Taming Hollywood's Baddest Boy - Max Monroe Page 0,90
He is the last person I want to tell me anything, especially when it comes to my job.
Unknown: Oh, and by the way, you’re going to need to be at my rental today by three.
I read the text and blink three times. You have got to be kidding me.
Me: I’m sorry, what?
Unknown: The movers. They’re going to be there at three, but I can’t be there because I’ll be dealing with fittings until six.
I just stare down at my phone, wondering how in the hell this is my life now.
Because, seriously, how is this my life?
The one person I want to avoid just won’t fucking go away.
Unknown: Oh, and don’t forget to save my number in your phone. ;)
See? He. Won’t. Go. Away.
God help me.
I look up from my cell, toward the table where all of the Espionage cast sits, and right into the blue eyes of the bastard himself.
Luca smiles softly, and I lift my middle finger to scratch my nose.
His eyes twinkle with amusement, and I move that middle finger to my hair and scratch there, too.
Call it childish, I don’t care. He deserves all my middle fingers and then some.
If my toes could flip the bird, I’d take my damn boots off.
My phone vibrates in my hand again, and I look down to find another goddamn text from him. It’s the address for his stupid rental. Followed by the words, thank you for doing this, princess.
A really large part of me wants to send him a response that revolves around the words, fuck off and deal with the movers yourself.
But the other part of me, the rational, “I want to keep my job” part of me, knows that urge can only stay a fun fantasy.
I have to follow through.
I cannot be a dick to the most important person in the cast.
Which means, later today, once I’ve put out the fires with the lighting crew and Carrie in makeup, I have to drive to Laurel Canyon, to Luca Weaver’s fancy new rental, to meet with his goddamn movers.
That voodoo doll isn’t sounding like such a bad idea after all…
Luca
You’d think my bones would break since I’ve just been the victim of a hit-and-run. But they just keep on fucking trucking.
At a little after six, I pull into the driveway of my LA rental, and I’m stoked to find Billie’s Honda Civic parked in front of the garage.
I know the movers left a little over two hours ago, but she’s still here.
At my house.
I grin. The plan is working…hopefully.
Engine cut and Mexican takeout bags in my hands, I hop out of the car and head inside.
Billie sits on the floor of the living room, rolling a ball back and forth to Bailey.
His tail wags. She grins down at him.
But that expression quickly morphs into a scowl when she glances up to see me.
God, this woman. She is so fucking stubborn and refuses to take any bullshit.
I love that about her. Really, I do. But right now, when I’m trying to slide back into her good graces, it’s a fucking bitch of a reality.
Sassy remarks. Narrowed eyes. Annoyed sighs. That’s about all I’m getting from Billie these days. Hell, she shows more love to my dog than me.
“How did today go?” I ask and give Bailey a few pats to his head.
“Awful.”
“Awful?” I tilt my head to the side in confusion and set the bag of takeout on the island in the center of the kitchen. “What happened?”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she says and rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. “Your precious boxes and furniture and whatever other crap you own were delivered as expected.”
“Did the movers make you move the boxes off the truck or something?”
“No,” she answers through a snort. “I just didn’t want to be here.”
I quirk an amused brow in her direction. “Oh, so it was awful because you had to do something for me?”
“Precisely.”
A smirk slides over my lips. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I brought you dinner.”
She raises one scrutinizing eyebrow. “What kind of dinner?”
“It’s from a little Mexican cantina up the road. Tacos. Enchiladas. Chips and queso. I pretty much ordered the whole menu.” When she doesn’t respond, only glares and scowls, I add, “You don’t like Mexican?”
“I love Mexican.”
“Then why the scowl?”
“I’m not scowling.”
She is. If her lips stay in any firmer of a line, they might turn to stone. “Princess, you’re scowling.”
“This isn’t a scowl, it’s ABF,” she retorts, as if that makes any fucking sense.