Hollywood Playboy (Hollywood Royalty 1)

“Not that kind of taking care of you. Meaning someone who takes care of you by sharing your life with them.” I roll my eyes at him even though he can’t see it. He means get a woman to make sure you get your clothes washed, cooks for you, and holds your hand while you sit on the deck outside watching the sunset. He means a woman who will have my back, no matter what happens.

“Dad, it’ll happen when it happens,” I tell him like I tell my mother. “It’s a different world where I live. People want me for what I have to offer, not for who I am. You know this. Remember Tina?” I mention my ex-girlfriend. We had met through friends, and after being together six months, I could never pinpoint how the press knew where we would be. I never understood how they knew fucking everything until one day when she was in the shower, I picked up her phone when it buzzed and saw a message from a paparazzi guy. Bingo!

“Then you need to come live in the country. We can find you a nice girl,” he gruffs out while I groan. “Whatever. Just call your mom. She worries about you.”

“I will. I’m leaving for a month on a press tour all around the world. I want you and Mom to come to the premiere . . . it’s in Paris.”

“Fancy,” he says with a chuckle. “You going to put me in a monkey suit?”

“Probably.” I laugh, thinking of my dad in his favorite pair of Levi’s. “I was thinking,” I say, my voice going low, “of coming to stay at the ranch for a couple of months when I finish this tour.”

“Not going to lie, son,” my father says softly. “Your mother would kill to have you home, and so would I.”

“I’m still thinking about it, but I’ll need to decompress after a thirty-day prison sentence around the world, and the ranch is the perfect place to do that. Okay, I have to go. My trainer will be here soon, and I have to get ready.”

“Be good, son, and don’t forget to call your mother, yeah?” he says. “Love you.”

“Love you, too,” I tell him, disconnecting the phone and then getting up and walking to my bedroom. The fucking house is bigger than I need, but it’s an investment. I walk up the stairs to my bedroom and head straight to my closet to change into my workout clothes. After I make my way down to the gym, I get on the treadmill while I wait for the trainer to get here.

Chapter Four

Jessica

Pictures and details are surfacing this morning of the “tour plane.” Sources say that no one knows anything except when to be at the airport.

“If you need anything while you are away, don’t be shy. Give me a call,” Stephanie says, and I roll my eyes. She just called to wish me luck, and I groaned. Literally. I’ve tried everything I could think of to get off this press tour, but she’s brushed me off, ignoring every excuse I’ve thrown at her.

“I need you to put someone else on this story,” I say, tossing the charger to the laptop on top of my luggage. I’m not ashamed to say that if this doesn’t work, begging may be my next plan of attack.

When Mary came over on Saturday—carrying no food, I might add—she did bring four bottles of wine. I want to say we didn’t finish them, and I also want to say I didn’t do an impromptu fashion show of outfits to bring with me. Now I’m nursing the hangover and groveling on the phone with my boss, along with the feeling of dread of spending a month away.

“No one else can do this story justice,” she says. “Who knows? You could break through and finally get the story of who Tyler Beckett really is.”

“I know exactly who Tyler Beckett is. He’s an asshole; a condescending asshole who doesn’t even want me on this press tour, I might add.” I walk into the bathroom and toss my toiletries into my bag. “I don’t even know where we are going. Do you know we aren’t given any information until we board the plane?”

“Jess, make the best of it,” she finally huffs out. “There are people dying to be on this exclusive opportunity. You are touring the world on someone else’s dime!” I don’t even bother answering her. It’s falling on deaf ears anyway.

“Okay, I have to go. We have to be at the airfield by three,” I say, looking over and seeing that it’s almost two. “My ride is expected to be here at two fifteen.”

“Stay in touch,” she says and disconnects.

“Stay in touch? I’ll fucking stay in touch,” I mumble to no one in particular. Walking to my closet, I grab my scarf off the rack and then the jean jacket. I look in the mirror and take in my outfit. My tight blue jeans mold me and are torn at the knees. I have a white cotton button-down short-sleeve shirt that is tucked into the front, displaying my Gucci belt. I grab my rose-colored Tory Birch sandals and slip my feet into them. Then I walk to my bed and finally close my extra-large suitcase. I huff, and my hair flies everywhere when I pick it up off the bed. Grabbing an elastic from my wrist, I tie my hair up on the top of my head in what I perceive as a cute, messy bun. However, with how I’m feeling right now, I’m pretty certain the bun is less messy and more on the struggle spectrum. I’m in a foul mood, though, so what do I care? The noise of my Tiffany bracelet hitting my watch further irritates my hangover.