Hot Set, page 1
Hot Set
LESLIE O’SULLIVAN
HOT SET
By
Leslie O’Sullivan
Copyright © 2022 Leslie O’Sullivan
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Edited by Theresa Cole.
Cover Design by MiblArt.
All stock photos licensed appropriately.
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Published in the United States by City Owl Press.
www.cityowlpress.com
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For information on subsidiary rights, please contact the publisher at info@cityowlpress.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior consent and permission of the publisher.
Also by Leslie O’Sullivan
Rockin Fairy Tales:
Pink Guitars and Falling Stars
Gilded Butterfly
Behind the Scenes:
Hot Set
Press Release (Coming Spring 2023)
Not to Scale (Coming Fall 2023)
Praise for the Works of Leslie O’Sullivan
“Pink Guitars and Falling Stars is a fast paced and very engaging read, with a constantly evolving main character and a colorful cast. The adventure wraps up nicely, and ends with a hint of what is next in the Rockin’ Fairy Tales series. This is a great read if you are looking for an action-packed modern fairy tale with aspiring rock stars who fall from the sky.” — Paranormal Romance Guild
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“Gilded Butterfly is a unique and magical mashup of fairy tales, Shakespeare, and lore, unlike anything I’ve read before. At its heart, is a beautiful story about family, the destructive power of chasing fame and money, and the healing power of love. The twists, turns, and magic sprinkled throughout create an engaging story that brings a new kind of fairy tale to modern Hollywood.” — Megan Van Dyke, author of Second Star to the Left
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“With wickedly clever wordplay, fresh and lovable characters, and an utterly unique take on a classic fairytale, Pink Guitars and Falling Stars is one of the swooniest romances I've ever read. You'll be cheering for B.A.S.E. jumper Justin to help Zeli escape her tower in the heart of Hollywood's twisted music industry and fall equally hard for their chosen family on the Boulevard. A romantic, heart-in-your-throat read!” — Sarah Skilton, author of Fame Adjacent
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“Pink Guitars and Falling Stars is an interesting take on the story of Rapunzel…O’Sullivan has definitely nailed the initial animosity between Justin and Zeli. As they become closer, the relationship jumps off the page and morphs beautifully. There are awesome love scenes with a lot of description which pull the reader right in and keep a tight grip… A fascinating remix of a popular fairy tale with some very sexy differences. One to add to the e-reader and to be read list!” — InD’tale
To Cameron Rose, a wildly creative artist who never stops pursuing his dreams
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Sneak Peek of Pink Guitars and Falling Stars
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Acknowledgments
About the Author
About the Publisher
Additional Titles
Want even more from Leslie O’Sullivan? Read PINK GUITARS AND FALLING STARS and be sure to check out all the details on her website at www.leslieosullivanwrites.com
Zeli’s signature pop diva sound and image are nothing short of magical—literally. Her fame comes with hidden costs, a curse that could ruin her voice forever.
Aspiring indie musician, Justin MacKenzie, is determined to kick it to the top of the Rampion Records’ Summer Number One professional vs. amateur singing competition.
The favorite to beat in the annual televised contest is none other than the label’s smoking hot superstar, Zeli, whose crazy extensions flow the length of a football field. Those ridiculous extensions, coupled with her bubblegum brand of pop, are an affront to everything Justin loves about music until a stolen kiss blazes into a romantic encounter.
Once inside Zeli’s world, Justin discovers things are not as they seem. In their quest to allow the real Zeli, to step into the spotlight, the pair must confront the mysterious force behind the dazzle of Rampion’s success. If these star-crossed lovers can’t rally their own magic to defeat the darkness, they will lose everything—including each other.
READ NOW
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Chapter
One
If dread is ground glass shredding your stomach, then I’m digesting a set of eight crystal goblets. As I ready my opening shot on the seventeenth hole, Lanie Blesch’s giggles rise from the golf cart parked alongside the tee box. Aglow in her fifteen minutes of fame as the spokesmodel for everything from moisturizer to orthotic inserts, Lanie flirts with abandon. Her target and cart buddy this morning is my boyfriend, Treat Graham.
This woman who holds the gold medal for stellar BMI is everything I’m not—tall and curvy with negative body fat in all the right places. I flick one strawberry blond braid over my shoulder and wonder if I could pull off Lanie’s fluffy chocolate bob with strands of amber peeking through at strategically stylish locations. Next to her overflowing sexuality, I come off like Treat’s tomboy sidekick.
