, and my gaze doesn’t stop its descent until it passes over her slight curves, tiny waist, little hips, and svelte legs in a pair of tight jeans and fucking cowgirl boots.

“Look, I understand why you’re upset, me just showing up without warning and all, but you’re a hard man to get ahold of,” she explains instead of answering my actual question.

“Yeah,” I say with a snort. “That’s for a reason.”

“Yes,” she says with a nod. “Of course. But I also have a reason for going to these lengths to find you.”

“My parents or my sister dead?” I ask callously.

She jerks back in shock and shakes her head. “No. God. No, no. I mean, I don’t know them, but as far as I know, they’re all alive.”

“Then you don’t have a goddamn reason to be here.”

She swallows hard but regroups pretty quickly. If I didn’t hate her so much, I might be impressed by how difficult it is to discourage her. “I’m here on behalf of Serena Koontz.”

“Who the fuck is Serena Koontz?”

“She’s a movie producer—”

A barking laugh escapes my lungs. Jesus Christ. No wonder this woman is all done up. She’s from Hollywood. “Yeah. You’re definitely not welcome here. Get the fuck off my property. Now.”

I only get two steps toward the back door before she reaches out to stop my forward momentum. Her small, cold hand grips my forearm.

“Wait,” she says, pauses, and then quickly figures out it’d be a good idea to let the fuck go of my arm. “I