Love Me Again, Cowboy

Chapter One

MALIA

My fake boyfriend is cheating on me. This cannot be happening. I glare at the TMZ picture on my phone and read the caption, Looks like Trey is done with Malia’s outbursts and controlling ways. It was only a matter of time before he left her.

Outbursts and controlling ways? That’s completely made up. It’s just Hollywood rumors I haven’t fought because my agent, JulieAnn, convinced me not to. When they first started up, JulieAnn said I should be happy that gossip sites were drumming up interest in my role as the infamous Veronica Chase. Everyone loves to hate a villain, after all. And that’s what my character was. But I left that show six months ago, and it seems that my villainous reputation is following me.

The party around me carries on, oblivious to the fact that my life is being ruined. No, not ruined, destroyed. Or at least my career is—which is practically the same thing.

It’s my sister, Ala’s, party. She and her husband, Ben, are having their first child after years of infertility, and I offered to throw them a Hollywood-based gender reveal party. It’s the latest trend among the elite, and my sister deserves only the best. A party at the Ritz with actual Hollywood celebrities present (I had to call a few favors in to get them here) might be a bit extravagant, as Ala pointed out over and over again. But I’ve missed too many birthdays and Christmases because I’ve been so career-focused that I wanted to do something big to make it up.

The ballroom of the Ritz Carlton is split in half with Pink tulle, flowers, and lights on one side and blue tulle, flowers, and lights on the opposite side. The walls are covered in ornate mirrors, making the event feel as if it goes on forever. Partygoers crowd the dance floor, moving to the music of the top paid band in Beverly Hills, while others talk and laugh with crystal flutes of either blue or pink sparkling juice in their hands. Wait staff in black-and-white tuxedoes carry hors d’oeuvres on platters through the crowd.

If you ask me, the event is a success, if a peculiar mix: Hollywood’s elite, decked out in Armani and Valentino, mix and mingle with my family who wear colorful Hawaiian prints and with the residents of my sister’s small town who have on either cowboy hats and boots or eccentric hippy clothing a human kaleidoscope of color and style. If I weren’t dealing with the Trey problem at the moment, I could better appreciate the strange awesomeness of it all.

But instead of being here with me, like he said he would, one of the industry’s top paid movie actors, Trey Wentworth, is in a tangle of limbs with some blonde woman. I squint, trying to get a better look at the picture being illuminated on my phone. I can’t see the blonde’s face, not with Trey’s big head blocking the way, but they are engaged in what looks like a rather raunchy make-out session on his yacht. My hands shake, blurring the image on the screen. I work to take calming breaths, but all I can see is Trey and the blonde and wonder what this will mean for my reputation and my plans to be in Trey’s next big motion picture.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” my Auntie Tutu says over my shoulder. I quickly press my phone to my chest, spinning around to face her. She’s wearing a floral muumuu with one of her signature cat sweaters over it. This one has two kittens, one with a blue hat and one with a pink hat, in honor of the evening—charming. She wrinkles her eyebrows in concern. “You must be heartbroken, Lia-girl.”

If Trey and my relationship hadn’t strictly been a publicity stunt, then maybe. But no, this is much worse than a broken heart. Trey is jeopardizing my career. Heartbreak you can get past (I should know), but Hollywood is unforgiving. Trey is America’s hero, and I’m remembered for my five-season role as Veronica Chase, where my character basically went around making people’s lives miserable. People love to hate me. It’s not exactly the reputation I want when pursuing new acting opportunities.

“You betta kick him to da curb. Did I eva tell you ‘bout the time William Tucker broke my heart? Well, let Auntie tell you—”

“I’m really sorry, Auntie,” I interrupt her, “but I just need a moment to myself. I’ll be right back.” I turn and make a beeline for the double doors that lead to the kitchen. I get smiles, and a few people try to stop and talk to me, but I feign sickness with an apology and escape into the kitchen. The hot air, filled with the smells of garlic, simmering butter, and spices, meets me like an edible Sonoran Desert. I jump out of a chef’s way just before he hands a tray full of scallops to a waiter. The kitchen is bustling with the clatter, clang, and sizzle of hors d’oeuvres being prepared.

I find a quieter, less busy part of the oversized kitchen where a multitude of desserts wait in giant refrigerators to be presented later in the evening. I glance at the picture again and whisper, “Trey, you idiot. You horny idiot. You couldn’t just hold out a few more weeks?”

I knew there was a risk working with him. He might be America’s favorite hero, but this past year he’s gotten quite the reputation for being a man-whore. Every week he seems to have a new girl on his arm or is locking lips in some shady nightclub.

That’s why my publicist, who happens to be friends with his, suggested we could offer each other something. Trey needed to show America he was able to keep a relationship for longer than a week, and I needed an audition with Henry Wilson for Trey’s upcoming film. Trey and Henry Wilson have been making films together for years, winning Oscars along the way.

But now Trey and his stupid overactive male hormones had to go and ruin it all. Trey and I are supposed to be marketed as a power couple, which would help promote the movie.

My phone rings. It’s my publicist, JulieAnn.

“I’m going to kill Trey,” I say as a greeting. “What are we going to do?” I lean against a fridge. The glass doors are cold against my back, but it feels good in the hot kitchen.

“We can’t kill him dear,” she says in her gravely, smoker’s voice. “It wouldn’t help your career at all. How are you holding up?”

If I could see her now, I’m sure she’d be wearing an outlandish outfit that looks like it should be on a runway, and she’d be smoking one of her thin cigarettes. No matter how many times I’ve told her she should quit, she wa

ves me off with a red manicured hand and says she’ll quit when she’s dead.

“I’m pissed. Not only am I not going to get a role in Henry Wilson’s film because Trey and I are no longer the perfect couple, but the media is already blaming me for Trey’s indiscretion as if I pushed him into that girl’s arms. I knew this was a bad idea.”

When I raise my voice, a couple of the cooks turn their heads to me. I smile and give them a little wave before turning to the side.