Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 102394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
The last thing I needed was a live-in bodyguard. And I definitely didn’t want him. Six foot two, with broad shoulders that were impossible to ignore and a talent for getting in my way, Wes Callahan was a walking bad decision.
But when you’re the daughter of a notorious mob boss, apparently your opinions stop mattering the moment your father ignites another war. I’d spent my entire life trying to escape that crooked world—new name, new city, newfound freedom. At least until I was suddenly shacked up with my new bodyguard.
Wes knew exactly how to push my buttons. He was also infuriatingly protective. And smart. And funny. And thoughtful when he thought I wasn’t paying attention. Little by little, the walls I’d built started to crack, and falling for the bodyguard became the most dangerous thing I’ve ever done. Because if my father found out, Wes wouldn’t just lose his job. He’d lose his life.
Getting involved with him was reckless, yet I couldn’t find a way to stop it, no matter how hard I tried. But while I was busy losing my heart, the man who took it was hiding a secret.
And it turned out, the most dangerous man in my life wasn’t my father after all—it was the one who threatened to break my heart
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER 1
* * *
Juliette
Ugh. What the heck time is it?
I pushed my sleep mask up onto my forehead and reached over to the nightstand to unplug my ringing cell from the charger. Arlo Quinn flashed on the screen, and unless I’d slept eighteen hours, he was calling me at five fifteen AM.
“Hello?” My voice cracked with morning grog.
“Hey, Jules. It’s Arlo. I’m sorry to wake you this early.”
“If you aren’t calling to tell me there’s a wildfire heading straight for my house, I’m hanging up.”
He sighed. “Bradley doesn’t like the rewrites you did.”
I sprang upright. “What? How is that possible? It’s the fourth set of rewrites I’ve done for those scenes, and I barely even wrote any of the words. Bradley dictated how he wanted the entire thing to go.”
“I know. I’m sorry. He can be…difficult sometimes.”
“Parallel parking in front of The Ivy while being watched by a table of movie stars is difficult. Figuring out what to wear when someone tells you dinner is smart casual is difficult. Bradley Wilson? That man is a giant asshole.”
Arlo chuckled. “He wants to meet with you at six in his trailer at the studio.”
“That’s in forty-five minutes.”
“I know. He just woke me up to have me call you.”
I shook my head and ripped the covers from my body, dragging myself out of bed. “Does Sam know he asked for rewrites again?”
“I’m not sure.”
Translation—the director has no freaking clue. These constant rewrites had become a control game for Bradley, a power trip of sorts. The director’s team spends hours planning the next day’s shoot, only to have the star show up ten minutes before call time and drop twenty pages of rewrites in their laps. After, he struts back to his trailer to sip his stupid grande, iced, half-caff, ristretto, sugar-free vanilla, oat milk macchiato with no foam and enjoy a one-hour massage. I had no clue why the director put up with it. Actually, that wasn’t true. He probably did it for the same reason I did. Because Bradley Wilson was—Lord knows why—one of Hollywood’s biggest A-list actors at the moment, and the jerk had a lot of industry pull.
Annoyed, I padded into the kitchen to the coffeemaker. “I’ll be there, Arlo. But you have to invite Sam, too, or at least one of the assistant directors. They need to be in the loop from now on.”
“Okay. I’ll make some calls.”
I breathed out on a huff. “Thank you.”
“There’s one more thing…”
“I’m afraid to ask. What?”
“Bradley requested you stop at Robeks and pick up his morning energy drink.”
My eyes bulged. “Are you freaking kidding me?”
The poor assistant sighed. “I’m afraid not.”
“No.” I shook my head vigorously. “I’m not doing it. I’m a screenplay writer, not his damn gopher.”
“I would do it myself, but my girlfriend and I share a car, and she works the night shift. She doesn’t get home until seven.”
“Why can’t he have his drink delivered from Uber Eats?”
“He doesn’t trust the drivers.”
“What does he think is going to happen? They’re going to poison him? Wait, on second thought, maybe I will pick up his energy drink, with a side of cyanide.”
“I’ll take an Uber and get it for him. I really am sorry to keep calling you with all his requests, Jules.”
I took a deep breath in and let it out. It wasn’t Arlo’s fault. And the poor guy probably made minimum wage for dealing with his asshole boss all day long. “I’ll pick up his drink. There’s a Robeks on my way to the studio.”
“Are you sure?”
“I can’t guarantee I won’t add some laxatives so he’s stuck in the bathroom half the day, but yeah. I’m sure.”
“Thanks, Jules. I’ll text you his order. It’s sort of long.”
Of course it is… After I hung up, I brewed a cup of coffee and took a three-minute shower. I did not wash my hair. Looking in the half-fogged mirror, I gave myself a quick internal pep talk. Think on the bright side. Your day can’t get much worse than being woken up at five AM and having a spoiled actor’s breakfast order to fetch.
Unfortunately, the universe must’ve taken my attempt at manifesting a better day as more of a challenge. Because when I climbed into my car at twenty minutes to six, my cell phone rang a second time. And the name on the screen this time was probably the only person I wanted to speak to less at this hour than Bradley Wilson—my father.
I debated not picking it up, but the last time I’d avoided Dad for a half day, he’d sent one of his goons to my house to knock on my door. So I took yet another deep breath and told myself dealing with my father would be good practice for my meeting with Bradley—a primer in staying calm.