“I don’t need a date.” Greyson Atwood, Hollywood action star, walked across the kitchen of his Brentwood home, opening the refrigerator and gazing aimlessly inside. “I’ve gone to these things by myself before. This isn’t any different.”

“I’m sorry none of your little friends could make it, but this is very different. It’s the Verity Awards. If you win this you have a great chance to be nominated for a Passel Award,” Greyson’s agent, Nadia Kent, drawled in her southern accent, referencing their industry‘s highest accolade. “You have to take someone, and you have to take someone people know. Samantha Crane is that girl. This movie shows you’re talented, you wouldn’t have been nominated for Lead Actor if you weren’t, but now you need momentum. People need to see past the muscles, the height and the hair gel.” She gestured vaguely in Greyson’s direction. “They need to follow you to the box office on your next movie, no matter what genre it is, so this is an opportunity for Samantha to broaden your audience. She is the ‘it’ girl right now.”

“‘It’ girls aren’t all they’re cracked up to be, Nadia.”

Nadia brushed off Greyson’s concern. “Listen. Ben Stone was the perfect role for you. It made you a household name.” She was referring to the title character in his popular four-film spy movie franchise. “If directors are thinking about you when they think about her, it’s a good thing. Besides, there’s a script floating around I think you two would be perfect for. Also, your contract with the studio is coming up for renewal and now is the time to jump on this.”

“Ah, so there’s the reason.” Greyson pondered the statement, keeping it close to his chest that he’d been offered a teaching position back home on the East Coast. After deciding on an apple, he closed the refrigerator and turned to Nadia. “Fine, send me her details and the color of her dress to coordinate, and I’ll pick her up at five on Sunday.”

“Please tell me you have a car and you’re not planning on taking that horrid Jeep?” Nadia asked.

Greyson rolled his eyes. “Nadia, how many times do I have to tell you—the ‘86 Jeep is practically a classic. Even the rust has character.” He let her process that statement for longer than he should have, until her eyes grew wide and her lower lip started quivering. “Yes! I already have a limo scheduled to be here at four thirty on Sunday.”

“Good boy, Greyson.” Nadia grabbed her purse off the counter, magically back to normal, as she flipped her shoulder-length raven hair.

That’ll teach me to have an agent who used to be an actress.

“Now go take a nap or something. You look terrible.” She breezed out through the front door on her stiletto heels, waving with a flick of her fingers.

Greyson took another bite of the apple and ducked his six-foot-three-inch frame so he could see himself in the entryway mirror. He assessed his movie star profile as he ran a hand through jet-black hair and squinted his eyes that were such a striking shade of jade, they would make the whole Shang Dynasty weep.

“Mirror, mirror, on the wall.” He quirked a smile that showed his one right-side dimple then brought his hand up to his chiseled jaw, his day-old scruff making a scratching sound. “I hope this wasn’t poisoned,” he muttered, eyeing the apple as he turned and made his way up the stairs. He didn’t think Nadia would resort to poisoning to keep him in California, but he was starting to second-guess her motives as of late—running him ragged up to the Verity Award nominations and wanting to keep him on a trajectory that was exhausting both physically and mentally. A much-needed nap sounded like a good idea, though. Pulling off his shirt, Greyson lay on his bed and stretched, pondering how Nadia had got the starlet of the moment to agree to attend functions with him. The promise of a night with the action hero? He wondered if he should feel more used.

As easy as it was to have a new girl almost every night, his thoughts went to his best friend, Prudence Hardwick—as they often did in situations like these—remembering what it was like to have her on his arm at big events. If he was being honest with himself, it wasn’t just for the glitz and glamor that he wanted her to share these moments with him. Sure, they had phone calls, video chats and texting, but that wasn’t the same as having her with him, in his home, in his life. Ugh, in my bed. He shook his head. They’d been friends since kindergarten, never as a couple, but lately his thoughts of her had been so carnal they made even him blush. He’d long ago locked away any desire for her, but something inside him was forcing that door back open and he was tired of holding it shut. The pull that he’d always had toward her had become so strong lately that he couldn’t stop imagining every aspect of his life with her. He needed to go home, back to Amber Falls, back to Prudence. I need to see her. He drifted off to sleep with Prudence on his mind.

* * * *

Greyson bolted upright, momentarily disoriented. He was breathing heavily, remnants of his dream pinging through his head. He looked down and groaned, evidence of his arousal showing through his boxers. “Fuck,” Greyson muttered as he flopped back, moving a hand to his racing heart, as if to steady its beats. This had been happening too frequently lately, dreams of Prudence under him, over him…all over him, her wild red hair tumbling across his pillow. Waking up to the touch of her hands on his skin, as though she was real and not another dream. It was embarrassing, really. They’d never gone beyond one kiss—one heartbreakingly sweet kiss—but Greyson’s mind filled in every blank imaginable, and his body reacted like some teenage boy who’d never been laid.

