Chapter 1

One

“There are signs everywhere you look. You just need to ignore the bullshit that clouds them.”

~ Emerson Chase

“What is it like to be the hottest couple on TV?”

I should have seen the question coming.

A frenzy that can only be described as pure madness.

My publicist, Nina, had warned us this would happen. The producers and network executives knew they would top the ratings with the proposal episode.

Now everyone’s on a high, including me.

“We simply go on about our lives as if the cameras aren’t watching. Hottest? We honestly don’t think that of ourselves.” Wesley laughs, resting his hand comfortably on my thigh.

What a load of shit. I hold back the predictable eyerolling as Wesley charms the reporter from Hot Entertainment News, the biggest entertainment program around the globe.

We’ve been asked this question numerous times, and each time Wesley lies through his teeth that labels aren’t important.

Let’s clarify—they aren’t important to me.

I couldn’t care less.

But Wesley has this desperate need to be number one in everything he does.

When we first met, his competitiveness was a major turn-on. Now, I simply ignore his immature behavior.

The proposal was filmed two months ago and aired only last night. We were under strict contractual obligations to not let it slip, which meant I was forced to keep the beautiful ring in my closet and not showcase it like a happy, newly engaged woman normally would. Aside from our parents and entourage of management, no one else knew.

But last night, at precisely 7:42 p.m. the world watched on, and social media blew up.

Many congratulatory messages from fellow actors and fans rolled in and then, the trolls started.

How dare I marry Wesley Rich?

Emerson Chase is nothing but an ugly, gold-digging whore wanting to tie him down and ruin his reputation.

I was also called, too fat. Too skinny. And, oh my God, I hate her hair!

I’ve heard and seen it all before.

Ignoring the nastiness and avoiding social media at all costs is on top of my list—that was until Wesley read the tweets to me late last night.

“Babe, check it out… this chick has Photoshopped you onto a cow’s body.”

I grabbed his phone to look at the photo. It was kinda funny, but it still hurt my feelings.

This industry calls for a tough skin. I just didn’t anticipate three years ago that our show, Generation Next, would be the highest-rating show for the network. They didn’t predict it either.

When we were scouted on campus to star in the show, they merely wanted some college kids with different majors.

I’m not stupid though, I knew they wanted me because of who my mother is, and the fact that my brother had at the time just been picked up to play premier-league soccer in England. But nevertheless, I signed on the dotted line because I was bored and had zero social life.

College was always depicted as one big social orgy.

Yeah, I may have gone to a few frat parties and drank like tomorrow didn’t exist, but for most of the part, I kept to myself with the goal of finishing my major, sober.

My attention is brought back to Donna Mack, the slutty reporter showing way too much leg who Wesley is pretending to ignore.

“According to online polls, you guys are finalists as the hottest couple on television. The fans love you. They’ve even started Instagram accounts dedicated to only pictures of the both of you.” She’s quick to smile as if she’s just dished out some sort of compliment.

Wes places his arm around me, pulling my body closer while planting a kiss on my neck. I am all for affection in private, but dislike it when he purposely does it in interviews. Something he’s been doing more of in front of the camera and less in the bedroom.

Perhaps that is what’s causing this crabby, irritable mood. I need to get laid.

Blame it on busy schedules, back-to-back filming, or the fact that George claimed the middle of our bed as his territory. Either way, it’s causing significant friction in our relationship.

“Wesley’s a very affectionate guy. We’re flattered our fans take time out to praise our relationship,” I answer in a confident tone.

Lies... more lies.

She asks a couple more routine questions before wrapping up the interview. When she leaves the area, Wes takes the opportunity to slide his hand along my thigh and into the slit of my dress. Attempting to push him away, I scan our surroundings to make sure no one’s watching.

Someone is always watching us.

“Let me finger you, you know you love it,” he begs, tempting me with his eyes.

I squeeze my legs tight, ignoring the sensations building. “Can’t you wait? Seriously, they’ll be back any minute.”

Wes ignores my comment, pressing further on the base of my clit until we’re interrupted by one of the assistants carrying two bottles of water. She spots his hand buried between my thighs, turning her red face in the opposite direction and almost crashing into the camera.

