Chapter 1 Lights, Camera....Him

Every movie set is the same.

A collection of self-absorbed people, each with an inflated sense of entitlement. It doesn't matter what role they're playing. They all carry this air of superiority, curling their noses up at anyone who's not wearing diamonds-fake ones count, too. Not everyone's like that, though. Some have manners. Most don't.

Who am I to complain? After all, I'm just here to provide them with the food they need-and I do it well. Well enough, anyway, to land more contracts for other film sets.

Wiping my hands on the back of my jeans, I glance at my watch, which I wear on the back of my wrist to avoid scratches on the face. 9:15 PM.

"Time to pack up, people!" I call out to my crew, and there's a collective sigh of relief-one I can relate to. Who wouldn't be relieved to leave a place where, because you're not wearing a diamond bracelet, even a fake one, you're treated like trash?

"Alright, is that the last of it?" Cam, my best friend, asks, walking up to me. I nod and pull off my apron. "So, what are you waiting for? Let's go."

"You're acting like a kid who's finally free from the most boring place on Earth," I tease him.

He snorts. "This might not have been the most boring place, but how we're treated here? Worse than the set of Ámore-and I thought nothing could top that."

"God, I can't wait to get home. I need a hot soak in the shower, a bottle of wine, and..." I trail off, but he cuts me off.

"A man? Actually, scratch that. You need a man." His grin is mischievous.

I roll my eyes. "Like you've got any yourself."

"Babes, if I wanted a man, I'd have one by now. Trust me, I have options. You could, too, if you weren't still mourning the scum you dumped."

"I'm not mourning my breakup with Stephen, I'm just... doubting myself," I murmur as we reach the bus.

"If you ever say that crap again, I swear I'll smack you. There's nothing wrong with you. Stephen's just a cheater who can't keep his pants on, and Brittany's a traitor. End of story." His tone is firm, and I grin.

"Thanks. I really needed to hear that."

He nods. "Yah, yah. Now that you've heard it, can we go home?"

I nod. "Yep, we're going home." I reach for the front passenger door of the bus, but my phone rings just before I get in.

"Hey, babes. You guys go ahead without me," I tell Cam.

He arches a perfectly sculpted brow. "And why would we do that?"

I shrug. "The director and producer want to do a few more takes. They'll be here for a while, which means people are going to get hungry again."

He curses under his breath.

"We could wait if you need us, right, guys?" he asks, glancing at the crew, who murmurs in agreement.

"No, you can't. Aileen's seven months gone. Chase has a test tomorrow. Moira's babysitter left at eight. Helen can't stay up this late." I fold my arms and stand tall, adopting my authoritative stance. Cam chews on his lip, clearly considering a counterargument.

"Alright, I'll stay," he says, and I shake my head.

"Who's going to drop everyone off if you stay?"

He swears. "So I can't help with anything?"

"Just help me with assembling the cart and bringing out the unused supplies."

He nods and gets to work. "You sure you've got everything you need?" he asks.

I check my bag. "Yep, charger, phone, book, power bank, earphones, and wallet."

He presses a kiss to my forehead. "Don't forget to call when you get home. See you tomorrow."

"Thanks, Cam," I say, and watch him get into the bus before it drives off.

Pushing the cart toward the catering corner, I get straight to work, making finger foods and sandwiches. Nothing fancy tonight. Plugging in my earphones, I pull out my novel and immerse myself in it, occasionally glancing up to keep track of when they'll be going on a break. Time slips by, and I lose myself in the fantasy world of the book, until the director's voice breaks through the air.

"Fifteen minutes!"

I snap to attention, dropping my book and phone. I stand tall, flashing one of my brightest smiles-no one wants a scowl serving them food. I brace myself as the crew heads toward me. The crew, I can deal with. The cast, though? They bring out the part of me that I have to keep buried.

Once everyone has their meal, I sit back down and grab my book, but a sharp knock interrupts me. I glance up, seeing the shadow of a man before I pull out my earphones.

"Can I help you?" I ask, keeping my voice polite.

He grins. "Depends on what you mean by 'anything.'" His voice is deep, husky-immediately evoking images of cigarettes and whiskey.

I tilt my head, trying to make him out in the dim light. The only thing I can distinguish are high cheekbones and locks of dark hair.

"Isn't it a little late for pickup lines?" I ask.

He shrugs. "No, I think the timing's perfect." He drags a chair over, sitting in front of me and leaning back, his hands behind his head, showing off lean muscles. Tattoos, maybe? His face remains hidden in the shadows.

"Are you the caterer, or just the sacrificial lamb? I heard Tommy was looking for someone to stay behind and feed the masses," he asks.

I shrug. "Both, I suppose. But I'll gladly bear the snarky comments and snotty looks because, hey, I love this lifestyle."

He laughs-a low, rumbling sound that makes me roll my eyes.

"You call buying designer bags, lounging on a floatie while claiming you're swimming, switching up your hairstyle, and going for manicures and pedicures 'a lifestyle'?" he asks sarcastically.

I shake my head. "You forgot being a complete jerk to the waitress who gives you an inferiority complex."

His laugh is deep and genuine this time. "Sadly, you've described the wrong person. Sure, some women call that a lifestyle, but I prefer spending my time buying old culinary books, swimming in the pool, and knowing I can change my hair whenever I want. And yes, I enjoy a good manicure or pedicure. Coffee over wine any day-unless it's for a breakup."

"What about you? What do you call a lifestyle?" I ask, genuinely curious.

He leans back in his chair, looking smug. "Can't you guess?"

I stare at him for a long moment, then smirk. "Partying, clubbing, girls, cars, fistfights that end up in tabloids, and a never-ending string of relationships, followed by the big reveal that, deep down, you're a softie who rescues stray dogs."

He claps his hands. "Well done, you've unmasked me. Though, you forgot to mention the family visits."

I raise an eyebrow. "Do you actually visit your family, or is that just something your manager tells you to say for the press?"

He chuckles, then gets serious. "Among all the women I've met, I've never come across anyone like you. You're different."

I nod slowly. "Good different or bad different?"

"Definitely good different," he replies.

"Glad to know I'm rating higher than the bimbos," I joke.

He laughs again, this time showing off his perfect teeth.

"Do you have a lighter?" he asks.

I rummage through my purse until I find one and hand it to him. He takes out a pack of cigarettes, lights one, and the brief flare of the flame gives me a chance to take in his face-perfectly shaped brows, a tiny stud in one ear, dark curls framing his face, long lashes, high cheekbones, and a straight nose. When his emerald eyes meet mine, a sudden jolt hits me. His lips curl into a smile, and it clicks.

"You're Aiden Wilde," I say, a little stunned.

He bursts out laughing.