Ember Casey’s Billionaire Collection E-Book

Ember Casey

• Herausgeber: Ember Casey
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

The ultimate billionaire boxed set! Experience three of USA Today bestseller Ember Casey's most beloved billionaire romance novels, together for the first time in this collector's bundle...

This bundle includes:
The Secret to Seduction
Always Wicked
The Billionaire Escape Plan


A billionaire book boyfriend for every mood!

THE SECRET TO SEDUCTION (The Fontaines, Book 0)
A sizzling billionaire boss romantic comedy!

Felicia Liddle is screwed.

If she wants to keep her dream job, her new (and way-too-attractive-for-his-own-good) billionaire boss says she has to score an interview with one of the legendary Fontaine brothers of Hollywood.

She knows three things about the Fontaine brothers:
1) that they're Hollywood royalty
2) that all four of them are ridiculously, mind-numbingly sexy,
and
3) that they never, ever give interviews.

Her only chance is to seduce one of them. The only problem? Historically speaking, she’s way more likely to put her foot in her mouth (or generally make a fool of herself) than charm the pants off anyone.

That's where her way-too-sexy boss comes in. Billionaire Roman Everet might hold the fate of her job in his hands, but he's also totally willing to teach her the art of seduction. Assuming she can survive his tantalizing lessons...


ALWAYS WICKED (A Cunningham Family companion novel)
A mega-hot, ultra-steamy romance featuring the ultimate alpha billionaire!

This is my game. And she has no idea how far I’ll go to win the ultimate prize…her.

When Lily Frazer shows up at my family’s estate making demands, I can’t help myself. I have no intention of sharing my family’s secrets with her, but I also have no intention of letting this wild, passionate woman get away from me.

So I invite her to play.

To my pleasure, the enticing Lily is happy to play by my twisted, sexy rules. But as our games heat up, I soon discover that there’s more to this woman than I initially bargained for.

And I plan to have my sweet, satisfying victory…no matter what it takes.


THE BILLIONAIRE ESCAPE PLAN
A sweet and sizzling friends-to-lovers romantic comedy!

Most girls dream of marrying a billionaire.

Me? I’d rather make fun of one. Especially if the billionaire in question is Alexander Grant.

Excuse me— Xander Grant. That’s right—the mega-hot entrepreneur who seems to top every magazine’s “Rich Eligible Bachelors” list these days.

To me, he’ll always be Alex—my childhood best friend. The guy who joined me on all sorts of wild teenage misadventures. The only person in our small town who understood me.

It’s been four years since I’ve seen Alex. But suddenly he’s back in our town at the exact same time my life is imploding around me.

We’ve both changed so much—I mean, the guy used to live in ripped jeans, and now he wears nothing but designer suits—but when I need it most, he offers me exactly the escape I need. A chance to run away from my life, if only for a few days.

I only hope my heart is prepared.

Leseprobe

Ember Casey’sBillionaire Collection

A Romance Boxed Set

The Secret to Seduction

Copyright ©2015 Ember Casey

Cover Images used under license from Depositphotos Inc.

Top photo: © valuavitaly

Bottom photo: © lunamarina

Always Wicked

Copyright ©2019 Ember Casey

Cover Image © konradbak, used under license from Depositphotos, Inc.

The Billionaire Escape Plan

Copyright ©2014 Ember Casey

Cover Designed by Courtney Vail

EPUB Edition

Cover Background Image © stillfx, used under license from Depositphotos, Inc.

All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

You can contact Ember at [email protected].

Website: embercasey.com.

This Collection Includes:

The Secret to Seduction (The Fontaines Series)

Always Wicked (The Cunningham Family Series)

The Billionaire Escape Plan

BOOKS BY EMBER CASEY

THE FONTAINES

The Secret to Seduction

The Sweet Taste of Sin

The Lies Between the Lines

The Mystery of You

The Thrill of Temptation

THE CUNNINGHAM FAMILY

His Wicked Games

Truth or Dare

Sweet Victory

Her Wicked Heart

Take You Away

Lost and Found

Completely (short story)

Their Wicked Wedding

A Cunningham Christmas

Their Wicked Forever

Always Wicked

THE DEVIL’S SET

Claiming His Treasure

Hunting His Jewel

Protecting His Prize

Defending His Heart

STANDALONE NOVELS

The Billionaire Escape Plan

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Books by Ember Casey

The Secret to Seduction

Book Description

1. Eight Days Until Certain Humiliation

2. An Explanation

3. Eight Days Left (Again)

4. Seven Days

5. Six Days

6. Five Days

7. Four Days

8. Three Days

9. Two Days

10. One Day

11. Well, Here Goes Nothing

Two Weeks After the Most Amazing Night of My Life (So Far)

Always Wicked

Book Description

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

The Billionaire Escape Plan

Book Description

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Looking for something else to read?

Books by Ember Casey

About the Author

The Secret to Seduction

(The Fontaines, Book 0)

Book Description

I’m screwed.

If I want to keep my dream job, my new (and way-too-attractive-for-his-own-good) boss says I have to score an interview with one of the legendary Fontaine brothers of Hollywood.

I know three things about the Fontaine brothers:

1)that they’re Hollywood royalty

2)that all four of them are ridiculously, mind-numbingly sexy

and

3)that they never, ever give interviews.

My only chance is to seduce one of them. The only problem? Historically speaking, I’m way more likely to put my foot in my mouth (or generally make a fool of myself) than charm the pants off anyone.

That’s where my way-too-sexy boss comes in. He might hold the fate of my job in his hands, but he’s also totally willing to teach me the art of seduction. I only hope I can survive his lessons…

1

EIGHT DAYS UNTIL CERTAIN HUMILIATION

“Scotch and soda, please.”

The deep voice catches my attention immediately. I look up from my gin and tonic and sneak a peek at the man who just sat down beside me at the bar. He’s a little older than me—maybe early thirties—and he has dark blond hair and a sexy spread of stubble across his jaw. As my eyes travel lower, I notice a little bit of a gut beneath his button-down shirt, but I tell myself that his broad shoulders balance out his shape quite nicely.

In any case, he’s worth a shot.

I take a big gulp of my drink and turn toward him before I can chicken out.

“Scotch and soda,” I say. “Good choice.”

