Page 7

Chapter Two
Harper
I’d seen him enter the bar, the handsome man whose coffee I’d swiped earlier that morning at the coffee shop.
I couldn’t help the anger that sizzled through my veins while I waited for my caffeine fix.
It hadn’t been bad enough that the girl behind the register had been rude and overcharged me, she had also gotten my name wrong.
Then he’d strode in and smiled at her. One look, and she was putty to him.
Were they a couple?
Gross.
I wanted to puke. I also wanted my coffee really bad.
The barista was already preparing whatever the hell concoction he ordered, but mine was nowhere to be seen, and they hadn’t called my name to tell me it was ready.
I’d been a spoiled brat and snatched his hot coffee. I’d done it dozens of times on the studio set, but this wasn’t a movie studio. I’d been stupid and rude.
And the coffee was awful. Bitter and black. I deserved it.
I’d spent the day in my motel room.
I hadn’t rented a place at the resort where I’d read the accommodations had been far more luxurious.
My agent set me up at the shithole so no one would recognize me.
It sucked.
My day had gone from bad that morning with no coffee to worse when I discovered that the studio executives had opted to hire a private security team to keep me out of trouble.
I liked trouble.
At least that’s what the studio and the tabloids wrote.
I’d made a reputation for myself asThe Vixen. It hadn’t been hard, and my agent had told me that no publicity was bad publicity.
Was that true?
It had landed me quite a few new movie roles, and I’d been mentioned on all the entertainment shows and magazines on a semi-regular basis.
I was the girl who your mother warned you about. The one who stole your boyfriend and slept with a man just to toy with him.
Except that wasn’t the real me.
I could still count the number of men I’d slept with in my lifetime on one hand.
I was shy, introverted, and hated being alone.
The rest was an act. It was a good thing I was an actress and a damned good one.
I’d had the world fooled, and somewhere along the way I’d fooled myself into believing I’d been happy.
I sat at a lonely table, nursing a vodka and orange juice—a screwdriver.
I wanted to appear tough. I couldn’t drink anything girly, even though it’s what I’d have preferred.