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Despite their on-screen chemistry, co-stars Graham Crowley and Christina Malloy share no love off-screen. When rumors surface in the entertainment media suggesting they're romantically involved, their managers seize the opportunity to capitalize on the speculation, offering incentives to enhance their supposed fake relationship. Graham and Christina reluctantly comply, but unexpectedly, their pretend romance evolves into genuine affection.
Yet, in the world of Hollywood, where illusions reign supreme, can their true feelings survive the scrutiny of the public eye? While make-believe is the norm, sometimes reality defies expectations, leaving us to question what's genuine and what's just for show. |
Read an Excerpt from PUBLICITY STUNT, by Bernadette Marie
CHAPTER ONE
CHRISTINA
What the press doesn’t know could fill a library. “It was the shattering heard 'round the country. Christina Malloy threw a coffee mug at her co-star Graham Crowley. Though no one was hurt, these are the kinds of stories we hear coming from the set of the Love Is in the Air network stars.”
* * *
My stomach growls as I sit uncomfortably in the back of the limo.
My assistant Penny sharply turns her head to look at me. She heard it. I’m sure everyone outside of the car heard it, too.
Her eyes are wide and there is a look of panic that washes over her face. I’m not sure if she’s worried that it’ll make that kind of noise in the theater, or if she’s worried that I’m so hungry, I might pass out.
“Don’t mind my body,” I say flatly. “It’s just underfed, overstressed, and I can’t freaking breathe in this dress,” I complain as I move ever so slightly to try to adjust myself.
My mother, who is sitting on the bench across from me, checks her lipstick in her compact mirror before closing it and tucking it away in her clutch. I know she hasn’t eaten all day long either, but she doesn’t seem to be fazed by it like I am.
“You look magnificent, darling,” she says with that practiced tone, and not even one glance in my direction. With a gentle nudge to my father, she draws his attention to me. “Doesn’t she look magnificent, sweetheart?”
My father scans a look over me as if he’s only now realized I’m in the same car with them. “Yeah. You look great, sweetheart. Real great.”
I lift a brow. “Thanks,” I say in a tone as flat as the compliment I’m thanking him for.
Being the only daughter of one of Hollywood’s biggest producers and the founder of a chain of exclusive spas, I’m used to the short bursts of attention I get from my parents. Sometimes I’m surprised I was ever born. They only give one another short bursts of attention, too.
My mother fancies herself a doting parent, but let’s be honest, she falls short—extremely short. I mean, when your only daughter has the lead in Annie at the age of ten, and not just some school production, but a professional production, you don’t take that as the opportune time to go to Europe and tour all the spas for research for a pet project. But that’s what my mother did. She spent six weeks in Europe building her business while I sang my heart out, wishing for the sun to come out tomorrow.
My father, on the other hand, doesn’t even try to dote on me. Oh, I can have anything I want. After all, I am his baby girl, even at thirty. And by anything, I mean as a teenager, my credit card was always paid off and never questioned. My first car was a Lexus. And yes, I have a condo in Beverly Hills that is paid for, and I’ve lived there since I was eighteen. It was a graduation gift.
But, if I want his attention, then I must be in one of his movies—in which I’ve so far only been an extra.
He won’t invest in the “silly” movies I star in. He doesn’t see the appeal of romantic comedies, even though they are box office gold with the right duos. His money, and time, go into productions where the world gets blown up, every-single-time. Where F-words are much of the script, and where there is on-screen sex to fill the space. His premieres are the kinds where you see action heroes on the red carpet looking sexy as hell next to a waif of a model who might pass out at any time. And always, my father in his tux, his sunglasses on, and my mother and I at his side for show.
“You’re presenting with Graham Crowley?” my mother asks as she adjusts her breasts in her dress.
“Thanks for the reminder,” I say, hoping that my voice resonates the displeasure I feel about that.
I can see my assistant’s eyes glass over when I talk about Graham. She’s a fan. I am not. I’ve worked with the man for years and am probably one of the few women who finds him flawed and annoying.
Once movies began streaming, and they began using ensemble casts, I found my home filming romance movies for the Love Is in the Air network.
I’ll admit, when they announced that Graham Crowley was joining the cast of my first movie, I was smitten, too.
He has those sexy, boy-next-door looks. The kind that say, “You remember me. I used to deliver the paper, but now I want to rock your daughter’s world.”
But then I met him, and I kissed him—contractually, of course. Talk about a lack of sparks.
It could be that he finds it humorous to eat bags of Doritos before our kissing scenes. And he hurries from the set to his trailer and hides out there. He’s always distracted, as if he’s working on some devious plot against me.
And let’s talk about the fact that I’m usually in the same state I am now—starving. So maybe it’s not the stunt he’s pulling with the Doritos, but the fact that he can eat a freaking bag of nacho chips and still have sex appeal. Seriously though, what kind of professional leaves cheese dust on their co-star?
Part of being a first-class actress is not letting on that the romantic scenes between me and Graham are anything but romantic. I work my ass off to not react to the smell of him or the taste. It’s led to more than one heated exchange.
We can’t stand one another. That’s not an exaggeration either.
He murmurs words under his breath as he walks away to his trailer, and I have been known to throw objects at his head.
We do our jobs, and by the ratings and the numbers of fans that show up to our fan events, we know we’re convincing.
