Taming Hollywood's Baddest Boy - Max Monroe Page 0,35

brow. “And there’s no butter required in this scenario. The screenplay speaks for itself. If you don’t do it, there’s a long, long line of successful actors who are just waiting for this kind of opportunity.”

“You sound pretty confident for someone who’s wading ankle-deep in shit’s creek. You obviously need me badly, or you wouldn’t be failing spectacularly at doing an impression of Annie fucking Oakley.”

“Pssh,” she mutters, her nose raised high in the air. “You should feel special that your name was even muttered near this movie.”

“I should feel special?” I ask on a laugh. “I should feel special that you stalked me to my private residence and then took it upon yourself to come on a hiking trip? I should feel special that I had to build your neon-pink tent over there? Or that instead of just worrying about myself and my dog, I have to make sure you survive this trip?” I laugh again. “Oh yeah, princess. I feel real fucking special right now.”

“Gah! You’re impossible!” she shouts, stalking back toward her tent and abruptly sliding inside, zipping the opening closed behind her.

Christ. This woman.

“Why did I let her come on this trip again?” I mutter to myself and stare out toward the woods.

That’s the winning fucking question.

Bailey looks up at me, his eyes knowing far too much for a canine, and I run a hand through my hair in frustration.

“Just chew on your damn stick,” I grumble.

An hour later, while I have corn and baked beans heating up over the fire, Billie decides to make her second debut from the solace of her stupid pink tent.

I expect another country-twang tornado of anger and fury, but the woman is a rat’s nest of surprises. Twigs, garbage, steely determination, and lies—there’s no telling what you’ll find in there. Her emerald eyes are soft around the edges as she makes her way over to the fire, sitting down on a log beside Bailey and running her fingertips through his fur.

“Whatcha making?” she asks like she didn’t storm off in a flurry of ass-swaying, hair-tossing, and a general piss-poor distribution of blame the last time I saw her.

Still, I keep it civil to preserve the peace. Anytime I get amped up to argue with her, my body up and decides to get amped up in other ways. Maybe I’m better off keeping my cool. “Beans and corn.”

“Is there enough to go around?” she asks, surprisingly timidly. “It appears Earl only packed protein bars and bags of trail mix for me, and my growling stomach is demanding something with a little more oomph.”

There isn’t, but I nod anyway. It won’t do me any good to starve her before we head out on the trail again tomorrow. She lags behind enough as it is.

“Yep,” I mutter and focus my attention on stirring. Both the beans and corn are starting to bubble up to a boil.

“Thank you,” she says, and her gentle voice urges my gaze to move to hers.

I refuse, staring at the beans like they’re going to explode if I take my eyes off them. No good thing can come from another annoyingly interesting conversation with her.

Besides the crackling of the fire and the whistling of the wind and an occasional smacking of Bailey’s hungry lips, silence takes the reins. It fills the space between us, and for that, I’m thankful. The less we talk to each other, the better. That way, I won’t be able to get irritated—or irritatingly turned on.

But it’s no surprise that Billie has other things in mind. If I’ve learned anything about her, it’s that she always has an agenda.

“Since you’re sharing your food, and we have no damn Wi-Fi out here, I’ll share my reading material.”

I look up to meet her eyes and raise one suspicious brow.

“I brought some magazines,” she clarifies with an innocent lift of her hands, and I snort.

“I’m pretty sure I have no desire to read any of the magazines you brought along with you.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean? You think I have bad taste in reading material?”

“Based on what you’ve been wearing on this hike?” I ask teasingly. She scowls as I finish the thought. “Yeah.”

“You don’t like the Times?” she asks. “Or Alaskan Wilderness?”

I narrow my eyes. “You have those with you?”

“No,” she says on a giggle, and I swear to God, I officially hate her fucking giggle. I guess that’s because there’s nothing worse than a likable quality in the person you’re trying to keep disliking. “But