When Lanie adds another lipstick smudge to the collar of Treat’s gaudy, neon pink polo, I take a step back from the tee and drop my lethal glare to the grass before anyone notices. It’s hard to justify visually disintegrating Lanie since she has no clue the man next to her is off limits. Per an agreement I’m rapidly losing patience with, my two-year relationship with Treat is a secret.
Bobby Provost, who shares my golf cart, takes a break from destroying every blade of grass on the tee box with his practice swings. He sidles up next to me. “Gillian, you okay?”
Ironic question from the man who’s responsible for half the pulverized goblet glass sitting in my digestive system. I toss Bobby a smile that would register as less than ten percent genuine to anyone who knows me. “Rethinking my club.” And the gag order on my relationship.
A gust of wind knocks my newly acquired Chieftain’s Son baseball cap off my head. As the showrunner bringing the most anticipated series of historical romance novels in a billion years to television, Bobby is a swag dispenser. Everyone in this charity golf tournament is outfitted with Chieftain’s Son logo caps, jerseys, and metallic water bottles.
“I’ve got it,” says Bobby, chasing my cap as it skids down the rise next to the tee. Definitely a gentleman, for more reasons than one. Thankfully, for the last sixteen holes he has diplomatically ignored the giant elephant riding between us in the golf cart. Nearly a year ago, our mutual literary agent approached me with Bobby’s interest for me to possibly join the writing staff of The Chieftain’s Son. An opportunity so unexpected and frightening it came from whatever territory is out beyond left field.
Treat’s words ring in my head from our discussion about whether or not I should even entertain Bobby’s request to take a meeting.
“Why put yourself through it, Babe? You’ve never written a script in your life. Face it, Gilly, you are master of the short game. Copywriting for my company is your sweet spot.”
Treat is blunt, but I know he only has my best interest at heart. Raw truth—my agent couldn’t sell my book; therefore, I live in the stable reality of being the reigning queen of clothing blurbs for Lawson Graham Premier Sportswear.
I shake out my hand, numb from gripping the club too tight. If penning catalogue copy is my career, at least it involves writing. Is the definition of a career what you do to pay the bills when you’re two years shy of thirty?
When Bobby Provost, gentleman, and I did meet face to face this morning, I managed what I hoped was an appreciative “thank you” for even considering me for the position on his show, followed by an apology that things didn’t work out. We shook hands and Treat whisked him away to talk business, but something about the look Bobby’s jade-colored eyes shot in my direction didn’t feel like a period at the end
Thankfully, in less than an hour, Treat will finish selling Bobby on the crossover marketing benefits if our companies pair up. The Irish Country Lass clothing line will shoot on Bobby’s company property in Ireland, featuring show locations. The Chieftain’s Son will get some dandy print exposure for its premier season.
Bobby waves my rescued cap like he’s starting the Indy 500. “Victory.”
“Good catch,” I say, fitting the hat back on my head as Bobby salutes.
I clear my head by ripping a handful of blades from the grass and let the wind carry them to calculate my shot. The faster we play these last two holes, the faster I’ll avoid any talk with Bobby about his offer, and the faster I can pull the pin on the what the hell grenade I plan to heave at Treat for his flirting overdrive with Lanie.
My tee shot hits the fairway dead center. To my delight, momentum carries it forward a gratifying distance.
“Brilliant,” says Bobby, applauding. “One fairway shot, a chip, putt, and you’re the birdie queen of the day.” He pulls off his own logo baseball cap and trains his hair back. “How many so far?”
“Nine birdies,” I say, and head back to our cart. I’m behind the wheel before Bobby finishes his tee shot.
He pops onto the seat next to me. “I chunked it. Is it driving you nuts to play with a duffer like me?”
I muster a smile. “You’re far from a duffer. If we didn’t have Lanie and Treat dragging us down, we’d own this tournament.”
Bobby is the type that perpetually moves and chatters. Luckily, a sweet, candy-coated personality keeps his hummingbird vibe from being irritating. He’s the geeky big brother that all my friends would confide in. Treat actually expected me to flirt with him. I’m a good little soldier for Lawson Graham Premier Sportwear and loyal girlfriend, but I have my limits. It’s awkward enough spending this much time with Bobby after rejecting his job offer. Given our age gap, which has to be at least ten years, any attempt at flirting would reek of insincerity. Treat’s the game player, not me.
Treat and Lanie blow by in their cart, barely missing ours. She drives like an idiot, trashing shrubbery as she rips down the cart path. The flirty laughs between them threaten to bring up my breakfast burrito. Treat doesn’t even wave at me.