He looks over at me in surprise, as if he hadn’t even noticed me sitting here. His eyes flick down to my drink—which is clearly not a scotch and soda—then to my body. I can’t tell what he thinks. I’m definitely not a supermodel or anything, but I’m not completely atrocious, either. When I bought this top, my friend Amy assured me that I looked hot. But I’m not used to being “hot”—or even trying to be. Or whatever it is I’m doing right now.

“Do you like scotch, then?” he says finally.

“Actually, I’ve never had scotch,” I blurt without thinking. When I realize I’ve just undermined my whole pick-up strategy, I rush on. “I mean, I’ve had whiskey. That’s like scotch, right? Or…” Oh shit. What am I even talking about? “Or is scotch the same thing as whiskey? Or just whiskey that comes from Scotland? I know bourbon and whiskey are the same, and I like bourbon, and…” Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP.

The man looks less than impressed with my babbling, but he hasn’t walked away yet, so there’s that. My introduction might have been less than stellar, but this could still be salvageable. I take a deep breath—and a drink—and then turn to the man again.

“I’m Felicia,” I say, flashing what I hope is a flirtatious smile.

The guy clears his throat. “Nice to meet you.”

Before he can say anything else, the bartender arrives with his drink. I wait until the man’s taken a couple of sips before I prompt, “And you are…?”

He pulls his glass away from his lips and gives me one more once-over, as if making a decision.

“I’m going to go sit with my friends,” he says. And with that, he slides off his stool and heads off through the crowd.

Fair enough. Maybe he came here for an evening out with the guys. My optimism lasts for about half a minute—right until I notice him sliding into an empty seat at the far end of the bar. No friends in sight. And to top it off, it only takes him about ten seconds to start chatting up the girl to his left. The bartender shoots me a look of pity as he wipes down the bar in front of me.

Ugh. It’s bad enough getting shot down, but having a witness definitely adds to the humiliation. I almost think about calling it a night and just heading home, but I can’t. I’m desperate. Desperate and more than a little tipsy. Aren’t I the catch of the day? But I can’t help it. I only have eight days—eight measly days—to get my shit together before I must declare myself Completely Pathetic. Okay, so maybe that’s a little melodramatic. But there’s more than just my dignity at stake here. My job is on the line. My dream job—as a staff writer at Celebrity Spark magazine—which I only got after years of “paying my dues” as an underpaid intern.

I take another long sip of my drink. I’ve never liked gin, but drinking it makes me feel more sophisticated. And much braver than my usual beer ever seems to. I need every bit of bravery I can get tonight.

I close my eyes as the alcohol burns its way down my throat. Eight days. I can still do this, assuming I don’t wuss out now. I just need to up my game.

Three stools down from me, I spot a guy in a navy sportcoat. He looks young—not too young, but probably fresh out of his MBA program—and he’s tapping his glass and looking around as if he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Briefly, his eyes meet mine, and I glance quickly away, trying to be coy. That’s how this flirting thing works, right?

I stare at my glass and count to three before shooting another glance in his direction. He’s not looking at me. He’s staring at some blond woman farther down the room. She laughs at something the man beside her says, and her perfectly-highlighted hair catches the light. She doesn’t seem to notice Mr. MBA, so after a moment his eyes begin roaming again.

This time, when his gaze lands on me, I smile. Only for a second, but long enough that I hope he gets the hint. I was too forward with the first guy. This time, I’m going to let Mr. MBA come to me.

I look back at the bar and take another drink. God, I hate gin. It tastes like I’m sipping the blood of a Christmas tree. When Mr. MBA gets over here, maybe I’ll ask him to order me my usual lager.

But a full minute passes, and no one appears at my shoulder. I glance down the bar again. Mr. MBA is still drumming his fingers against his glass, and now he seems to be studying the rows of bottles behind the bar.

Maybe he’s waiting for someone, I tell myself. A friend. Or a woman.

Or maybe my smile wasn’t clear enough. One of those articles on flirting I read this afternoon mentioned that the “rules” of seduction have changed so much in the past two decades that modern men aren’t likely to approach a woman unless they have some overt encouragement. Maybe I haven’t been obvious enough.

I try to watch him without being completely creepy. I just need him to look my way again. One look. One more smile from me. Easy peasy.

But as the minutes tick by and he doesn’t even turn his head my way, I’m forced to consider that I might need to find another target. If he were the least bit interested, he’d at least glance my direction, right? I take another drink, and in my frustration it turns out to be a bigger one than I intended. I cough, nearly choking as my throat burns with the fire of a thousand angry fir trees, and somehow my hacking gets Mr. MBA’s attention. He looks over, and I wipe the tears away from my eyes and fight back my coughs, trying to look sexy again. This is my chance, and I won’t blow it. As soon as I have everything under control, I shoot him another smile. A big one this time. My eyes lock on his, hopefully making my intentions more than clear.

My throat still burns. Another cough tries to weasel its way out of my lungs, but I swallow it back. Mr. MBA hasn’t looked away, so I keep smiling at him, even though it feels like he should have gotten the hint by now. He can’t have any doubts that I’m interested in meeting him. So why is he still in his chair?

Maybe I should go over there. Maybe he still wants me to make the first move, I tell myself. But the other part of my brain is quick to talk me out of it. I’ve already made the first move. I’m smiling at him, aren’t I? If he’s interested in pursuing more, then he will.

Hopefully before my cheeks start to hurt.

But just when I think he’s about to slip off of his stool, I’m suddenly aware of someone behind me.

“You’re going to scare him off if you keep grimacing at him like that,” says a deep, familiar voice in my ear.

I drop my glass. It hits the bar and tumbles over, spilling gin everywhere—including down the front of my shirt.

I jump up and spin around, but I don’t have to look to know who sneaked up behind me. It’s none other than Roman Everet, my boss and the whole reason I’m doing all of this in the first place.

He’s not supposed to be here, in this bar. Sure, we’re only two blocks away from the Celebrity Spark offices, but this place is about as hole-in-the-wall as bars come on this side of town. And Roman Everet is not a hole-in-the-wall kind of guy. He’s a designer-suits kind of guy. A Ferrari-and-mansion-in-the-Hills guy. Which means he should be somewhere swanky rubbing elbows with other Hollywood bigwigs.

