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Kassie

Not A Background Character

If I'm being incredibly, earnestly, and a hundred percent honest here, I should've clocked that something was wrong the moment I sat down at the table.

Because who was supposed to sit at the table was Henry Miller, top-notch animation director. My personal hero. I'd sweat and bled over a five-page essay to meet him in a contest sponsored by my college, Marrs University.

And who sat at the table was the furthest thing in the world from him.

"Becky," the man said, with a low, smooth voice, liquid honey.

The man relaxing in the chair next to me was a man—capital M— Man .

And he was definitely not Henry Miller.

Six-foot-two. The restaurant's chair looked like it belonged in a kids' classroom with him sitting on it. He was just… big . Big arms, long legs comfortably stretched out, and the kind of hands I would have loved to draw in a sketch class. Prominent lines and long fingers.

An amused smile played on his lips as he gazed back at me. Dark, messy hair. A delicious scruff over his jaw. Intense, dark honey eyes, just like his voice. This wasn't a background piece—he was a main character.

Hold up. Rewind the tape.

"Did you say Becky?" I asked, confused.

The man—capital M—frowned. "Isn't it Becky?"

"Do I look like a Becky to you?" I tried to keep the flustered touch out of my voice. I needed answers, not to be dazzled by the superhero movie stunt double. "Who's Becky? And you—who are you? You're not Mr. Miller."

"Who?" Those intense eyes bore into mine. "Like the beer?"

"Like the beer? "

"You won the contest."

I gave him a long look. "Please tell me you're not another contestant."

"You wrote the paragraphs?"

Paragraphs? This guy won another spot with paragraphs?!

"First of all, I wrote five pages, took a bazillion shifts to get here, and, no offense, did not do all that to meet whoever you are. Now, have you seen Henry Miller?"

"I get what's happening." The Greek god of a man grinned even wider as he started clapping. "This is a joke," he continued. "You write about the Romans—"

I stared, dumbfounded. "The football team?"

"—and pretend like you don't know who I am. It creates interest, so I don't think you're into me?"

Taking a moment, I blinked at him while cameras clicked into place. "What the absolute hell are you talking about?"

The gorgeous man was unperturbed by my question. "You don't have to go the whole nine yards."

His smirk was the worst part of it. The all-knowing, surely pleased with himself, smirk that was entirely unjustified.

"Oh! I don't, do I?" I huffed. "Wow! Thank goodness for that!"

Not only did I have to deal with the most aggravating man in the world, but I had a pounding headache behind my eyes. With my early morning bookstore shift, the emergency meeting at the bar on Overstrand Street, and college classes, I didn't get a chance to eat. It wasn't a new thing. When bills run high, it's easier to skip a meal.

"So, not Mr. Miller," I snapped, feeling a little more cranky with each passing second. "Are we buying luggage for your big balls before or after dinner?"

"What?" he said, finally serious. No more half-smiles from him.

I pushed up from my chair. "Yeah, there's been a mix-up."

I should've shelled out for something to eat before dinner. A granola bar would've helped. The room was spinning and not in the fun, hazy way it did at my bartending shifts.

The only one who could possibly help me was that redheaded girl who'd led me into this house of horrors. Cleo Bennight, the pencil skirt with the earpiece.

"Cleo, something isn't right," I said. "I think there's been a misunderstanding—"

"She's committing to the joke." The man grinned.

Ignoring him was the only option. Because if I'd looked over, I probably would've kept gawking at that beautiful, dumb ape of a man. But there'd be no funny business between us. I had a mission. A goal . I wouldn't leave the restaurant until I got what I came for, to meet Henry Miller—the animation legend.

"Cleo—" I tried again.

"Is so glad you agreed to this little switch-a-roo here," Cleo completed for me and gestured for the cameras to get closer. "And you're just so pretty. This'll look so good for the socials."

"Switch-a-what?" I echoed. "Switch-a-who? But Mr. Miller—"

"Was unavailable, had a late cancellation. As did Becky."

"Mr. Miller's not here?" I froze, unable to believe it.

She had to be wrong. I didn't rewrite that stupid essay a thousand times not to meet him.

"Miller?" The statue-esque man tried out the word and shook his head. "What team does he play for?"

Cleo leaned over to explain. "Mr. Henry Miller is an animation showrunner from Blanched Studios, former graduate of Marrs University. Kassie won the opportunity to meet him—"

"I know Blanched Studios," the man burst out. "That's the cartoon people."

Cartoon people?

I tasted anger. It was the only thing I tasted with the empty plate in front of me. This guy clearly didn't respect the arts. Which was insane, considering he pranced around with other men on a green field all day.

Worse than that, I realized I knew him.

No name came to mind but, without a doubt—

"You're pissed off to see me, but you wanted the Bird Pants guy?" he demanded.

—the man sitting next to me was one arrogant jackass.

I could admit he was hot. But I'd taken enough grins and giggles from everybody on my family tree about my animation major. Besides, this was my first actual step into what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. Not rigging design courses with other college students way over their heads. This dinner was supposed to be an opportunity to speak with someone who created the company I wanted to work for.

Instead, I got a model from an Old Spice commercial.

"He's a professional artist." I rolled my tongue over my teeth, letting the rest of the niceties drop. "Well known and then some. A wealth of knowledge for animation."

"Like kids' shows," he said.

"Yes."

If he wanted to embarrass me, he'd have to try a whole lot harder than that.

"The little kid cartoons?" he pressed.

He was confident and collected, and I knew he was trying to rile me up. If that man thought I'd hop on the high road, he had another thing coming. I'd dig a trench.

"I'm sorry, Cleo. There's been a real mix-up here." I twisted to face her and let loose. "I'm not here to suck this guy's dick. That wasn't on the menu tonight, so I will bid everyone adieu. It's been fun . It's been a blast —"

The guy mock-saluted me. "Have fun sucking somebody else's dick."

"Oh, I will." I turned to rise, but Cleo dug her claws into my shoulders.

"Kassie."

" Cleo ."

"All I need are a few pictures."

"I'm good," I assured her.

"Five pictures, nothing else. You'll have free dinner. And dessert!"

"A slice of cake isn't good enough to tolerate him. "

The man tried to wave me away with all the audacity in Texas. "Cleo, she can leave if she wants to."

"Listen to me, Kassie." Cleo buried her bright pink claws a little deeper and her breathing labored. "We've already got the hockey team fiasco. And our linebacker—Adam Russell—slept through his sponsorship shoot. The university mascot stuffed squirrel was stolen out of the training center. The only report of its whereabouts is a grainy video of him catapulted out of a bra. Not to mention, my number one star." She shot a nasty look at him. "He's not even staying at Marrs—it's been disaster after disaster ."

My heart sank. Of course it wasn't just my plans that were ruined. I bit my lip. "Look, Cleo, I'm sorry, but—"

"I just got promoted to head intern. I need this to work. Give me this. Please ."