He thought of Georgia and why his mind was able to fill in the blanks. When Prudence had decided to move back to their hometown of Amber Falls, Massachusetts, from Atlanta, Georgia, she’d asked him to help drive the U-Haul. After a construction detour, and a wrong turn, they’d ended up heading toward the coast of North Carolina. They had decided it was destiny to head toward the coast, not caring that their trip would be extended by a day, both of them needing the extra time away from work. They’d found a bed and breakfast late at night and taken the only room available—with one bed. The night had been wonderful. With a balcony facing the ocean, they’d opened a bottle of wine and reminisced about their youth. They talked long into the night. He remembered falling asleep with her next to him and waking the next morning with her curves pressed against him. Her perfect body, as though it had been made to fit only him, and the final puzzle piece had fallen into place that morning that she was it. He’d known since junior high that he loved her, but this made it irrefutable. He loved her. She’d awoken, soft from sleep, and he could feel the smile radiating from her. Then reality had set in. He was driving her to Massachusetts and he was going back to L.A.

He shook himself out of his reverie. There was no time to lounge in bed the rest of the day and torture himself with thoughts of Prudence. His assistant, Bradford, was going to be here with dinner shortly, and he needed to cool off. He’d barely made it out of the shower and into some clothes before Bradford called out, “Yoohoo, Mr. Atwood?”

“I’m here, Bradford. Come on into the kitchen.”

Bradford hustled in, his boat shoes—sans socks, of course—making no sound on the tiles. He was juggling too many things, a stack of take-out boxes threatening to tip onto the floor at any second, destined to stain the pile of clothes thrown over his other arm on their way down. Greyson leapt off his stool and grabbed the food, deftly depositing the boxes on the kitchen island. Hmm, these are surprisingly light.

“You should’ve called me, Bradford. I’d have helped bring this stuff in.” Greyson reached out to take the clothes as well.

“No, Mr. Atwood, that wouldn’t do. I almost had it.”

“I wish you’d call me Greyson.” Greyson had hired—stolen—Bradford away from Wyatt Reed, another major action star a year ago, and, as Bradford had said then, “I did not call Mr. Reed ‘Wyatt’ and I will not call you ‘Greyson’. Respectfully, of course, Mr. Atwood.”

Greyson and Wyatt had started a sort of…rivalry…over the years. They were both an uncomfortable level of attractiveness—tall, dark and oh-so-handsome. Their movies were in the same genre, both action-packed, high-octane blockbusters. However, Wyatt had progressed over the years from an action star bad-boy to an indie-staring media darling. While Greyson still had a reputation as a womanizing wild child, Wyatt had turned into somewhat of a loner despite his megastar status. His personal life was kept personal, and his charity works, although immense, were not touted in the press. Wyatt had turned into what every movie star should aspire to be. That pissed Greyson off to no end. The press was so subjective, it focused on what it wanted, and what it wanted from Greyson was pure salaciousness.

Bradford sighed a long-suffering sigh and went to a cupboard to get some plates, ignoring the comment. “I grabbed salads. Figured you’d need to keep things light leading up to the awards ceremony.” He stared pointedly at Greyson’s midsection.

Greyson’s hand went to his stomach. “These are washboard abs, sir.”

“Mmmhmm…” Bradford murmured as he moved lettuce to his plate. “I’m just saying. Nadia had me bring over these tuxedo shirts for you to try on. I’m supposed to bring pants tomorrow and I’d hate for things not to button up.”

Greyson involuntarily flexed his biceps. “What? She doesn’t trust me to get fitted for a tux like I told her I would?”

“I didn’t understand most of what she was talking about, something about your horrid Jeep and needing a nap, but yes. That’s exactly what she inferred.”

Greyson laughed as he filled his plate, deciding not to skimp on the dressing. “Hey, what do you know about Samantha Crane?”

“Not much. She’s guarded about her personal life. Nice enough from the talk around town, but she’s never lived in the real world. Silver spoon and all that.”

“Guarded about her personal life? Isn’t she in the gossip rags almost daily?”

“That’s not her personal life, that’s her show-biz life. What she thinks people want to see of her, to keep them interested. Her dad bought her way into the ‘it-girl’ title, and she’s trying to hold on to it. People are eating it up, though, and her box-office records prove it.”

Greyson was silent for a moment. He’d only worked with Bradford for a year, but he trusted his opinion, maybe even more than Nadia’s. “Do you think it’s a smart idea to work with her?”

Bradford answered without hesitating. “Yes. It’s good press.” He echoed Nadia’s words from earlier in the day. “The more people you can reach, like Samantha’s demographic, the more people will want to see whatever project you’re attached to.”

“Nadia wants me to take her to the Verity Awards ceremony on Sunday.”

“She’s her agent too, you know. Nadia’s quite the tactician, always three steps ahead.”

Greyson rolled his eyes upwards. Nadia’s insistence on taking Samantha to the awards show and reading her script suddenly made sense, although he couldn’t figure out why she didn’t just tell him she was agent to both of them. “That clever girl. It’s double bucks for Nadia if it goes through, she’s going for the hard sell.”

Bradford shrugged his shoulder. “If you have the opportunity to double your payday, you always take it.”

Greyson nodded. “Those are true words, Bradford. Why don’t you reach out to Samantha’s people and set up a lunch date before the awards on Sunday? Nothing too flashy—try to keep the press away.”

“That’s a good idea, Mr. Atwood, although I can’t guarantee anything about the press once the lunch is set up. I’ll reiterate to her people the importance of having this lunch privately, but it’ll be out of my hands after she knows.”

“Thanks, Bradford. Now, it sounds like I have a script to read”—he pushed away his salad—“and some clothes to try on.”