Read Online Books/Novels:

His Forever

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Aria Cole

Mila Crawford

Book Information:

Mitchell Holden was Hollywood’s it man. Everyone wanted a piece of him.
He was living the life and riding high on success until a late night phone call sent his world spinning.
Mitch played characters that became cult classics with ease,
but the one role he wasn’t ready for was playing the part of father to a kid who wasn’t even his.

Anna O’Rourke would do anything for children in need. She’d dedicated her life to helping kids in the system.
Her once in a lifetime assignment isn’t what she expected.
The Jane Doe baby she’s been assigned to might just be related to Hollywood’s leading man.

Becoming overnight parents isn’t easy for anyone, not even a seasoned social worker or a man who’s got the world at his fingertips.

Anna and Mitch come from two different worlds, but find common ground in the little girl they both love.

Books by Author:

Aria Cole Books

Mila Crawford Books



I liked it better when you couldn’t get Wi-Fi in the air. Now even on a transatlantic flight to Japan, I can’t escape my agent. She’s like a goddamned predator in Hollywood. Not that I’m complaining about the roles she gets me or the price she has me command, but sometimes a guy just needs a little downtime——like seventeen hours to catch some desperately needed z’s.

Mitchell Holden, pick up your phone!

I toss the latest iPhone onto the empty seat behind me and ring the call button for some Scotch. The seat reclines all the way into a bed, and I let it go all the way back, despite just having ordered a drink. Press junkets make me crazy—a whirlwind trip to every international hub in less than a week. I just want it over and done with, and I don’t care that Marina Ovard wants to brief me on who will be meeting me for press or interviewing me after the screening. I wish I had an assistant, someone to pick up the slack. I guess it’s Marina’s job, but she drives me crazy with her hounding. Maybe what I need is a body double.

I tear the sleep mask from my eyes as the jet bounces down in Tokyo. I sit up with a smile and feel proud of myself for squeezing in so much shuteye. After freshening up in the bathroom, I retrieve my phone. Ten thousand missed texts from Marina—as is to be expected.

Your arrival has been leaked. Expect pandemonium at Haneda.

FML, I text back to her.

Now I’ve got to muster a ten-million-dollar smile because my deplaning will be all over the news. The premiere isn’t until tomorrow, so maybe I can catch some downtime at the hotel before nonstop interviews and appearances until we leave for Australia tomorrow night.

Holden, this film could have been a catastrophe without the right names attached. Misty will meet you at the theater. Please try to act like you like her—it sells more tickets!

Act like I like Misty Ford. Piece of fucking cake. Even though her voice grates on me and her insipid smile makes me feel dubious about whether or not there’s a brain in her head. I don’t care that she modeled for Victoria’s Secret or scores cosmetics deals with higher price tags than most professional athletes. She’s a vacant shell who can’t even have a decent conversation about food, or feminism, or politics—the woman is the definition of an airhead.

I wonder if all the dudes in garages and basements and bachelor pads across America would take down their posters of her in a bikini if they could just have a conversation with her. Probably none of them. I’ll take a woman who is interesting and has more to lean on than a pretty face over a hot piece of ass any day.

But Marina likes me to play nice, to pretend I’m hanging on every word Misty says. “Put a hand on the small of her back as you walk toward the interview. Whisper something cute in her ear so she blushes on camera.” Sometimes I feel like my whole fucking life is orchestrated by Marina Ovard. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not complaining. Thank God for Marina, and thank God for my career. A lot of people run away to Hollywood, praying for the technicolor dream—very few of them actually ever make a living off their craft. Most people end up selling out, especially the people who come from my kind of background.

My mother died when I was four and my little sister Karina was just two. But I’m grateful for that too because at least she didn’t have to sit around and watch my dad deteriorate. Witness him going from a successful farmer to an alcoholic as the fields dried up. Our house went from quaint and cozy when my mother was alive to derelict and downright hazardous by the time I was in high school. I tried my best to look out for both of them, I really did, but Dad drank away every check until, eventually, we even lost the shitty house I grew up in.

As for Karina, she was a mess by the ninth grade. It’s a wonder the authorities didn’t take her in, considering she ran away as much as she did. I got a full-time job the second I graduated high school. We were living in a low-income apartment complex by that time. It looked like a strip mall—laundromat and liquor store just steps from the front door. At least my father wasn’t driving anymore. When I moved to LA, I promised Karina and my dad I’d come back for them as soon as I could. Problem was, by the time I got enough cash saved working as a stunt double, Karina was gone.