But he’s here. And I can tell by the way he’s looking at me that he’s seen more than enough to convince him I’m screwed. So I do what any self-possessed twenty-seven-year-old does when she realizes every last shred of her pride is on the floor.

I let out a squeak and run to the bathroom as fast as my discount-rack stilettos will take me.

And now, as I’m locking myself in a stall and trying not to hyperventilate, I guess I should probably explain what of all this is about.

2

AN EXPLANATION

I’m not normally a spaz, I promise. And I’m not normally the sort of girl who makes a fool out of herself trying to pick up guys at the local bar. Usually, I’m just Felicia Liddle, an all-around normal sort of person.

Except that I write for Celebrity Spark, one of the country’s premier celebrity news publications. Working there has been my goal from the moment I graduated from college—where I doubled up in Journalism and Psychology—and my dream ever since I was old enough to read the tabloid covers at the supermarket.

Yeah, I’m that girl you’ve seen buying an armload of celeb magazines and frozen dinners at the checkout counter. And no, I’m not ashamed of it. I make no secret of the fact that I’m fascinated by celebrity culture (and fascinated by our culture’s fascination with celebrity culture) even if it’s not exactly something most people go around bragging about. But I worked my ass off to land this job. It took me five years of busting my butt at internship after internship (a.k.a. ferrying my weight in coffee to editors and making so many copies I’m probably personally responsible for the destruction of a couple of forests) but finally my hard work paid off. Six months ago, I was offered a position as a staff writer and junior editor for Celebrity Spark magazine. It was everything I’d ever dreamed.

And then, last week, everything came tumbling down. The sale of Celebrity Spark and its subsidiaries was finalized, and they started cutting jobs left and right. Even the Editor-in-Chief is on his way out, and in the meantime, Roman Everet, the CEO of the company that now owns us, has set himself up in the Celebrity Spark conference room to oversee the magazine’s transition. Apparently he’s the “hands on” type of mogul and likes to handle these things himself. In other words, he’s a complete control freak.

I still remember the first time Roman Everet walked into the office. I’d heard his name a hundred times before—after all, it’s my job to know all of the big names in entertainment, and his company has been hailed as one of the fastest-growing in the business—but I’d never seen the media mogul’s face. People in my job see thousands of pictures of actors, musicians, heirs and heiresses, but we aren’t typically clicking through photos of the people working “behind the scenes” in this town.

But naturally, I had a certain image in my head of Roman Everet: middle-aged, silver-haired, slightly wrinkled from a life spent beneath the California sun—you know, just your typical CEO of a media company. Instead, the man who walked into the Celebrity Spark offices could have easily held a place among the inhumanly attractive celebrities that grace the covers of our magazine. For one thing, he was much younger than I expected. Mid-thirties, tops. His hair was the rich brown of milk chocolate, and his broad shoulders rivaled those of all of the athletes in this month’s “Quarterbacks & Supermodels” roundup. He was, in short, most definitely drool worthy.

But then he started firing writers and editors left and right, and the glow wore off pretty quickly.

And the worst part of all? The day he showed up, I’d just bagged the biggest interview of my career so far. I’d been on top of the world, imagining how I’d catapult the feature into a better position at the magazine. But that sort of excitement dies pretty quickly when you suspect you’re about to be sacked. Because even though I’d managed to get an exclusive interview with Emilia Torres—yes, that Emilia Torres, the star of the upcoming Cataclysm: Earth and the on-again, off-again girlfriend of megastar Luca Fontaine—I was still the magazine’s most recent hire. And in spite of my years of interning, I knew I didn’t have nearly the number of “sources” as some of the other writers at the magazine. The Emilia thing was just luck. A fluke. My landlady’s brother’s boyfriend is friends with Emilia’s driver. I’m not an idiot. I know I can’t build a career on miraculous connections like that.

But fluke or not, I’d gotten something. Something big. Something that could be used as leverage. At least that’s what I told myself when I was called to the conference room for my inevitable meeting with Roman Everet.

He didn’t look up when I entered. His head was bent over a tablet, his mouth a hard line as he scrolled through the document on the screen. There was a laptop to his left, two cell phones on his right, and various files stacked across the table. A large coffee and an untouched bagel sat by his elbow. I’d seen one of his assistants—of which there were at least four, by my count—bring those to him that morning. He seemed to keep them endlessly running around on errands. I was only in the room for a couple of seconds before one of the phones buzzed, but he took one look at the screen and then ignored the call in favor of whatever he was reading on his tablet. He still didn’t bother to glance at me at all.

His distraction meant I had a moment to study him from the door, to ogle him without being noticed. He was perfectly groomed—not a hair out of place, not a speck of lint on his suit, not even the whisper of stubble on his clean-shaven cheeks. The last part made it all the easier to notice the strong cut of his jaw, as well as the slight indentation on his chin—which wasn’t quite a dimple, and was a little off center, but somehow all the sexier for it—and I found myself suppressing a sigh. Shame I was about to get sacked. I wouldn’t have minded having a little longer to stare at this guy, heartless bastard though he was.

“Sit down,” he said finally without bothering to look up. His round baritone of a voice was as sexy as the rest of him, even if he did sound completely disinterested in speaking with me. “Felicia Liddle, is it?”

“Yes.” I settled myself in the seat across the table from him and tried not to fidget. I knew where this was going.

“As you know,” he said, still focused on the device in front of him, “I’ve decided to make some changes around here.”

“Yes, Mr. Everet,” I replied.

“It’s purely a business decision,” he said, as if he’d recited this little spiel a hundred times before—which, frankly, he probably had. “It’s time Celebrity Spark fully embraced the digital age. It’s a miracle the magazine has sustained the sales it has for as long as it has. But that won’t always be the case. We’ll continue to publish the magazine for as long as it remains profitable to do so, but our focus will shift to the Celebrity Spark website and our other digital outlets.” For the first time since I entered the room, he looked up at me. His eyes were a strange shade of hazel—almost green—and I probably would have found them intriguing if I hadn’t felt like I was about to throw up. In that moment, the lack of emotion in their depths only made everything worse. By his own admission, this was merely another “business decision” for him.

