TAMING HOLLYWOOD'S BADDEST BO- Max Monroe Page 0,2

team because she sees potential in me.

Plus, if there’s one very important thing Charles doesn’t seem to understand, it’s that Serena doesn’t like to waste words. She started out as a successful screenwriter and producer in Hollywood and turned that golden talent into the successful company known as Koontz Productions.

Basically, her work ethic makes Jeff Bezos look lazy.

She’s an inspiration, and after working as a PA on her latest feature film, I’m hoping and praying she chooses to keep me under her knowledgeable wing.

PA, or Production Assistant, jobs are generally temporary. When you work as a PA on a movie or a television series, once the project comes to an end, so does the work.

It’s a rough cycle, to be honest, but it’s necessary. If I want to be a Hollywood producer, if I want to follow in someone like Serena’s footsteps, I need to work as many PA jobs as I can. The hands-on experience is quintessential to the career, and the amount you can learn under Serena is exponentially higher than almost everywhere else.

Thankfully, a few weeks ago, after we wrapped up production on Red River—a dramatic movie that will release sometime next year—Serena sat Charles and me down and told us she wanted us to be a part of the next big project.

It was seriously exciting news—kind of like finding a scratch-off on the ground worth thousands of dollars.

And then…she dropped the nuclear bomb of reality checks.

After this project, she’ll choose only one of us to mentor permanently. That person will get to move forward with her and her production company on future projects, and the other will be shit out of luck.

To say the current state of my career is filled with a lot of unknowns would be a bit of an understatement, but big Hollywood dreams aren’t something that comes easily.

It will take a lot of ups and downs. A lot of hard work and determination.

Possibly killing Charles.

You know, a lot of things.

Coffee now in my sights, I push through the front door of Alfred’s, the aroma of coffee beans and vanilla slapping me right in the face.

The place is positively bursting at the seams with caffeine-addicted pod-people like me, making the place I take at the end of the long line seem miles away from the hustling baristas behind the sleek black counter.

Utensils, cups, and plates clink, and the rhythm makes Dolly Parton’s “9 to 5” start to play inside my head. If this were a coffee shop in a movie, this song would be playing on the soundtrack.

Discreetly, I tap my right foot and bob my head a little to the music only I can hear and think of my momma.

She always told me I would end up in Hollywood—that my strange mind was a gift. You see life like a movie, Billie, she’d tell me. One day, you’re gonna use that brain of yours to make movies of your own.

But Momma was a bit of a dreamer when it came to this town. Being a budding actress herself who never quite made it out here to chase her dreams, she held out hope in a little section of her heart that my sister, Birdie, or I would be able to do it for her.

“Next!” the barista at the counter yells, and my thoughts and the music in my head fade away when I realize she’s talking to me.

Oh shoot.

With an apologetic smile and an unnecessary glance at the menu above her head, I step up to the counter quickly.

“Vanilla iced latte and a blueberry muffin, please,” I tell the pretty blue-eyed barista with wavy blond hair and insanely full lips. Her name tag reads Summer, and it’s oddly right. She looks like the beach on a bright, sunny day.

“Anything else?” Surfer Girl asks, and I shake my head.

“That’ll do it.”

“Name for the order?”

“Billie.”

She grabs a cup and a Sharpie, writing B-u-d-d-y on the side.

Buddy? Billie doesn’t sound like Buddy at all in the middle. Maybe all the high-tech espresso machines and their noise are getting to her hearing.

“No, not Buddy, but Billie,” I correct in my sweetest voice. “Billie with an ie.”

On a sigh, she puts the Sharpie back to the cup, scratches out Buddy with a swift hand, and writes the letters B-i-l-l-d-i-e.

Billdie? Good Lord. Am I speaking a different language?

“Uh…I hate to be a pain, but it’s actually Billie without the d. Just B-i-l-l-i-e.”

The barista stares at me, cup and Sharpie still in her hand, like Billie just can’t be