“And four months, huh?” she says with a small smile. She pauses for a beat. “That’s a long time. I’ve read that she got the job because her father was your addiction counselor, and she was initially hired as your sobriety coach.”
My affable look turns into a glare. Vague details about how and why I hired Emma were leaked in the media years ago, probably by someone at the rehab center where her dad worked. Fans have always been fascinated by my longtime relationship with my assistant since she appears at my side so often in photos. However, she’s rarely brought up in interviews.
Why would she be? She’s my assistant, not a girlfriend, regardless of my fandom’s sometimes obsessive, parasocial bullshit.
But Ms. Jones isn’t done. “There are fans who ‘ship’ you with her, believing the two of you have anintimaterelationship.”
I arrange my face into a bland mask, pretending not to be concerned at Emma’s name being dragged into this interview. I know from experience that the worst thing I can do is react. Any strong emotion is blood in the water to reporters. And I don’t want Emma to get pulled into the chaos that is my press.
I force myself to smile blithely, though my face feels like it might crack from the effort. “There are also rumors that I’m secretly married and have four kids with my costar fromRebels Academy,” I say lightly. “But that doesn’t make it true.”
She tilts her head down, looking at the notes in front of her. “There was speculation on social media that dating Allegra Jameson is just a smoke screen to hide your relationship with Ms. Reynolds.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I scoff.
“Yet your assistant even lived with you for a while. Tell me, Mr. Blake, are you sleeping with her?”
My control snaps. “You can write whatever the hell you want about me. But one more inappropriate comment about Emma and this ends here. You understand?”
She smiles widely. “Oh, I understand,” she murmurs. “I think I understand pretty well.”
Fuck.I knew she was baiting me. Riling me up is a classic tactic to get me to say something careless. And I played right into her hands like an amateur.
I clench my jaw. “Next topic.”
Charlotte Jones leans forward, smiling like a cat about to play with the canary. “Let’s move on to the rumors that you’re the lead contender to take over the starring role in Dario Mancini’s final film before his retirement. It’s the most sought-after role in Hollywood. Practically a guaranteed Oscar. Can you comment on that?”
My heart kicks up at the mention of the famous director. I grit my teeth. “It’s a rumor,” I dismiss.
“It’s no secret that you’re trying to prove to the world that you can live up to your family’s acting legacy. You toldThe Times Newsthat you have ten prestigious directors you want to work with. And you’ll be ticking them off your list in the next few years.”
She’s right about that. I’ve worked hard trying to leave my heartthrob status behind so I can sink my teeth into meatier roles. I may act like I don’t give a fuck, but it’s a front. In almost every way that matters, work is all I’ve known. I took my first steps on a film set. I don’t mark the passing of my years by what school grade I was in when I made certain memories. I mark them by what film or television character I played.
After my flameout and rehab, almost no director would touch me. But with the success ofThe Wanderers, a small indie movie that hit it big, I’ve regained a lot of my popularity and am officially back on the A-list. But I’m still not being taken seriously. I’m the leading man you hire when you want good looks and charisma. Not the actor you hire when you want Oscar buzz. Or to make cutting-edge cinema. When I achieve that, I’ll finally prove that I belong. Belong in my famous family. Because if I’m not an actor, I’m not sure who or what I am. It’s all I’veknown since I was a kid. And clichéd as it is, I freaking love acting. I love it all—being on set, working with other creatives, performing and escaping into a character.
Em, with her impeccable timing, shuffles back into the room with a cup of tea for the reporter, interrupting us. When she leaves, the interview continues, and I direct us to safer ground. Good questions are asked and answered. Inappropriate questions are asked and deflected.
But all the while, I’m going over our brief conversation about Emma. I revealed nothing, I reassure myself. The writer has nothing.
Emma is strictly my assistant. So there’s nothing to reveal anyway.
CHAPTER 3
Emma
In the late afternoon,I make my way into Sebastian’s sunny kitchen to have my fourth coffee of the day. After spending the rest of the morning shadowing Sebastian and the reporter while she interviewed him, I had a logistics meeting with his agent and manager to coordinate his schedule for the next few months.
One of my jobs is to be on hand whenever he’s doing press. After his longtime publicist retired, Sebastian hasn’t been able to find a PR agent he gels with. He rarely fires them. He just gives them so much anxiety with his forthright tendencies that they keep leaving for “lifestyle” reasons. So, over the years, I’ve gradually taken on more responsibility in public relations, as I have with other areas of his life.
Not everyone understands his communication style, which is refreshingly candid at best, obnoxious at worst. Maybe he doesn’t mean to be an asshole. At least, notusually. But he’s impulsive. His loose filter manifests in extreme honesty, likely because he grew up surrounded by Hollywood bullshit. And asa child actor, he had his every word and action controlled by a studio before he could even string together a sentence.
Knowing that still doesn’t make it easier to deal with. Because a good portion of my job is to manage the inevitable fallout.
“Good afternoon, Miss Emma. Can I make you an iced Americano?” Marie, Sebastian’s longtime housekeeper, asks warmly as she strides into the kitchen with an armful of plastic containers. She sets them on the counter and opens the fridge, stacking them in meticulously organized perfection.
“Thanks, but I can make it.”
I work the expensive Italian espresso machine with quick, efficient movements. While I’m waiting for the beans to grind, I lean over and look at the meals that were prepared by Sebastian’s personal chef in collaboration with his trainer and nutritionist. “I hope Fabien remembered not to cook the salmon and leeks again. Our boss was not a fan.”