“I’m sorry...” she stammers while eyeing the floor.

Wes snickers, retracting his hand with a satisfied smirk. Annoyed at his childish behavior, I offer her a genuine smile, ignoring the voices warning me this will end up in the headlines like everything else.

The camera crew closely follow with the interviewer at their heels.

Great—Hot Gossip magazine.

I despise this group.

You could say the sky is blue, and somehow they will capture the quote and make you a home-wrecking whore sleeping with David Beckham.

I manage to put on a smile as Wesley tilts his head toward me and carefully moves his fingers across his nostrils.

Breathing slowly against my ear, he whispers, “I can smell you on me. When this is over... you’re mine.”

Wesley Rich has a way with words. He also has a way with using them in the bedroom. I disguise my grin by covering my mouth and letting out a small cough, knowing he’s suffering from lack of sex makes me feel better.

I place my hand on his, keeping it on his lap as the magazine starts interrogating our lives. We have our answers down pat, having done this hundreds of times. To add to this, we often prepped our answers to avoid being caught out. We are professionals. To the world, we are reality stars of the hit television show, but to us we are actors. Actors which happened to fall in love while filming.

An hour passes, and finally, we’re done. Removing our microphones, Wes hops off the stool and pulls his phone out of his pocket the same time I do. There’s a dozen notifications, but the only one which catches my eye is the text from my mom.

Mom:Big news, kiddo. Call me when you’re free.

I love my mom, but she’s the most annoying woman to walk this planet when she vague-texts me, which is something she does often to prompt a phone call.

“I’m going to call my mom,” I tell Wes. “I’ll meet you outside?”

He nods, his head buried in his phone while typing quickly and barely acknowledging my presence.

I wander toward the exit, smiling politely as I pass the crew. There are a few younger kids hanging around that stop and ask me for a selfie. I happily oblige, though desperate to find out what the big news is.

At the end of the hall, there’s a small conference room which I slip into, closing the door behind me. I hit dial on Mom’s number and wait impatiently for her to answer.

“Kid, can I call you back? I’m just in the middle of writing this complicated scene, and my characters are screaming at me,” she says in one breath.

“Uh… no,” I argue back. “You don’t just vague-text me and leave me hanging. Hand your characters a Xanax and tell them to chill out.”

Mom laughs, letting out a sigh. It’s the same sigh she often lets out when she’s caught in the middle of a deadline and brought back to reality.

“Okay, you have my attention.”

“Mom,” I yell in frustration. “What’s the big news?”

“Your brother will be in town tomorrow. He has some news, and has asked if you can come home.”

My brother, Ashley, hasn’t been home since last year, busy with his own life and career. This proved a point—as his twin sister—that we do not have the ESP thing going on. The last text he sent me was yesterday, and it was a picture of his injured foot which completely grossed me out.

“He’s gay, is that it?” I joke.

“Your brother gay? The tabloids have a fascination with his love life which all involve women. I don’t know how I raised a man-whore child.”

I laugh softly. “Because it’s in your blood. You write romance novels, Mom. You’re a New York Times bestseller. Even when you’re not writing, you’re sending out this romantic vibe to everyone around you.”

“Romance is one thing, kid, your brother is entirely another.” She chuckles. “So, can you fly back tomorrow?”

My parents live on the east coast, in a small town just outside of Connecticut with my younger sister Tayla. As much as I miss being home and the quiet life, flying out is always a hassle. Over the past year, paparazzi have had a fascination with my movements and followed me wherever I go. A reason why I reduced the trips back home.

“I guess I can swing it. We’re not filming till next week, and Wes is flying to Amsterdam for a photoshoot tonight.”

“Great! I’ll get Daddy to pick you up at the airport. I miss you, kid, it’s been too long.”

“I know, Mom. See you tomorrow.” I sigh, then end the call.

You would think being a twenty-six-year-old woman, I’d have my big-girl panties permanently on, but on occasions like this when something seems off and not right, I miss my mom a lot. Living across the country might as well be across the ocean. We have a relationship most people envy as I can easily call her my best friend. We text several times a day, anything and everything she knows about my life. I respect her opinion, and we rarely argue about anything unless it’s who might win The Bachelor.