“As you can imagine,” he continued in his matter-of-fact tone, “these changes require some restructuring here. There’s no reason we need to keep a fully-staffed office, not when most of these jobs can be done from anywhere and most communications done via email. Subsequently, we’ll be downsizing significantly. I’ve looked through your work, and you’re a talented writer, but—”

“I got an interview with Emilia Torres,” I blurted.

It was a stupid thing to say. Of course he knew about that already. But I was watching my dream job slip away from me, and I was desperate to save myself.

Roman Everet sat back in his chair, his hazel eyes assessing. “I’m aware of that. I’ve seen your notes. It looks like a good interview, as far as these things go.”

He didn’t have to finish. “But you’re still firing me.”

“Laying someone off and firing them are not the same thing.”

“It still means I’m losing my job.”

One of his phones buzzed, and he looked away from me and down at the screen.

“I’ll be happy to furnish a letter of recommendation for you,” he said, as he scrolled through whatever message had just arrived in his inbox. “Even put in a couple of calls, if you’d like. The interview with Emilia is a nice addition to your portfolio. I’m sure another magazine will be thrilled to find someone with such connections.”

“But this magazine isn’t?” My tone was more accusatory than I intended. But I was scared and angry enough that I didn’t even think about the fact that I’d just barked at the man who held the fate of my career in his hands.

Until I saw his expression, that is. Then I was suddenly very aware of how I’d spoken to him. He stared at me, though I couldn’t tell whether the way he slightly narrowed his eyes meant he was intrigued or merely shocked that I, a lowly staff writer, dared to address him that way. Mr. Sexy Mogul was probably used to people like me groveling at his feet. I held my breath, expecting him to throw me out without another word.

When he finally spoke, though, his voice was as calm as it had been a moment before. And there was a spark of something in his eyes that looked almost like humor.

“Emilia Torres might be a popular actress,” he said, “but frankly, this magazine can do better.”

I’m pretty sure I gaped at him. “Better?” I couldn’t believe it. Emilia Torres is all anyone is talking about now. Her latest film, Cataclysm: Earth, has a larger budget than any movie in Hollywood’s history—and costars Luca Fontaine, her former/ongoing/future flame and the highest-paid action star in the biz. The two have been fixtures in the tabloids for months—whether they’re “on,” whether they’re “off,” whether Emilia was spotted with a potential baby bump, whether Luca was seen with a mysterious brunette on his arm… it doesn’t matter. The public eats it up. The issues fly off the racks.

“Tell me,” Roman Everet said, spreading his hands, “when was the last time you saw Emilia on the cover of a celebrity news magazine?”

That had to be a trick question.

“Last week,” I told him. “And the week before that. And every week this summer. Because her face sells magazines.”

“No, her face does not sell magazines.” His gaze was intense now, as if we’d entered some sort of interrogation. “Tell me, when was the first time you saw her face on a magazine?”

That was an even more perplexing question.

“I—I don’t know,” I said, uncertain. “A year ago? When she was cast in Cataclysm: Earth?”

“And is that cover-making news around here? When a B-list actress is cast in an A-list movie?”

“I wouldn’t consider her a B-list actress,” I countered.

He raised his eyebrow. “Not anymore. But she was most definitely B-list back then. Possibly C-list, depending on who you ask. But when did that change? I’ll give you a hint—it wasn’t when she was cast.”

The way his eyes bored into me made me want to shrink back into my chair. But I wasn’t about to let him beat me. Not when he was taking away my job. I straightened my shoulders. If I was going down, then I was going to do so with a fight. And I was not about to let him convince me that I didn’t know what I was talking about.

“She became A-list news when she started dating Luca Fontaine, her A-list costar,” I said. “She strengthened her position on the list when she and Luca broke up. And she cemented it when they got back together again.”

He nodded, though his gaze didn’t lessen in intensity. “Very good. You see my point then.”

Frankly, I did not see his point at all, and my silence must have told him as much.

“Emilia isn’t news on her own,” he said slowly, as if explaining things to a child.

Ah.

“She’s news because of Luca Fontaine,” I said. Not only is Luca a huge star, but he’s a Fontaine, and that name carries a lot of weight in Hollywood.

Another nod. “And how many times has Luca Fontaine given an interview in the past, oh, six months?”

I had to think about that. Because of my job, I make an effort to skim through every celebrity news magazine each week and to keep up with all of the biggest gossip blogs. But for the life of me, I couldn’t remember anyone posting anything more than an occasional sound bite from Luca himself.

Apparently Mr. Everet could see the wheels turning in my brain, because slowly, the corners of his mouth turned up in the semblance of a smile, though his eyes remained as sharply appraising as they’d been the entire conversation.

“Emilia has been quite eager to speak with the press every step of the way,” he said. “When she and Luca are together, she goes out of her way to talk about how much she loves him, to gush about the way he treats her, to make the whole world believe they’re the perfect couple. When they break up, she’s just as eager to discuss the drama. I’m sure that’s what you discovered during your chat with her?”

He was right, of course. When I asked her about rumors that she and Luca had broken up again, she claimed that she wanted to keep the details of her love life private—but she threw out so many not-so-subtle hints about the matter that anyone with half a brain could have pieced together the story. She even warned me to watch out if I ever met him in person—apparently, Luca has a “weakness for dark-haired women.” The whole thing is perfectly calculated, of course. I’m not that naive, and I’ve been studying this industry my entire life. I’m not sure how much of Emilia and Luca’s relationship is real and how much is manufactured to keep the attention of the press and public on their movie. And honestly, it doesn’t matter. It’s all part of the game, and real or fabricated, it still sells magazines and gets tens of thousands of website clicks.

That wasn’t Roman Everet’s point, though.

“I’m sure Emilia was eager to take the active role in this whole performance,” he said. “It’s simpler if only one of them is talking to the press, and Luca has a reputation for avoiding interviews. But by now everyone’s heard Emilia’s side of the story. I could probably write the answers to her next interview myself.”

His condescension was starting to get to me again.

“Predictable or not, those answers still sell magazines,” I reminded him. “I don’t care if we’ve heard them a hundred times before. People still want to read them.”

He looked almost amused by the fact that I’d dared to challenge him. Suddenly he stood up.

