Fake_Kylie Scott Read online

  FAKE

  A West Hollywood Novel

  KYLIE SCOTT

  NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLING AUTHOR

  Fake

  Copyright © 2021 by Kylie Scott

  ISBN: 9780648457329

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or events is entirely coincidental.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Sneak Peek of Pause

  Purchase Kylie Scott’s Other Books

  About Kylie Scott

  CHAPTER ONE

  He slunk into the restaurant mid-afternoon wearing his usual scowl. Ignoring the closed sign, he took a booth near the back. No one else was allowed to do this. Just him. Today’s wardrobe consisted of black jeans, Converse, and a button-down shirt. Doubtless designer. And the way those sleeves hugged his biceps . . . why, they should have been ashamed of themselves. I was this close to yelling “get a room.”

  Instead, I asked, “The usual?”

  Slumped down in the corner of the booth, he tipped his chin in reply. For such a tall guy, he sure went out of his way to try to hide.

  I said no more. Words were neither welcomed nor wanted. Which was fine since (A) I was tired and (B) he tipped well for the peace and quiet.

  Out back, Vinnie the cook was busy prepping for tonight, his knife making quick work of an onion.

  “He’s here,” I said.

  A smile split Vinnie’s face. He was a huge fan of the man’s action films. The ones he’d made before hitting it big time and taking on more serious dramatic roles. Him choosing to visit the restaurant every month or so made Vinnie’s life complete. Especially since the restaurant, Little Italy, was the very definition of a hole in the wall. Not somewhere generally frequented by the Hollywood elite. Meanwhile, I was less of a fan, but still a fan. You know.

  “Get him his beer,” Vinnie ordered.

  Like I didn’t know my job. Sheesh.

  He was busy with his cell by the time I placed the Peroni in front of him. No glass. He drank straight from the bottle like an animal. Just then, a woman in a red sweater dress and tan five-inch-heel booties strode in through the front door.

  “I’m sorry, we’re closed,” I said.

  “I’m with him.” She headed straight for his booth and slid into the other side, giving the man a dour look. “You can’t just walk out, Patrick. You’re going to have to choose one of them.”

  “Nope.” He took a pull from his beer. “They all sucked.”

  “There had to be at least one that would do.”

  “Not even a little.”

  She sighed. “Keep this up and you’ll be obsolete by next week. Beyond help. Forgotten.”

  “Go away, Angie.”

  “Just another talented but trash male in Hollywood. That’s what they’re saying on social media.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  “Liar,” she drawled.

  I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Obviously they knew each other, but he did not seem to want her here. And she really wasn’t supposed to be here. Vinnie had okayed after-hours entry to only one person. On the other hand, if I asked her to leave, she’d probably sic her lawyers on me. She looked the type.

  The woman spied me hovering. “Get me a glass of red.”

  “She’s not staying,” countermanded Patrick.

  Angie didn’t move an inch. “They were all viable options. Pliant. Young. Pretty. Discreet. Nothing weird or kinky in their backgrounds.”

  “That might have made them more interesting.”

  “Interesting women is what got you into this mess.” The woman frowned, taking me in. Still hovering. One perfectly shaped brow rose in question. “Yes? Is there a problem?”

  Now it was Patrick’s turn to sigh and give me a nod. He was so dreamy with his jaw and cheekbones and his everything. Real classic Hollywood handsome. Especially with his short light brown hair in artful disarray and a hint of stubble. Sometimes it was hard not to stare. Which is probably why his personality tended to scream “leave me alone.”

  I headed for the small bar area at the back of the restaurant to fetch the wine like a good little waitress.

  “We shouldn’t be discussing this here,” said Angie, giving the room a disdainful sniff. Talk about judgy. I thought the raw brick walls and chunky wood tables were cool. Give or take Vinnie’s collection of old black-and-white photos of Los Angeles freeways. Who knew what that was about?

  Patrick slumped down even further. “I’m not going back there. I’m done with it.”

  “This isn’t safe.” Angie looked around nervously. “Let’s—”

  “We’re fine. I’ve been coming here for years.”

  “You just got dropped from a big-budget film, Patrick,” she said, exasperation in her tone. “The industry may not find you bankable right now, but I’m sure gossip about you is still selling just fine. This week at least.”

  A grunt from the man.

  “The plan will work if you let it. Everything is organized and ready to go. It’s the perfect opportunity to start rewriting the narrative in your favor.” She jabbed a finger in his direction to accentuate the word “your.” The woman clearly meant business, and then some.

  I set the glass of wine down in front of her and returned to my place at the back of the room, polishing the silverware and restocking the salt and pepper and so on—all the jobs best performed when things were slow. And while it was nosy and wrong to listen in on other people’s conversations, it wasn’t my fault the room was so quiet that I could hear everything they said.

  “None of them felt authentic,” he said, stopping to down some more beer.

