Addicted

Addicted
Zoey Williams

Talia Truman is a manager's worst nightmare. A former child star, Talia traded in her braids and became a smart-mouthed party girl with a penchant for bad boys and even badder decisions.(Usually involving alcohol.) With a massive movie deal on the line, however, Talia needs to keep herself - and her purple thong panties - out of trouble. But sex-addiction rehab? Definitely not her idea…Unfortunately, being stuck in rehab with emerging country music star Matt Skyler - aka The Most Delicious Man Talia Can't Have - is testing Talia's newfound chastity. All she wants to do is fall off the wagon and onto Matt. But Matt isn't exactly the bad boy she thought he was. In fact, Talia is starting to suspect that this cowboy might secretly be a total gentleman. And worse still, she likes that.Now, under the blinding glare of the paparazzi, this not-so-bad boy and trying-to-be-good girl must choose between their reputations…and who they really are.

Talia Truman is a manager’s worst nightmare. A former child star, Talia traded in her braids and became a smart-mouthed party girl with a penchant for bad boys and even badder decisions. (Usually involving alcohol.) With a massive movie deal on the line, however, Talia needs to keep herself—and her purple thong panties—out of trouble. But sex-addiction rehab? Definitely not her idea…

Unfortunately, being stuck in rehab with emerging country music star Matt Skyler—aka The Most Delicious Man Talia Can’t Have—is testing Talia’s newfound chastity. All she wants to do is fall off the wagon and onto Matt. But Matt isn’t exactly the bad boy she thought he was. In fact, Talia is starting to suspect that this cowboy might secretly be a total gentleman. And worse still, she likes that.

Now, under the blinding glare of the paparazzi, this not-so-bad boy and trying-to-be-good girl must choose between their reputations…and who they really are.

Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women

Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon

www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo)

First and foremost, this book is dedicated to my editor and all-around wonderful person, Ann Leslie Tuttle, for believing in me since day one.

Next, I’d be remiss if I didn’t thank my spirit guide, Allison Lyons—the world needs more people like you. Also, a huge thank-you to my best friend/critique partner Mary Williams for helping me every step of the way, and to my lifelong bud Marissa Zimmel for helping to inspire the Nashville setting and letting me pick her brain.

Dear Reader,

When Mills & Boon announced its partnership with Cosmopolitan magazine for the Red-Hot Reads program, I immediately knew I wanted to write something for them. I’ve always wanted to write from the point of view of someone in Hollywood, one of the most high-stakes industries out there. Famous or not, I think we all feel the pressure of other people’s expectations in our day-to-day lives. I’m hoping that everyone can take a cue from how former child star and current party girl Talia Truman learns to tell people to shove their opinions of her and how she lives her life where the sun don’t shine… It may take the dashing budding country music star Matt Skyler a few times to learn this lesson, but you’ll soon find that Talia’s more than up to the task.

This is a story about living your life on your own terms and never changing for anyone. I think that every Cosmo girl can vouch for that. Happy reading!

xoxo,

Zoey

Addicted

Zoey Williams

Contemporary, sexy stories for sassy women

Cosmo Red-Hot Reads from Mills & Boon

www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk/Cosmo)

Contents

Chapter One (#u0d729afa-4108-5bf1-9345-dce7adae8b2d)

Chapter Two (#u00c9fd29-a2de-5f1c-9ad0-a2fd5a23c0ba)

Chapter Three (#u63ec85bb-826a-5fce-87fe-962acf054191)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One

The moment I squint my eyes open—after being temporarily blinded by the hot LA sun—I realize two things: my entire body feels like it’s developed that pinkish pre-sunburn tint and there is something most definitely in my mouth. The sad part is that this isn’t nearly the first time this has happened to me.

I attempt to sit up and immediately lose my balance, the mattress below me feeling like it’s made out of gelatin. The movement sets off a lightning storm of pain in my skull and a wave of nausea hits me. I know that if I took a Breathalyzer test right now, it would probably burst into flames.