The jerk can’t spare one measly, reassuring smile. Less than six months ago, we were together in Oregon eating his mother’s homemade chicken marsala while his stepdad reminded him daily that he’d be a fool to ever let me go.
On the drive back to L.A., Treat professed a dozen times how much he adored me. Adored, not loved. Here in reality, adored translates to undercover relationship. Treat made it clear from the beginning that if our situation ever became breaking news at Lawson Graham Premier Sportswear, we’d get the axe. I’m certain that axe would only swing my way since Lawson Graham is Treat’s father. Lucky me. I get to carry on a hush-hush relationship and watch my boyfriend play gigolo every time Daddy needs someone to court a spokesmodel or female designer.
A pang of disappointment stabs as I relive the joy of living as a non-secret couple with Treat up in Oregon. People take handholding and quick kisses for granted.
After his next shot, Bobby lopes over to me like a deer. The entire cart lurches when he leaps in. “Well, that drive made up for my previous chunkage.”
My face heats. “Full disclosure, I missed it.”
“I’m sure I can repeat it—never.” He laughs.
Before I step on the gas, he raises a hand. “Hold up. I don’t intend to waste the serendipity of sharing this golf cart with the author of Traipse of Moonlight because her boss wants to use my property.”
The serious look and tone of his voice set off a warning klaxon in my brain. No, not now. Don’t do it, Bobby. Throw the elephant in the cart some peanuts and call it a day. Please kill off any mention of our awkward history when we’re so close to the finish line.
“Why in the hell is Gillian Bettencourt wasting her talent writing banal clothing descriptors for a Ralph Lauren wannabe company?”
I’m not sure how many times per minute one is supposed to breathe, but I don’t make the quota.
Bobby continues. “In the spirit of full disclosure…”
I remember to breathe but forget to blink.
“My offer still stands for the author of Traipse of Moonlight to join my writing staff for The Chieftain’s Son.”
I swallow a very unladylike gulp. This is not a conversation I ever wanted to have, but he’s got me cornered.
“Traipse never made it.”
He stares me down. “Awards and landing the literary agent that we share say otherwise.”
I attempt to match his intensity. “It’s a decent novella that became a novel she couldn’t sell.”
Bobby holds up a hand to stop me. “It sold me. From the day Jen passed it to me last year when I was reading everything in sight about Irish history and folklore, Traipse of Moonlight has been a major tonal inspiration in my development of The Chieftain’s Son.”
He gestures so wildly I have to lean away to keep from getting whacked.
“The way you juxtapose the despair of the villagers with the unrelenting possibility of hope is gorgeous. Your story shares DNA with Deidre LaRochelle and her Chieftain’s Son series.”
“Traipse isn’t a romance.”
I must present like a shock victim because Bobby speaks with slow and succinct phrasing. “It is a love story. The passion those parents feel for their sick child and the bargain they make with the Otherworld…grand stuff.”
His energetic dance calms. “And my dear Miss Bettencourt, The Chieftain’s Son series is so much more than a romance. It’s got historical gravitas and a timeless message.” He runs a finger across his chin. “As does Traipse of Moonlight.”
I rub my hands together, shoring up courage to reject Bobby a second time. His offer is nuts. I barely survived converting Traipse from a novella to a novel.
Bobby knocks on the roof of the golf cart. “I don’t invite people lightly to be on my creative team, Gillian. Your story has stuck with me. I see raw talent in you. Talent to be cultivated.”
“My novella version of Traipse is likely a one hit wonder.”
He points at me. “How will you ever know if you don’t take a shot?”
My damp hands slip off the steering wheel. “I’m not good enough for something this huge.”
“‘Not good enough,’ says the woman whose prose about trekking in flagstone jackets raises Lawson Graham stock prices.”
“I’m good at the short game.” Treat’s words feel sour on my lips. “I’m not a fool, Bobby. I know writing for your show is a once-in-a-lifetime offer. It’s just one that would be a better fit for someone else.”
Bobby dismisses my embarrassment with a flick of his wrist. “I disagree.”
I can’t deny the rush I get from this guy addressing me as a writer. My pilot light to become a novelist sputtered out shortly after Traipse fell flat and I landed the blurb writing gig at Lawson Graham Premier Sportswear. Bobby’s offer makes my light spark for a moment but then die. Except for witty descriptors, my writing muscles have atrophied, and I know zilch about screenwriting.
My mind flashes on the trio of manuscripts I wrote in grad school hiding on my hard drive. The stories I never raised enough courage to even show my agent.
