Dedication

To me, I wrote a book.

Chapter One

Anna couldn’t hear the bartender. Indie music and discussions of home brew assailed her ears. Ironic T-shirts and brightly colored sneakers surrounded her. It had finally happened. Her favorite forgotten Hollywood bar had been overrun by an invading bearded horde in beanies. Hipsters lounged in the booths and leaned against every available surface.

“Can you repeat that?” Anna asked.

The bartender was new too. Anna had noticed him when she arrived an hour ago. Even in the dull sunlight filtering through the small front window, he was worthy of study. Tousled brown hair hid dark eyes, and he had full lips with a bit of scruff on his jaw. His come-join-me-in-my-werewolf-pack, I’m-the-nice-one look was enhanced by his threadbare white T-shirt, torn black jeans, and scuffed leather boots. He placed his hands on the bar and leaned forward. Anna stopped herself from trying to discern what he smelled like. As heavenly as it was, she should focus on what he was saying.

“—your credit card.” His breath tickled her ear.

Anna shivered from the low, captivating rasp of his voice. Something about her bar tab. She blinked up at him.

“Ma’am.” The bartender held up her credit card. “It’s been declined.”

Anna unnecessarily straightened the pages of the script in front of her. It wasn’t the first time her credit card had been declined, but it hadn’t happened in about a decade. Before this moment, it hadn’t been a bad afternoon. She’d spent it drinking beer and reading. Well, not so much reading as trying to understand the space shenanigans of this incomprehensible sci-fi pilot and contemplating the life choices that had led her to this exact moment—which was worse than she’d previously realized.

The bartender gave her a tight smile.

“Please run it again.” Two beers couldn’t have put her over the limit.

The bartender crossed his arms over his chest. “I’ve run it three times.”

Anna ignored his tanned forearms flexing in front of her. Well, she tried to ignore them. Focus, Anna.

The bartender set her credit card on the counter and pushed it toward her with his index finger. Clearly, he had mastered the irritated-hot-guy look. Anna imagined casting him as a second-in-command vampire or an irredeemable best friend, the guy who advises the hero to forget about the heroine and find someone less independent.

“My shift is ending.” The bartender rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a breath. “If you don’t have the cash, it’ll get taken out of my pay.”

Anna’s stomach churned. She couldn’t stiff this guy. She used to be a bartender, and the way things were going, she might be one again. Tugging on her ponytail—a nervous gesture she hadn’t been able to quit, even on a movie set—Anna scrambled to come up with a solution. “I’ll call someone.”