TAMING HOLLYWOOD'S BADDEST BO- Max Monroe Page 0,3
a name for a girl. Like, surely, I’m the one saying my name wrong.
Michael Jackson sang about a Billie Jean, and Billie Eilish is one of the most successful female artists in music, but whatever. It’s not worth arguing with the barista about whether or not my momma and daddy lied to me.
I may have been named after my great-grandpa Willy, but Billie isn’t that uncommon of a name for a girl. I want to tell her every blessed thing that’s on my mind, but it’s probably best if I keep things simple between Blondie and me. One day, when I manage to meet a man and fall so hopelessly in love that I don’t care if he leaves all his dishes in the sink, I don’t plan on making this woman a bridesmaid.
This isn’t the first time my accent has come up in everyday life here in California, and surely, it won’t be the last. After more than four years in LA, my West Virginia twang is a little watered down, but it’s definitely still there, a big neon sign above my head, letting everyone within hearing distance know I’m an LA transplant.
“Are you from the South?”
“Well, I guess that depends on who you ask.”
She tilts her head to the side.
“Born and raised in West Virginia,” I explain. “Some people would say we’re part of the South, and some claim we’re from the mountains.”
“I’ve never been there. Nevada is the farthest east I’ve been.”
I don’t bother telling her to change that. Some West Coasters, hell, even some East Coasters, snub their noses at the idea of visiting my home state, but I know they’re missing out. I love LA, but country roads, the Blue Ridge Mountains, and the Shenandoah River are at the center of my heart.
Trust me, John Denver crooned about West Virginia for a reason.
Instead, I swipe my credit card as quickly as I can and move to the side so the next customer can step up to the register.
While a young guy with a beanie and gauges in his ears makes my latte, I glance around the café and try to find an open seat, but it seems, with all the unemployed actors and actresses killing time on their computers, they’re all accounted for.
Outside terrace it is.
I grab my latte and plated muffin as they set them on top of the case at the far end of the counter and weave through the crowd to the back door that leads outside into the California sun.
I spot an open seat at the far end of the courtyard, sit down, and use a napkin to wipe the crumbs from a prior patron off the table.
Laptop out of my purse and powered up, I try to dive straight into work emails, but I barely get through a message about updates needed for lighting equipment when my focus is pulled away by a male voice.
“Excuse me, ma’am? You can’t smoke here.”
I look up to see one of Alfred’s baristas standing in front of the table directly beside mine, his eyes directed toward an older woman with sleek gray hair and Chanel sunglasses, the offending cigarette hanging out of her mouth. Smoke billows around her face, and her lips slip into a firm line. “I’m outside.”
He tries on a smile, but the smoke is wafting into his face now, and it’s really hard to smile and hold your breath at the same time. “Our terrace is smoke-free, too,” he chokes out.
“Christ,” she mutters. I watch surreptitiously as she reaches up with red-tipped nails, pulls the cig from her mouth, and puts it out on the edge of the table. The butt falls to the ground, but as Jo Dee Messina would say, her give a damn’s busted. I smile as the soundtrack to the scene unfurling in front of me starts to play inside my head.
“I sure miss the hell out of old Hollywood. You could smoke wherever the hell you wanted, and no one cared. Sinatra would’ve had a coronary if you told him not to smoke on an outside terrace back then.”
“I apologize for the inconvenience,” the male employee says before bending down to pick up her cigarette butt. “Let me know if there’s anything I can get you.”
“Punk-ass wallflower,” she mutters this time, but the guy smartly heads inside.
“Adele,” a white-haired lady sitting across from her chastises with an amused smile. “I swear, I can’t take