  The woman snorted. “That’s because none of them are.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “When you first came to me you said you wanted to become a star, make quality films, and win an Oscar. In that order,” she said. “As things are at present, you may be able to resurrect your career to some degree through the indie market. Pick up roles here and there and slowly build yourself back up. But that’s going to take years and you’ll likely never be in the running for the golden statuette. You can kiss that dream goodbye.”

  Patrick ran an agitated hand through his hair.

  “You worked your ass off to get this far,” she said. “Are you really going to give up now?”

  “Fuck,” he muttered.

  “Liv is busy saving her own ass and you’re unwilling to set the record straight. Not that anyone would even necessarily believe you at this point. So our options are limited.” She picked up her wine, taking a delicate sip before wrinkling her nose in distaste. Since it came out of a box, that wasn’t much of a surprise. She’d only asked for a glass of red; she hadn’t specified quality. “I know you were hoping it would all die down, but people are still talking. And with social media how it is, this was the worst possible time to get caught up in a scandal. However, there is hope. We can still salvage things if you’d just work with us. But we need to act now.”

  Patrick declined to respond.

  It had been all over the internet a month ago. Photos of him leaving Liv Anders’s Malibu residence at the crack of dawn. And it was clearly a morning-after picture. Totally a walk of shame. He’d been all disheveled and wearing a crumpled tux. Liv being half of Hollywood’s current darling couple was part of the problem. Along with Patrick and Liv’s husband, Grant, having just done a movie together and supposedly being best buds. That Patrick had spent his earlier years dating a string of models and partying hard didn’t help matters either. His reputation was well established. Headlines such as “Patrick the Player,” “Walsh Destroys Wedded Bliss,” “Friendship Failure,” and “Not So Heroic Homewrecker” were everywhere. Maybe it had been a slow news week, but the amount of hate leveled at him was surprising.

  Of course, there had to be more to the story. There always was. But Liv was seen weeping in a disturbingly photogenic fashion as she and her husband walked into a marriage counselor’s office the next day. And the pair had been hanging off each other on the red carpet ever since. Meanwhile, Patrick’s name was mud. Worse than mud. It was toxic shit.

  It could all be true. He could indeed be a trash male who thought with his dick and behaved in a duplicitous and manipulative manner. I’d dated my fair share of dubious men, so it wouldn’t exactly surprise me. And plenty of assholes had been publicly outed recently. Men who used their fame and power for evil.

  But this all just felt more like gossip.

  First up, there’d been no actual ev
idence that this wasn’t two consenting adults doing what they wanted behind closed doors. Patrick hadn’t taken any wedding vows and Liv hadn’t made any accusations of mistreatment. In fact, Liv hadn’t said anything at all. Patrick and Grant being best buddies, though . . . that was a hell of a betrayal. If it was true.

  “Fine. I’ll do it,” he said, his voice rising. “But not with any of them.”

  “Patrick, we’ve been interviewing for weeks to find those three alternatives for you,” she said. “One of them must be tolerable if not perfect.”

  “She doesn’t need to be perfect. She needs to be real.”

  “Real?” asked Angie with some small amount of spluttering. “Give me strength. That’s the last fucking thing we need right now.”

  The bell pinged out back. Vinnie gave me a wink and nodded to the waiting dish, Penne Ragu and Meatballs with Parmesan. It smelled divine. As the size of my ass could attest, I loved carbs and they loved me. And what was more important, jeans size or general happiness?

  Vinnie took pride in his food. Pride in his restaurant. It was one of the reasons I liked working for him.

  “They’re all waiting. Come back to the office,” said Angie as I reentered the room.

  “No.”

  “Patrick, how the hell else are you going to find someone? If word of what we were doing got out . . .”

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  The woman looked to heaven, but no help was forthcoming. “If you won’t choose one of them, then who?”

  “I don’t know,” he growled.

  As stealthily as possible, I set the meal down in front of him. Invisibility was an art form. One I didn’t always excel at when he was around. It’s not my fault. Attractive men make me nervous. So of course my fingers fumbled over the silverware and the fork clattered loudly to the table.

  “Her,” he said, staring right at me. Possibly the only time we’d made direct eye contact. It was like looking into the sun. I was all but blinded. The man was just too much.

  “What?!” Angie shrieked.

  I froze. He couldn’t be referring to me. Not unless it was in the context of a “you are totally clumsy and not getting a tip today” sort of thing.

  “You cannot be serious,” Angie all but spluttered, looking me over, her eyes wide as twin moons. “She’s so . . . average.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed with enthusiasm.

  Wow, harsh. I was pretty in my own way. Beige skin and long, wavy blond hair. A freckle or two on my face. As for my body, not everyone in this city had to be stick thin. But whatever. The important thing was, I was a nice person. Most of the time. And I was kind. Or at least, I tried to be. Personal growth can be tricky.

  “Enjoy your meal,” I said with a frown on my face.

  “Sit down a minute.” Patrick gestured to the space beside him in the booth. “Please.”

  Instead, I crossed my arms.