“My point isn’t that they don’t get sales or clicks right now,” he replied simply, moving slowly but deliberately around the table. “It’s that sometime in the near future they will get stale, and people will be tired of hearing Emilia talk about Luca. And we shouldn’t wait until that point to seek out a bigger story. We should be working on that today. We don’t want to follow the trends or the sales or the clicks. We want to make them.”

His words were like a punch right to my gut. If that was what he was looking for, then no amount of arguing my case was going to save my job. I’d thought I’d hit the big time by snagging that Emilia interview. He was talking about something in another stratosphere.

“You understand, then?” he said, moving toward the door.

Yes, unfortunately, and even his sexy chiseled jaw and broad shoulders didn’t keep me from wanting to kick him.

I knew that was my cue to get up. To go back to my desk and pack up my things and leave the office for the last time ever. To revamp my resume and start chasing that next dream job. Mr. Everet’s hand was already on the door handle, his body half-turned toward mine, ready to usher me out. But the anger and desperation were still alive inside of me. And instead of moving, I heard myself say, “What if I can get that bigger story?”

His eyes widened slightly in surprise, and his hand froze on the door. After a second, that amusement that had been teasing at his lips spread into something deeper.

“What exactly are you proposing?” he said, and it was clear by his tone he was only asking me for his own entertainment.

I wasn’t sure. Honestly, I think I was hallucinating a little. So I said the first logical thing that popped into my mind.

“An interview with Luca Fontaine,” I told him.

Now he gave me a true smile—but the sort of smile a cat gives its prey when it decides to play with it for a little while before devouring it whole. The kind of wicked smile that probably got him between his fair share of women’s legs—it would certainly have done all sorts of twisted things to my insides under different circumstances.

“That would be a feat, considering his general attitude toward interviews,” he said, walking over to the table and leaning against the chair next to mine. “How exactly do you plan to do it? I’m assuming he hasn’t already consented?”

God, I hadn’t realized how tall he was until he was towering over me. Between that and those eyes, my voice wanted to die in my throat. Besides—this was where my plan got sticky. But Roman Everet was asking me questions, which meant he was at least entertaining the idea of letting me try. I just needed to give him a reasonable answer and then I could work on the real plan later.

Unfortunately, no answer—reasonable or otherwise—was popping into my brain. It was hard enough to get Emilia to agree to an interview with me, as unimportant as I am, and as Mr. Everet so kindly pointed out, she was usually eager to talk to the press. But as the silence stretched on and I saw the amusement in Roman’s eyes start to fade, I knew I was losing him. I needed to say something—anything—to keep his attention.

“He has a weakness for dark-haired women,” I blurted.

He sat up slightly. “Excuse me?”

“Luca Fontaine. He has a weakness for dark-haired women,” I said quickly. “Emilia said so in her interview.”

My answer must have intrigued him, because he was leaning slightly toward me. “And how does that matter?”

“I—well, I’m a dark-haired woman,” I said. Though admittedly, having to point that out to him didn’t say much for the potential effectiveness of my plan.

Nor did the way Mr. Everet immediately burst into laughter.

My cheeks went hot, and I considered bolting from the room. But something kept me glued to my chair. After a moment, he calmed himself again, but now humor pervaded his entire person.

“So you’re planning to seduce him into an interview, then?” he said.

When he said it out loud like that, it sounded ridiculous. But I was still here, still holding onto my job by a thread, and I wasn’t about to let go.

“Why not?” I said. “Women can seduce men into doing all sorts of things. And it’s not like I’m trying to get him to give up national security secrets or something.” The more I spoke, though, the more I realized exactly how absurd all of this sounded. As I mentioned before, I’m not a troll, but I’m also not exactly movie-star gorgeous, either. I like my smile. And sometimes people will compliment me on my thick hair (a gift from my Greek heritage on my mom’s side). I’m that girl who glides through life without most people noticing her one way or the other. I don’t get catcalled walking down the street—especially not here in good ol’ L.A., where I don’t exactly fit the “look”—but it’s not like I have people making snide comments about my appearance behind my back. I’m just… average. Just me.

Which was fine, at least until I told Roman Everet that I was going to seduce one of Hollywood’s hottest bad boys.

The CEO looked like he was on the verge of laughing again. But he hadn’t sent me from the room yet, and I took that as a good sign. Instead, he was now looking me up and down. His gaze moved slowly across my body—from the top of my head, to my breasts, then down my legs to where my feet were tucked beneath my chair—and I suddenly wished I’d chosen something a little more flattering to wear to work that day. Things were usually pretty casual around the Celebrity Spark offices, so most of the time I just threw my hair up in a ponytail and tossed on a button-down shirt and black pants. Not exactly the “honeypot” look. His expression revealed nothing about his opinion of what he saw.

“It’s an… admirable plan,” he said finally. His eyes met mine again, and I felt my flush deepen. It was one thing to meet his gaze when I thought he was just firing me. It was another after he’d just evaluated whether or not I was attractive enough to seduce Luca Fontaine. Someone with Roman Everet’s looks and money certainly has his pick of women—and he’s not even a famous actor. I knew I probably didn’t even live up to his standards, let alone Luca’s.

“Let’s say you do have the… ability to convince Luca to give you a private interview,” he continued. “How exactly do you intend to get close enough to do so in the first place? The Cataclysm: Earth set is closed to the press. And most members of the Fontaine family are quite adept at avoiding reporters when it suits them to do so.”

The fact that he hadn’t completely thrown out the idea shocked me. But now I suddenly had another impossible question to answer. My mind fumbled for a response.

And then it hit me.

“The Hollywood Saves! event next weekend,” I said. “Many of the Fontaines show up every year.” There would be a red carpet before the event, and my Celebrity Spark press badge could get me in. It wasn’t an event someone in my position would normally attend—celebrities rarely haul out the drama and scandals at charity functions—but it would give me a good chance to get close to Luca Fontaine. I was pretty proud of myself for remembering it.

He seemed impressed by my answer as well.

“I can see you’ve thought this through,” he said.

We both knew I hadn’t, but I’d made my case. Either Roman Everet bought it or he didn’t.

And for a long moment, he said nothing. He continued to look down at me, and I fixed my eyes on the bridge of his nose, trying to appear confident without actually meeting his unsettling gaze—or without getting distracted by that sexy little non-dimple on his chin. I needed to be steady, firm. He needed to see that I was serious about this.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said finally. “I like your creativity, so I’m willing to give you a shot.”

