Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 109038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109038 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 545(@200wpm)___ 436(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
A windstorm is hitting when I find him on the hotel rooftop.
He’s young. Wild. Impulsive. Standing at the edge of twenty stories, until I grab his arm.
And then I realize he doesn’t recognize who I am.
Chase sees me, not just the hot new actor. And he’s in pain.
He’s straight, but he wants to try something with me.
And then he becomes obsessed. And I cross a line I swear I never would again.
Logan is everything I’m not.
He’s perfect. Golden-haired. Then I find out he’s a star on TV.
I’m pure chaos, wrapped in a red-flag bow with a sprinkling of ADHD and touch fixation.
I admit my hands are needy, but he’s starved for touch, too.
I don’t do this with men, but he’s mysterious. Intriguing. So different from me.
My art is my world, and I paint in neon, take vivid photos, and want to capture him, too.
I’m getting possessive, greedy, hungry… addicted to his touch.
He’s not mine.
But when we’re together, I tell him he is. Over and over again.
And I’m starting to believe it
*************FULL BOOK START HERE*************
CHAPTER 1
LOGAN
I knew it would be a bad idea to come to the bar in broad daylight. Thinking with my dick is never the best choice, but it doesn’t ever seem to stop me.
The bartender has been staring at me. The Bellwood Hotel lounge is luxurious and private, and I thought I could escape fans and paparazzi and stay on the down low, but for the last ten minutes the young bartender’s eyes have been following me like he’s the goddamn Mona Lisa.
I know he recognizes me from TV.
A flash of sunlight reflects off a glass on the bar top and I wince a little, a jolt of adrenaline hitting my spine.
Chill out.
Act normal.
It wasn’t a camera flash, and it wasn't paparazzi.
I’m so on guard now that any flash will make me flinch worse than actual pain, apparently. I shift on the buttery-soft leather booth seat and swirl the Scotch I’ve been nursing for a while now, watching the golden liquid glint in the sun.
I’m halfway through this neat pour of liquor and it’s only 2 o’clock, which was another questionable decision. But it’s my first day off all month, and I got greedy when I thought I might be able to find a casual quickie in a place like this.
Then the bartender started focusing on me.
Intently.
And I realized it’s stupid to think I can be anonymous anymore.
I open my phone and see the punishing notification circle above my messages.
341 unread texts, and my email is tenfold worse.
I tap into my messages with Emily, ignoring the angry red dots.
Logan
Is it still considered thinking with your dick if you aren’t acting on your thoughts?
Emily
If you end up fucking someone, yes. If you’re just looking… still yes, I think.
I’m just looking. Probably.
I grin at the message and lock my phone again.
My manager Emily has been the brightest spot through all this. She’s been my friend for much longer than I’ve been famous, and I’d trust Emily with anything. She’s one of the only people who hasn’t started treating me differently now that my career exploded.
I gaze back up at the bartender.
I’ve been waiting for him to come ask for a selfie.
He pushes his dark hair to one side and his cheekbones stand out in the afternoon sun, like he’s trying to show off how good he looks. He’s young, and my TV show, Yard Line, is massively popular with with men in their early twenties, so he’s probably a fan.
I’ve stopped trying to hide that I’m staring back.
If he’s too proud to come up and ask for my autograph, I’m at least going to enjoy the eye candy.
He knocks over a small stack of paper coasters and a few fall onto the floor.
And he just leaves the coasters there, walking off.
Like a heathen.
I slide out from my booth and walk over to the bar, grabbing them and gathering them up.
“Trying to take my job?” he asks.
“Seemed like you were just going to leave them there,” I tell him, going back to my booth and settling in.
I watch as he cleans the beer taps, and now I seem to have instigated something.
“I was going to get them in a second. You going to keep staring at me or actually come up to the bar?”
He says it casually, with no venom in his tone. I get the sense that he’s teasing me.
“You’ve been staring at me since I walked in.”
He looks lightly amused. “Because you came in and got a Scotch at 2 o’clock.”
“And I'm almost ready for another. I’ll take a refill. Promise I'm a good tipper.”
He abandons the beer taps, his bar rag, and everything else he’s left behind, grabbing the bottle of single malt. He comes out from behind the bar, striding over to the edge of my table.
He eyes my glass, which is currently still in my hand. “Want to give me the tumbler, or are you waiting for me to pour it in your mouth?”
I hum, sliding the glass over on my table. “I guess you’re a fan of episode four.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “What?”
“Episode four. Where Damien leans over the bar and gets a shot poured right in his mouth.”
He neatly pours another serving for me, and I watch his lashes flick upward as he meets my gaze.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about. But if you want anything in your mouth, you’ll need to pay that big tip up front.”
He lifts his eyebrows at me before he walks back off.
I pause for a moment as a realization hits me, heat flooding my body.
Oh, fuck.
I’m a total douche.
I sip a little more Scotch, reveling in the fact that he doesn’t actually know who I am. He didn’t do a double-take. Didn’t pull out his phone to ask for a selfie, or say “wait, you’re that guy from…”
And I love that he didn’t.