  “I want to talk to you about a job opportunity.”

  Angie made a strangled noise.

  “I have a job,” I said. “Actually, I have two.”

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “You’ve got to be joking,” hissed Angie. “They’ll never believe it.”

  “Norah,” I said.

  “Hey, Norah. I’m Patrick.”

  “I know,” I deadpanned.

  He almost smiled. There was a definite twitch of the lips. For someone whose charm-laden devil-may-care grin had graced billboards all over the country, he sure knew how to keep that sucker under wraps. “How’d you like to make some serious money?”

  “Don’t say another word until she’s signed an NDA.” With a hand clutched to her chest, Angie appeared to be either hyperventilating or having a heart attack. “I mean it!”

  Patrick just sighed. “Angie, relax. I’ve been coming in here for years and she’s never once put anything on social media or taken a creeper shot. I bet you haven’t told a soul about me, have you, Norah?”

  So I respected his privacy. So sue me. I also kind of liked hearing him say my name. Him just knowing it was a thrill. Definite weakness of the knees. “You seem to enjoy the anonymity.”

  “Even stopped that girl from asking me for an autograph.”

  “The owner’s daughter,” I said. “She’s still not talking to me.”

  Another almost-smile. There was definite amusement in his pretty blue eyes.

  Angie downed the last of her boxed wine in one large gulp.

  Patrick and I stared at each other like it was a contest. Who would dare look away first? Me, apparently.

  “What’s the job?” I asked.

  “I’d need you full time for a couple of months,” he said.

  “A year, and live-in,” corrected Angie.

  Patrick cringed. “Six months and live-in. No more.”

  With a wave of her fingers, Angie relented.

  I cleared my throat. “Um, doing what, exactly? Being your gofer or an assistant or something? Or do you need like a housekeeper or a cleaner?”

  “No,” he said, calm as can be. “I want you to be my fake girlfriend.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  Patrick Walsh lived in The Bird Streets in West Hollywood—which was about as exclusive and expensive as can be. The car dropped me at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac up in the hills above the Sunset Strip. I peered in through the bars of the gate at a private driveway disappearing around a bend. Lots of greenery, mostly succulents and olive trees. The only landscaping around my previous apartment building had been the parking lot with overflowing trash bins.

  I took a deep breath and tried to summon some courage. Any would do. Because without a doubt, this was a bad idea. Just an awful, terrible idea. Yet here I was, contract signed and cash in hand. A great deal of it. And there’d be more to come. I’d already been able to move Gran into her own room at a much nicer nursing home with better care and facilities. I’d also quit my jobs and given up my apartment. Talk about standing on the edge of a precipice.

  All of a sudden, the gate started opening, and I stepped back in surprise. Guess someone was watching the security cameras. The wheels on my battered suitcase rattled along the asphalt behind me. I’d brought along only a few of my favorite things and left the bulk of my belongings in storage. They’d be providing the necessary Hollywood girlfriend wardrobe. Whatever that entailed.

  And this was fine. Everything would be great. I was a grown-ass woman who could totally do this. This was an adventure to be both embraced and enjoyed.

  Heck yes.

  I believed this right up until I saw him standing in the doorway of a white, sprawling single-story building that was either modern or mid-century, or a bit of both. The house was cool, but it didn’t compare to yet again seeing Patrick Walsh in the flesh. He was like a work of art, more than deserving of the pedestal he sat upon. You can’t grow up in LA without seeing celebrities, but this was different. How his presence hit me in the heart and loins. Maybe I’d never get used to him. Annoying and embarrassing, given that he was now my boss.

  I didn’t expect to be greeted by the man himself. I figured he’d be too busy and important for something like this. For someone like me. I hadn’t seen him since the other day at the restaurant. Everything had been handled by his “people,” as in, his lawyers. I doubted I could sneeze without express written permission for the next six months.

  I’d done my fair share of wondering why me? As Angie stated so succinctly, I was average. But I guess my lack of glamour worked for the whole reformed-and-no-longer-shallow-player persona they were attempting. I don’t know. But he’d paid me a lot to put my life on hold and resurrect his reputation. So that’s what I’ll try my best to do.

  “Norah,” he said with a frown, which seemed to be his face’s go-to setting. “Let me take that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Thanks for, ah . . . for doing this.”

  “Sure,” I said.

  With my suitcase trailing behind him, he headed inside. As wrong as it was to objectify people, the man had an amazing ass and his jeans really showcased it. I’d never considered myself a connoisseur of asses, but his was something else. Don’t even get me started on the breadth of his shoulders.

  The interior of the house wasn’t bad either. Open plan with polished concrete floors and pristine white walls. A chunky cream couch and a shaggy gray rug, along with a fireplace and various pieces of art. One side of the building seemed to be constructed entirely of glass walls or fold-back glass doors. We were perched on the side of a hill, overlooking the entire city. Talk about, wow. It almost distracted from the shaking of my hands.