Growing up with a mother who writes romance has its ups and downs. I didn’t know it at the time, but Mom’s one of the most respected and successful romance writers in the world. Her books have been translated in every possible language, and she often attends signings across the globe.

My first memory of her leaving us for the weekend was when I was five. I cried because Dad’s a shitty cook, and I didn’t want anyone to cook besides her. Self-centered and a brat.

As I grew older, I became fascinated with her career and began reading her books in my teens. The only thing I skim is the sex scenes. Mom’s a great writer, but some things are best left a mystery in my opinion.

People often ask her, “Where do you get your inspiration from?” and “I bet you live an exciting life.”

Sure, Mom and Dad love each other, but Dad’s always the beer-drinking, nut-eating dad that yells at the television when his team lets him down. He’s a sports fanatic, who has very little time for romance. At least, that’s my observation.

I make my way slowly to the interview room to find Wes waiting for me.

Something’s amiss.

His normally styled hair looks like he’s just run a marathon—it’s sweaty and stuck to his forehead. He’s quick to shove his phone in his pocket, focusing his attention on me. “Em, we have to go. My flight leaves tonight, and I’m not packed.”

“Yeah, okay,” I respond while he reaches out for my hand. “Mom called me. She wants me to fly home for the weekend.”

“To Connecticut?”

“No, to the moon. Yes, to Connecticut. Something about my brother being in town with a surprise.”

“I don’t like you going there alone.”

“Well, I don’t like you going alone to Amsterdam, but you insisted,” I argue back.

He squeezes my hand tighter, plastering a fake smile knowing all eyes will be on us when we leave the room. Not saying another word, we scurry past the few fans lined up and climb into the car. We buckle our seatbelts in unison then he starts the engine quickly, checking the rearview mirror before speeding off.

“There’s just so much I need to do for the photoshoot, Em. I didn’t work out yesterday or today because of all these interviews. I’m not in my best shape.”

I am not buying the excuse, and instead remain tightlipped avoiding another argument. All we seem to do lately is argue. I’m fed up with his unorganized trips, and for some reason, he’s become more possessive over our relationship which frustrates me. We’ve had a few fights on camera which the both of us were forced to reconcile and put on a united front. I don’t know what it is about us, but I’ve pinned it down to the fact we’re engaged, and now sitting on top of our shoulders is a wedding which the network executives are eager to pay for knowing it’s their golden egg.

“Listen.” He parks the car in the garage of our apartment block, resting his arm on the back of my chair. “I know things have been tense between us, but it’ll all die down soon. Maybe we need a trip away? A quick romantic getaway where I can fuck you all weekend long.”

I smile softly. “You’re a jerk. That’s the problem. Less jerk, more fucking.”

Burying his face in my neck, he runs his tongue along my skin as I close my eyes. The sound of the leather seat squeaks when he shifts closer to me. I miss him already and wish he’d beg me to come on this trip. Throw all caution to the wind and be more spontaneous.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs. “Remember that.”

Here we go again. I humor him and then attempt to rile some sort of reaction.

“I’ll try to remember that and let my other boyfriend know.” I chuckle.

His smirk fades, brows furrowing. “You know I don’t like that joke. There’s a million guys lining up for you.”

“Name one?”

“I could name a dozen. You never know, Em. There’s probably that one guy out there completely obsessed with you. Would do anything to make you his.”

“Tell him I said hello when you find him,” I say, deadpan.

“Funny. Now shut up. You’ve wasted enough time. Get your ass out of this car and in our bed so I can fuck you till my flight leaves.”

I let out a giggle, ignoring our fight as we both laugh and race up the stairs to our apartment.

He throws me over his shoulder, opening the door with a youthful laugh until he stops and yells, “Fuck!”

Dropping me to the floor, I turn around swiftly and see only one thing—George, with a mouthful of Wes’ expensive shoes.

Without saying a single word, Wes’ face foretells our future.

No one is getting laid tonight.