I couldn’t believe it. My desperate plea had worked. “You are?”

“It’s a probationary period, of course,” he continued. “I have a strict budget to adhere to, and I can’t just keep an employee on a whim. You have until the day of the event, no longer. If you fail, you’ll need to start looking for new employment. If you succeed, you can stay, though your longterm fate here will be left to the discretion of the new Editor-in-Chief. I should have one in place by then.”

I nodded, still in disbelief that he was letting me go through with this. “I understand.”

“I’ll even give you a little freedom,” he said. “Secure an interview for Celebrity Spark with any of the Fontaines and I’ll say you’ve proved yourself good enough to stay. Does that sound fair?”

I continued to bob my head. “Yes. Yes, that’s fair.” And then, “Any of the Fontaines?”

“I know you’re smarter than that. I mean the Fontaines of a certain…”—he waved his hand—“level, shall we say. A-list only. Second cousins and uncles and all that don’t count.” His eyes fixed on me. “If the average person on the street couldn’t tell you which one it is, then you’re on the wrong track.”

“Okay.”

“Good. Then that’s settled.” He indicated the door. “We’re done.”

I wasn’t about to wait around to see if he changed his mind. I got up, thrilled beyond belief that I’d somehow miraculously been able to keep my job, and tried to ignore the way my skin prickled at the feeling of his gaze on my back.

It wasn’t until about ten minutes later, when the glorious shine of my victory wore off, that I realized the Hollywood Saves! event was a mere ten days away. And that I was insanely, ridiculously, royally screwed.

3

EIGHT DAYS LEFT (AGAIN)

Okay, so that brings us back to me dry-heaving in the bathroom of a dumpy bar.

In the two days since my meeting with Mr. Everet, I’ve racked my brain for ideas of how I’m going to pull this off. And honestly? Against all odds, I’ve come to the conclusion that my best chance of getting an interview with Luca or any of the Fontaines will be to go with my original spur-of-the-moment (incredibly insane) plan to somehow charm my way in. I have nothing else to offer them—nothing they need, anyway. When you’re Hollywood royalty, you’re pretty much set in terms of money, fame, and connections. And the Fontaines are more than just royalty—they’re a multi-generational dynasty. If you can name a position in the film industry, a Fontaine has been there. And won all the awards. And probably caused a lot of trouble—and broken a few hearts—along the way.

In other words, they are the wet dream of every celebrity news outlet in existence. Except you don’t become as big as the Fontaines without learning a few tricks about how to manage the press to your advantage. They’re masters of the PR game, which means it can be nearly impossible to pin them down for an interview.

If I weren’t already fighting an uphill battle, that’s not my only disadvantage here. As I’m sure you’ve noticed by now, I’m not exactly “smooth” in the charm department. I don’t have any experience seducing people. Hell, I can barely flirt. When I dated guys back in school, it was usually because we’d become friends in class first. Since then, I’ve tried online dating a few times, but for the most part, I’ve been focused on other things—not making googly eyes at someone next to me at the bar or chatting some guy up across the cantaloupes at the supermarket. I’m not even really sure how men and women interact these days outside of the internet.

Naturally, my first step was to try and learn. Since my meeting with Roman Everet, I’ve read every “How to Flirt” article I could find. But I knew I needed some real-world experience, which is why I came out here tonight. I thought I was ready to put the tips I’d learned to the test—with the help of some liquid courage, of course.

I was not expecting to have my first practice session crashed by the man who got me into this mess. I’m surprised that after witnessing that display he didn’t fire me on the spot. I’m obviously not going to pull this off. He can save Celebrity Spark a week of my pay by canning me right now.

But what do I do at this point? I wonder as I stare at a bit of graffiti on the bathroom wall. Hide in this stall until this place closes? There’s no way to get back to my car without walking past him. But while I could try to wait it out, hole up in here until closing time, sitting in this stall for a couple of hours doesn’t sound very appealing—especially considering I’m going to have to face him at work on Monday anyway. What do I gain by being a coward now?

With a sigh, I leave the stall and go over to the sink. My initial assessment of my appearance in the mirror isn’t all bad, at least. My cheeks are still a little redder than usual, but out in the dim lights of the bar, I’m not sure anyone will notice. My makeup is still mostly in place, though it could use a touch-up. Otherwise, I look just as I did when I walked into this place after an hour of careful preparations in the Celebrity Spark bathrooms: my dark, thick hair still holds its waves, my short skirt still hugs my hips, my black top still shows a healthy amount of cleavage. There’s still a big wet spot down my front from my spilled gin, but it’s not as obvious as it would have been if I’d been wearing a different color. I grab some paper towels and dab at it.

Still, after a couple of harsh rejections at the bar, my faith in my appearance has wavered significantly. I toss the paper towels in the trash and open my purse. My lips get another layer of plum-colored lipstick. My eyes another swipe of dark brown eyeliner. It’s sultry without being vampy—or so I thought when I walked out the door tonight. As I study myself now, I’m not so sure.

But I’m also not going to think any more highly of myself if I cower in here much longer. At this point, I suspect the only thing that will help me is another drink. Something strong.

And so, after one last doleful look in the mirror, I leave the bathroom.

Roman Everet is still here. I spot him the moment I step back into the bar. It’s only been a couple of days since I met him, and yet there’s something unmistakable about his bearing, something instantly recognizable about him, even across this crowded bar.

He’s not looking at me. He’s not even looking in the direction of the bathroom. But I know he’s waiting for my return. As I watch him, he takes a long sip of his drink—something dark and undoubtedly expensive, or at least as expensive as you can get at this bar—and then says a few words to the bartender. God, I hope they aren’t talking about me. I’m sure I’ve provided plenty of entertainment for both of them tonight.

I shift my gaze to the door. I could leave if I wanted to. Just walk right out. But why delay the inevitable?

I straighten my shoulders and march over to the bar, sliding in right next to the man who is more or less my boss for the next week. I don’t look at him. Instead, I smile at the bartender.

“Shot of tequila, please,” I say. That’ll make me feel better.

