Prologue
TWO YEARS AGO
I sip from a flute of Veuve Clicquot, careful not to smudge my lipstick. It’s Friday night at Evolution, the most exclusive club in West Hollywood, and tonight we’ve got a VIP suite.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
My hot-as-hell boyfriend nuzzles the words against my neck, and I lean in to soak up his heat. Then I draw back to watch those electric cocoa eyes skim my body. I bought this strapless Oscar de la Renta in lush velvet knowing he’d love it. The heat in his gaze tells me I wasn’t wrong.
I seldom am. If tonight goes how I’m thinking, Nick’s about to swap the boyfriend title for fiancé.
“Hey, stranger.” God, he looks good. I skim my fingertips over his clean-shaven jaw. “Having fun?”
“Oh, yeah.” He dips his palm into the curve of my waist, and I fight the urge to drag him into the nearest coat closet. “I love you in red,” he murmurs.
“Is that so?” I know this, of course. I know most things about Nick, since tonight marks one year since our first date. “Glad you like it.”
“Mmm.” He kisses my neck again and I let my palms take a lovely trip from his shoulders to his forearms, tracing muscles built by years of slinging tools on job sites. These days, he spends more time bossing other people with tools, but the fact remains—Nick Armbrust knows his way around a tool chest.
And my chest, but I’m getting distracted.
“Alexis is looking for you,” he says, and it takes me a sec to go from fuck-me-against-the-wall, to let’s-talk-about-your-sister.
“She caught me in the ladies’ room a minute ago.” I love Nick’s sister, so shifting gears is easy. “She looks amazing.”
Nick grins. “Mama’s pestered her for years to leave her hair natural. She wasn’t so sure about going full afro.”
“It looks great.”
“She said she had something for you?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I don’t tell him that something was a pair of Farrah Rochon paperbacks. Alexis and I agree it’s best to let her brother think we’ve spent the past year swapping stock tips or shoes instead of romance novels. “Is she pregnant again?”
“What?” Nick squints at the corner table where Alexis is feeding a bite of crostini to her hottie husband. “Why would you think that?”
“Watch.” On cue, Abe touches his wife’s belly beneath the table. The two share a private smile that makes my ovaries ache. “See?”
“Huh.” Nick dots a kiss behind my ear. “We should put in our order for another niece.”
“Or nephew.” Delight ripples through me at his slip of the tongue. We. A good indication I’m right about tonight’s plans.
“I love seeing our families together.” His gaze moves past his sister to the tight knot of Judson offspring in the corner. Dean, Cooper, Lana—all five of my brothers and sisters are here somewhere.
A few feet away, my parents huddle in conversation with Nick’s mom and dad. My soon-to-be-in-laws? I hate to be presumptuous, but all signs are there. “I can’t believe you managed to get everyone in one place.”
Nick laughs warm and low. “There’s something to be said for just asking for what you want.”
I shiver, recognizing the quote he gave Business Week last month about the success of his construction firm. Tonight, I hear it with fresh ears.
If Nick’s about to ask me something, the answer is an unequivocal yes.
His dad says something that makes my mom laugh, and I catch myself smiling. Our parents met before we did, since Angela and Darius Armbrust are prominent entertainment lawyers, and my parents are—well, Laurence and Shirleen Judson. Enough said.
Though not enough has been said about why Nick summoned us here this evening. I’ve asked him for weeks, but all he’ll say is that it’s a surprise. That he had some things to line up before sharing his plans with anyone.
I sip from my champagne flute and order myself to keep my voice casual. “You went all out for this soiree.”
“It’s a big occasion.” He winks and there go the damn butterflies in my stomach.
I know I should play it cool. That’s what I’m known for, after all. Entertainment Weekly dubbed me the “She Shark,” a reference to my cool poise on set. What the hell does that mean, anyway? They’d never write that about a male producer.
But it’s true I’m cool under pressure. Always have been, though maybe not where Nick’s concerned. One look at him and my kneecaps melt like butter.
“I heard what you did for Lana.” Nick brushes my hair back from my face. “Pretty badass.”
I frown. “What did you hear?”
“That you kneed that actor in the balls for grabbing her ass at a fundraiser.”
Goddammit. Hollywood is getting too small.
“Repeat that to anyone, and you’ll get the same.” I keep enough sweetness in my voice so he knows I’m teasing, but he must see steel in my eyes because he inches back a little. “Seriously, Nick—don’t repeat that.”
“It’s true, though.”
He didn’t put a question mark at the end, so I don’t bother answering. “No one fucks with my family.”
Nick’s chest rumbles as he chuckles. “And I dig that about you, girl.”
“Thanks.” I think. Speaking of family— “I’m going to go say hi to Mari, okay?”
Nick spots her in the corner and waves. “She just getting here?”
“She came straight from taping a demo for Shrink to the Stars. Want to come find out how it went?”
He kisses me again before releasing my hand. “You go ahead. There’s something I need to do.”
The way his fingers just skimmed the breast pocket of his suit has me speculating about that something. Is my ring in there?
Flashing one last smile, I stride toward my middle sister, who’s been waylaid by our youngest. Mari looks sophisticated in off-the-shoulder Chanel, while Lana glows in green Dolce & Gabbana. I’m so proud of my sisters, for how they’re forging their own paths, stepping out of our parents’ shadows, becoming strong, confident—
“Lauren, sweetheart.” Fingers clamp my arm, and Shirleen Judson—aka sex siren of seventies cinema, aka my mother—tugs me to stand beside her. “Lovely party.”
I frown at her empty seat. “Weren’t you just sitting over there?”
“I wanted to speak with you.” She smiles and waves at someone en route to the bar. A director, I think? The faces blend together these days.
My mother lowers her voice. “Things seem to be going well with Nick.”
“I suppose so.” It’s not the gushing response she’s probing for, but I won’t give her the satisfaction of seeming too eager. Too needy.
“Don’t be coy, Lauren.” She tucks a swatch of hair behind my ear, then flutters her fingers at someone strolling through the side door. “There’s a reason you work behind the cameras. You’re not that good an actress.”
The words don’t sting because I won’t let them. Also, I never wanted to be an actress. I’ve made a name for myself as a producer, so Shirleen Judson can suck it.