Prologue
Kinley / Present
I never expected him to come crashing back into my life. Without warning, without a single clue, I was face to face with my greatest weakness. Nobody knew that I was already familiar with the silver-eyed charmer whose face encompassed every magazine, newsstand, and Hollywood tabloid cover across the country.
Before Corbin Callum became America’s biggest star, he was just the new kid in the middle of nowhere. I knew all his secrets from the start—where he got the scar on his right eyebrow, why he has two black tally marks tattooed on his left pec, and who he lost his virginity to. None of that is information I gathered from the press or pieced together by rumors.
Long before we dove headfirst into the industries we’ve dreamed of being big figures in, we made a pact that we’d never leave each other behind. But our aspirations were larger than the old versions of ourselves that thought everything would remain the same. We couldn’t keep up the charade, pretending to be the teenagers who had the world at their feet.
Once upon a time, I was his.
Before the fame.
Before the money.
Before her.
For a long time, I accepted that we’d never see each other again. But here we are.
He meets my eyes and grins.
“Hey, Little Bird.”
Chapter One
Corbin / Present
I’ve officially lost it at twenty-eight. Despite the half-naked woman sporting nothing but a white t-shirt and black panties in front of me, I’m staring at a fully clothed one through distorted glass. The way her chestnut hair flows down her back as she laughs at something somebody in front of her says has me harder than the scrap of lace over a tan pert ass five feet away. I know the husky laugh well. I’ve even been the cause of it a time or two.
But that was before.
Suddenly, I’m not picturing the blonde in my clothes. I’m picturing a familiar brunette with a curvy body under a thin sheet of my favorite worn cotton. A small birthmark in the shape of a heart would peek out from the fabric on her inner thigh, where I’d be able to trace it with my finger.
The brunette isn’t in front of me though. She’s too busy talking to world renown Tyler Buchannan as he flirts his way into her good graces in hopes that’ll lead to a few glasses of wine and a strip show in the penthouse he rented.
Unbeknownst to him, she doesn’t drink. At least, she didn’t. I guess that could have changed over the past ten years. I’d be a fucking fool to think nothing else has.
The front of my slacks gets too tight for comfort as my head conjures old memories of bare skin under my old AC/DC sweatshirt. That birthmark likes to make its appearance in the back of my mind more times than not, and I can still feel the sensation of smooth skin under my fingertips like it was yesterday.
“My, my,” a sultry voice purrs.
Slowly, my eyes meet a pair of blue ones staring down at the hard dick tenting my pants. Adjusting myself with no shame, I settle into the chair I’ve been in for the past ten minutes.
“Is that for me?” Olivia asks, shooting me the same wicked grin she gave me the first day we ever worked together. I like Olivia Davies. She’s always easy to work with, and certainly not bad on the eyes. She referred to herself as Hitler’s wet dream once, which didn’t go over well with the press we were doing interviews with. I cracked up, and both our managers scolded us for the shitshow we created.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” Stretching my legs out and crossing my arms over my chest, I nod toward the free chair beside me. “I wasn’t thinking about you.”
I’m sure she rolls her eyes as she takes a seat, sitting sideways on the chair and using the back as an armrest. “I’m sure. You were thinking about Lena, right? Honestly, I would be too. I can admit when I have a girl crush. She gives me a lady boner.”
I find my gaze locked on chestnut hair again, her facial features cracked from the thick decorated glass separating us. “Uh … what?”
“Lena,” Liv repeats, snorting out an amused laugh. “Your wife?”
I roll my shoulders back and force myself to look around the kitchen. Anything but the woman outside it. Everything here looks shiny, expensive, and new. The cabinets are dark wood, the countertops white granite, and the appliances all featuring the best of the best with brands I’m sure are helping fund the project through sponsorships.
“Yeah.”
Except that’s a lie. The only woman who should get me this hard with a single memory should be my wife. Unfortunately for me, that isn’t the five-seven figure walking alongside Buchannan as he gives her a tour.
Things with Lena aren’t what they seem. We spend far more time apart than together, so it’s practically like being single with limitations. I have a better relationship with my right hand than I do with the woman I made vows to.
“Definitely thinking about my wife.”
Liv nudges my foot with hers and tips her chin toward the side of the set. “What do you think Buchannan and Kinley are talking about? I doubt his new girlfriend is a fan of her books, so I’m sure it isn’t that. I’m not sure she can even read.”
Chuckling over the sad but true knock at the ditzy redhead who Buchannan is stringing along for the time being, I shake my head. “They’re probably going over expectations of the film.”
You know, if expectations were telling her where his hotel is and what number is on the door. I’ve worked with Buchannan before, and know his reputation. Women as gorgeous as Kinley Thomas can’t be ignored by men with prying eyes like him.
Olivia full on cackles now. “Yeah, sure. I thought writers were, like, introverted hermits. You know, kinda smelly and sensitive to sunlight.”
I don’t want to tell Liv that Kinley has never fit the stereotypical author role. That would mean I know her, and that’s far from true at this point. Once upon a time, I knew that she loved Twizzlers, action movies, and teaching herself origami using notes from class. She hated mayonnaise, movies where animals get neglected, and when people called her anything but her full name. It’s why part of me thought I was breaking the ice by using an old nickname only I ever called her. It was our thing.
Little Bird.
Turns out, I was wrong.
“Well?” Liv presses.
“Hmm?”
“What’s your opinion on Kinley?”
That’s a loaded question.
Besides the film industry, my oldest fascination has been the shy girl who preferred journaling on her own over going out with friends. She has a scar on her left cheek from when her family’s chow-chow bit her. Once she tried covering it up with makeup, but it was the dead of summer and the shit melted off and made it more pronounced. Any flaw she thought she had was my favorite part of her—scars, aversion to people, and all.
“She seems like the kind of woman who won’t fall for Buchannan’s tricks,” is what I opt to settle with after thinking on it for too long.
She laughs, letting it go.
“We’re filming in two,” Buchannan yells from his chair at the other end of the set. Next to him is Kinley’s seat, which is placed a little too close to his. I tell myself it wasn’t her who put the chair there, but it doesn’t ease the irrational irritation bubbling under my skin.