Mr. Everet doesn’t seem surprised to see me suddenly appear at his side. I sense his eyes moving over me, analyzing me, and I’m thankful it’s too dark for him to see me blush. I don’t want to think about the opinions he’s forming right now.

Unfortunately, he seems more than happy to share them.

“You’re trying too hard,” he says.

If I had a drink, I’d be choking on it. “What?”

“This.” He waves his hand, indicating everything from my head to my toes. “This is too much.”

“Excuse me?”

The bartender slides my shot across the bar to me, and he’s giving me one of those pitying looks again. I glance away from him quickly, but unfortunately that means that I find myself looking right into Mr. Everet’s sharp, penetrating eyes. He seems completely unconcerned that his assessments are making me uncomfortable. And completely oblivious to the fact that I couldn’t care less about his opinion of me.

My cheeks are getting hotter. I grab my shot and throw it down, hoping the burn will chase away the humiliation coursing through my veins.

“How much have you had to drink?” he asks me.

I glare at him. “Not nearly enough.” I wave at the bartender again. “Long Island Iced Tea, please.”

I can tell without him even saying a word that Mr. Everet doesn’t think that’s a good idea. And maybe it’s stupid to keep downing hard alcohol in front of the man who gets to decide whether or not I keep my job. But he already has too much power over my future. I’m not about to let this man dictate my drink choices, too. And there’s nothing illegal about having a drink when I’m off the clock. Doesn’t a big-shot CEO have better things to do with his time than hang out with his soon-to-be-ex-employee on a Friday night?

Under different circumstances, I might have found his unrelenting gaze flattering, or even arousing—I mean, look at the guy. There’s no doubt that the body beneath that designer suit is extremely lickable. Or that those hands, which look so large around his glass of dark liquor, probably know exactly how to tease a woman into exquisite pleasure.

But these aren’t circumstances where I can fully appreciate either of those things. He shouldn’t be here in this grungy bar. He shouldn’t have witnessed my laughable attempt at flirtation. He shouldn’t be sitting next to me, studying me, when he has a company to run and fancy, important places to be.

He’s silent as the bartender mixes my drink, silent as the glass gets passed into my hand, silent as I take my first sip. In fact, he’s silent so long that my anger seeps out of me and I start to get nervous again. He obviously has something he wants to say. Why won’t he just spit it out already and put me out of my misery?

Finally, I can’t take it anymore.

“What?” I ask, ashamed by how my voice cracks on the word.

“I didn’t say anything,” he replies.

I really want to leave it there. To sip at my Long Island and pretend none of this ever happened. I don’t want to hear about what I’m doing wrong, about all the poor decisions I’ve already made tonight. I’m already judging myself. I don’t need his judgment, too.

But after a moment, he sighs, and I know I’m about to hear it anyway.

“Do you want my advice?” he says. “Or are you just going to get offended?”

Okay, so I guess he did notice that his comments were getting to me. And yeah, it would be easy to tell him that I don’t care about his opinion. To put up a wall and ignore his criticisms. But let’s be honest—I need the help, and we both know it.

“Fine,” I say. “Tell me what I’m doing wrong, Mr. Everet.”

“Roman.”

“What?”

“Call me Roman.”

Using his first name makes this worse. It makes it… intimate. At least when he was “Mr. Everet” I could sort of pretend he wasn’t a real person. The formality made it safer. Easier. But that’s not exactly something I can explain to the man in front of me.

“Okay,” I say. “Roman. I’d like to hear what you think I’m doing wrong.”

He doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he takes a long, slow drink, and I can’t decide if he’s giving me one last chance to walk away or if he just likes to watch me squirm. Finally, he puts his glass down.

“It’s too much,” he repeats.

“What is?”

“Everything. The way you’re dressed. The way you try to get the attention of these men. It’s coming off as desperate.”

“Desperate?” Oh, God. I mean, I know I feel desperate, but I didn’t realize everyone else could see it.

But Roman isn’t finished.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “The approach you take is up to you. In fact, I’d venture that there are many men who’d be happy to accept what they believe you’re offering. But I don’t think you’ll be getting the results you’d like. And I’m fairly certain this strategy won’t help you win the attentions of any of the Fontaines. Luca and his brothers have women throwing themselves at them all the time. You’d just be one more.”

I can read between the lines, as much as it pains me to acknowledge what he isn’t saying.

“And I’m not sexy enough to stand out from the rest,” I say.

“That’s not what I said. I’m only suggesting that the odds would be against you.”

That’s not exactly reassuring. I run a finger through the condensation on the side of my glass. “What am I supposed to do, then?”

“Your current method might get you a smile and a few polite words, but not much more. Certainly not an interview. You need a far subtler approach.”

A far subtler approach. Could he be any more vague? I take a long sip of my Long Island Iced Tea through my straw, waiting for him to continue. To explain. But when I sneak a glance at him, he seems to be waiting for me to speak.

“How… How do I…” Looking him in the eyes makes it harder to ask the question, so I drop my gaze back to my drink. “I obviously don’t have any idea what I’m doing. You’re going to need to be more specific.”

He swivels toward me on his stool, and before I realize what’s happening, he takes me by the shoulders and turns me back to face him. Our knees bump together beneath the bar, but he doesn’t seem to notice. I, on the other hand, am aware of everything—from the way the fabric of his pants rubs against my bare legs to the heat of his hands through the satin of my shirt. If I thought using his first name made things too personal, him touching me takes things to an entirely new level. Especially because he’s holding me so I can’t easily look away. I’m forced to meet his eyes, to face this sexy devil of a man who may or may not be my worst nightmare right now. My heart thumps.

“Felicia,” he says, “you can’t let your nerves about this situation get in the way of your common sense. You’re acting like you’ve never spoken to a man before in your life.” He cocks his head. “You’re not a virgin, are you?”

My cheeks are flaming. “No! Of course not.”

The look he gives me tells me he doesn’t quite believe me. When does humiliation become so acute that you explode into a thousand little pieces? Because I’m pretty sure I’m almost there.

“But you’ve spoken to men before?” he asks me. “Dated them?” I’m reminded of the intensity of the interrogation he gave me over Emilia Torres, like this is one more business problem to solve.

“Yes. Yes, I’ve dated,” I manage. “But I never… I mean, we were always friends first. I’ve never had to approach them.”