Groaning, I swat my hand around in front of my face and find my mouth after a few tries. My fingers grip what’s been between my lips for God knows how long. I lift a hand to my forehead to shield out the sun and inspect it. It’s a party horn, with orange and green stripes, like one you’d blow on New Year’s Eve or at a little kid’s birthday party, except this one is flaccid and sagging like it has given up, the paper damp and disintegrating. And that’s when I notice that my foot is wet, too—because I’m lying on a large plastic float in the middle of my pool. I look down and see that my foot is dangling off the edge of the float—so neon green it makes my head hurt more when I look at it—skimming the surface of the water.

Then it all comes back to me. The party celebrating my big upcoming role. My first big movie role in a little over a year. Last night, my house was full of people—tall, thin, glamorous people. The movers and shakers of Hollywood. Drinks sloshed onto the cement deck around my pool as everyone danced, the bass of whatever the DJ was playing perpetually thumping in my ears, people trying to shout compliments at each other over the blaring music, their voices getting exponentially louder as they got drunker. Now, the place is barren—the hundreds of clear plastic cups strewn across the patio the only evidence that something took place here last night. All is quiet except for the unmistakable crackling of a turntable left on, recordless. And I’m here alone, on top of a raft twirling in lazy circles in the hot sun. I catch a whiff of chlorine and my stomach churns again. My mouth tastes like cigarettes...and I don’t even smoke. My first thought is, Talia Truman knows how to throw one hell of a party. Sure, it’s a little self-congratulatory, but it’s true.

Slowly, carefully, I paddle my hands in the water—it’s the only movement I’m capable of making at the moment—and gently float over to the edge of the pool where I see my phone sitting on top of a rumpled towel. As I get closer, I realize that I’m not alone.

Lying back in one of the mesh lounge chairs lining the perimeter of my pool, her hands clasped in her lap, is my manager, Dottie Arnold. In her late seventies, her gray hair is swooped up into a puff on top of her head; with her skinny neck, it looks like freshly spun cotton candy on a stick. A large pair of dark sunglasses take up most of the real estate of her face, but even though I can’t see her eyes I know she is staring at me disapprovingly. Thin as a praying mantis, she’s wearing one of her signature velour tracksuits—which is what she wears every day regardless of the weather because she believes it’s the only outfit that flatters her. Today she’s chosen a light teal ensemble that matches the color of the pool water. Her legs outstretched in front of her, crossed at the ankle, she continues to sit without moving a muscle, staring at me intensely, frowning, not saying a word. Like a Bond villain. A fashionably challenged Bond villain.

“How long have I been out here?” I ask.

Bending over to her left, she fishes a manila folder stuffed with pieces of paper out from her see-through hot pink vinyl tote bag. Flipping it open, she trails her pointer finger down the page until she finds what she’s looking for. “According to the police report, the party was broken up at four in the morning.”

I give an appreciative nod. “I believe that’s a new record. Usually the LAPD aren’t in such a forgiving mood. I think the latest they’ve ever come is two thirty.” I yawn. “How much did they fine me this time?”

Dottie noisily flips through a few pages. “Three thousand. I’ll have Sydney take care of it when she gets here.”

Sydney, my assistant/best friend, always comes by the house at ten o’clock sharp. It wasn’t like her to be late—I guess in our six years of friendship I hadn’t rubbed off on her yet. “Sydney’s not here? What time is it?”

“Eight thirty.”

I gawk at her. “Eight thirty? Jesus. Why are you here so early? I’m going to go back to sleep.” I drape my arm over face. “See you later,” I mumble.

Dottie loudly clears her throat. “Talia, I have to talk to you. Something’s happened.”

I breathe in deeply. “Can we discuss this later? You know the saying ‘beer before liquor, never been sicker?’ Someone brought moonshine to the party last night. A cute limerick has never been made up for moonshine because anyone who’s ever drank as much of it as I did last night is probably dead.”

Dottie slides her glasses forward down the bridge of her nose, scoffing. “Moonshine? Isn’t that illegal...and for hicks?”

“It’s the next big thing in Hollywood, apparently,” I sigh. “I think people just drink it ironically. Freakin’ hipsters.”