“It doesn’t matter who approaches. It’s about the conversation that follows.”

“Well, in that case, no. I haven’t had a lot of experience in that area.” I realize I’m fidgeting, bouncing my knee against his. I force myself to be still. “I—I mean, I don’t exactly have men fighting over each other to talk to me.” Admitting that to a guy who could be an underwear model isn’t exactly easy.

“But you could. It’s all about the presentation.” He drops his hands from my shoulders, and suddenly I feel as if I can breathe again.

Still, it takes me a moment to find my thoughts. I gesture at my outfit. “And this is the wrong presentation.”

He sits back. “It’s not just about what you wear, though that certainly plays a role. It’s about what you say, how you engage, and most importantly, how you make him feel. You have everything you need, Felicia, but you aren’t putting it to proper use.”

I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment or not. I swivel back toward the bar and grab my Long Island. At least he doesn’t think I’m completely hopeless. Still, his dark, scrutinizing gaze continues to unnerve me. It’s like a tickle on my skin, and I suppress the urge to shiver. I don’t like being analyzed this closely, especially by someone like him, who’s probably never had trouble seducing anyone in his entire life. On the other hand, what do I have to lose? My dignity’s already out the window. This is about saving my job. Period.

“What would you suggest I do?” I ask him finally.

There’s a hint of wry humor in his expression. “I don’t have a step-by-step guide, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Then you can’t help me?” I ask, and if I had any pride left, I’d be ashamed by how disappointed I sound.

“I didn’t say that.”

This is the point where I realize that he’s dragging this out on purpose—that he’s actually enjoying watching me squirm. I see it in his eyes, and that devilish smile that stretches across his lips confirms it. I start to turn away in disgust, but he reaches out and grabs my arm. His fingers feel too warm on my already alcohol-flushed skin. Or maybe I just feel exposed, considering my humiliation here tonight.

“It’s not impossible to teach someone seduction,” he says, his voice dropping low, “but it isn’t simple, either. There’s no guide, no preset rules. In fact, some would say there are no rules at all. The question is, are you willing to learn?”

Something about his tone makes my heart beat a little faster—though I’m sure the fact that he’s still touching me doesn’t help. I pull my arm out of his grip.

“Are you offering to teach me?” I ask.

That smile of his widens. “Perhaps.”

I frown. “Don’t you have more important things to do?” I mean, he’s the freaking CEO of a growing media company. He just bought the largest celebrity news magazine in the country. This guy probably regularly puts in hundred-hour weeks.

“I think this is very important, Felicia. Do you not?”

I’m certain that he’s teasing me now, and part of me thinks I should just walk away. He’s clearly getting some sort of sick joy out of this, and I’m not sure how I feel about being some big shot’s “entertainment” after a long week of work.

But walking away now would mean giving up on this Fontaine interview, and I’m not prepared to do that just yet. I knew when I got into this business that I’d need to be tenacious. That I’d need to push myself outside of my comfort zone. Besides, I still have most of a Long Island Iced Tea to finish. And it’s making me bolder with every sip. In fact, I’m feeling pleasantly warm right now.

“Okay,” I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds. “Let’s do this. What do I need to do?”

Something gleams in his eyes. He’s altogether too pleased by this.

“As I said before, there isn’t an instruction manual,” he says. “But I’ll tell you what. Pick a guy. Show me what you can do, and I’ll help you refine your technique.”

Wait—he wants me to do what?

“You’ve already seen what I can do,” I remind him. Or what I can’t do, more accurately.

“Not up close. Not with a chance to truly study you. And this time you know you need to be subtler. Let’s see how quickly you learn and adapt.”

“Right now? Here?”

“When else? There’s plenty of opportunity. And we don’t have much time before Hollywood Saves!”

This is ridiculous. I didn’t come here to put on some sort of show for Roman. I don’t deny that I need the help, but how am I supposed to get better with this guy watching my every move?

But how am I supposed to get better if I don’t try?

Another gulp of the Long Island goes down my throat. It’s making me feel fuzzy-headed and reckless. I glance around the room. This bar is filled with men. Some young—college-aged—and others old enough to be my grandfather. There are men in T-shirts and men who look like they just got off work. None of them are dressed as nicely as Roman—which makes me wonder again why he had to wander into this bar—but that doesn’t help me one way or the other when it comes to getting their interest.

Finally, I look back at the man beside me. Roman looks perfectly calm and perfectly amused. Is this what media moguls do for fun on their nights off? Why isn’t he in some swanky club or out on his yacht with a couple of models on his arm? This man could be sitting with any woman he wanted right now. Instead, he’s sitting here with me. Asking me to go hit on someone so he can watch. Maybe he gets off on this sort of thing, the sicko.

I think I need another couple of shots.

But damn it, a part of me—the alcohol-fueled part—really wants to prove myself to this guy. To show him that I’m not as inept as he thinks. To prove that I’ve got the gumption to work for Celebrity Spark.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s get this over with.”

His hazel eyes flash. “Very good.” He glances around the room once more. “Well, who is it going to be, then?”

“I have to pick?”

“Would you prefer I choose your target?”

Okay, maybe not. I bite my lip and take another look at the men around me. Who should I approach? Someone alone, preferably. I don’t think I have the skills to get a guy away from his friends. Maybe that guy over by the dart board who looks barely old enough to drink—he’s got a frat-boy look, and if I know anything about frat boys, they’ll respond to anything with breasts. But Roman might think he’s too easy a target—seducing him won’t prove anything. Besides, Frat Guy seems to be checking out that table of young women by the door. If I go over there and get rejected by him, I’m not sure I’ll ever live it down. Next!

My eyes fall next on an older man—probably in his mid- to late-fifties. He’s nursing a beer by himself at a table in the corner. But as I watch, he straightens and lets out a huge belch. Nope. Next!

On my third glance about the room, I finally spot someone who seems like a good candidate. He’s sitting by himself at a table near the bathrooms, and he looks only a few years older than me—maybe thirty. He’s dressed casually but nicely, and he seems to be focused on the game playing on the TV above him. To top it off, he has a basket of chili cheese fries in front of him. Any guy who likes chili fries is cool in my book.

“Him,” I say, indicating my target.