So, we collect our paychecks, and smile in public. When we’re at fan events, cons, or just happen to be out in public at the same place, we’ll smile at each other, hold conversation, and I’ll even hold his hand—as he tends to grab mine. Now that I think about that, I wonder if it’s an insecurity he has. Is he afraid that I’m the string his shiny star hangs from? That he can’t risk me getting too far from him?
Knowing I’m going to be presenting an award with the man, while I’m sewn into a dress and my stomach is growling, makes me even more irritable. I’ll bet he’s eaten full meals today and his stomach won’t growl.
My father tucks his phone into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. “Okay, we’re the next car up,” he says.
My mother taps her fingers to her cheeks to give them some color as my father removes his reading glasses and hands them to my mother to put into her clutch. It’s probably the most married-couple thing they do.
He then takes out his sunglasses and puts those on. It’s dark outside, but what would Hollywood be if you could see everyone’s eyes?
Penny hands me my clutch. “Your phone is inside, as well as powder and lipstick.”
“Thank you,” I say, watching the lights to the theater come into view.
The streets are lined with people corralled behind barricades and being monitored by security guards.
The car slows and comes to a stop.
I can see Graham already talking to the press. In less than a minute, he’ll come toward me smiling as if he’s been waiting for me all day. That’s the plan that I was told, and I don’t like it. I don’t need him as arm candy. I can manage the press on my own. I hate it, but I can do it.
Penny gives me a reassuring smile as the door to the car is opened.
In well-practiced protocol, my father exits the car and there are hushed applause and a few camera flashes. Producers aren’t instantly recognized or appreciated like the actors that people see on TV or in the movies.
While my father buttons his jacket, my mother reaches for the hand offered by one of the ushers and steps out of the car. My father is too busy taking in the scene and shaking Graham Crowley’s hand to help his own wife out of the car.
There are a few more cheers for my mother. She’s not an actress, but she’s the face of her chain of exclusive spas, so people see her all the time on TV or on billboards and in ads. She’s elegant, graceful, filled with Botox, and as sewn into her dress as I am.
Graham heads toward the car. Now my growling stomach clenches.
I move to the door and take the hand that is offered to me.
“Thank you,” I say as I step out, my hand clasped in Graham’s.
He flashes that smile that makes the ratings go up, but makes my stomach churn.
Dark locks are brushed back and look to be as secured with lacquer as my curls. He’s cleanly shaven, and his signature woodsy scent hits me hard as I step in next to him.
“Nice to see you, sweetheart,” he says, annunciating the t’s sharply.
“Oh, you too, darling,” I say through gritted teeth.
He interlaces our fingers and begins to wave as the crowd’s cheers grow louder. This little stunt is pissing me off. Him walking me on the carpet just gives him double the time in front of the press. This is my entrance. With him holding my hand, he’s taking my cheers, and now he’s in all my photos.
I squeeze his hand hard while wearing a brilliant smile. My nails dig into his flesh.
“Ouch, darling,” he leans in toward my ear as if he’s saying something intimate. “Perhaps you can ease up?”
Through my gritted teeth, smile still brilliantly in place, I say, “Maybe you could give me some space.”
“The press expects us together.”
“To present,” I say as we walk toward the first of many reporters, stopping intermittently to pose for pictures.
“Oh, honey, haven’t you seen the rag mags or the talk shows? We’re a hot item.”
When he says that, I stop walking and turn to him.
The extra flashes from cameras don’t even register when I yank my hand from his.
“What?” I nearly shout.
Graham looks around, his smile still in place. “Oh, don’t do it, Malloy,” he says, calling me by my last name. “Don’t make a scene.”
“Why do they think we’re a couple?” I’m whispering loudly.
He leans in close again. “It’s what fans want.”
“I’m not in on this.”
People begin to call our names, a chant, if you will. I look around and realize that this little conversation is being recorded on every cell phone within a mile radius.
I put the smile back in place on my lips and let Graham take my hand again. “We need to have a talk about this,” I say.
Graham maneuvers his hand out of mine and wraps his arm around my waist to pull me in closer while flashes from cameras blind us. His fingers are pressed to the exposed flesh at my waist, as the designers saw it fit to make sure I was somewhat exposed.
“No doubt, princess. But for now, let’s be in love. We can hate each other again when this is over.”
I’m already there.
CHRISTINA
What the press doesn’t know could fill a library. “It was the shattering heard 'round the country. Christina Malloy threw a coffee mug at her co-star Graham Crowley. Though no one was hurt, these are the kinds of stories we hear coming from the set of the Love Is in the Air network stars.”
* * *
My stomach growls as I sit uncomfortably in the back of the limo.
My assistant Penny sharply turns her head to look at me. She heard it. I’m sure everyone outside of the car heard it, too.
Her eyes are wide and there is a look of panic that washes over her face. I’m not sure if she’s worried that it’ll make that kind of noise in the theater, or if she’s worried that I’m so hungry, I might pass out.
“Don’t mind my body,” I say flatly. “It’s just underfed, overstressed, and I can’t freaking breathe in this dress,” I complain as I move ever so slightly to try to adjust myself.
My mother, who is sitting on the bench across from me, checks her lipstick in her compact mirror before closing it and tucking it away in her clutch. I know she hasn’t eaten all day long either, but she doesn’t seem to be fazed by it like I am.
“You look magnificent, darling,” she says with that practiced tone, and not even one glance in my direction. With a gentle nudge to my father, she draws his attention to me. “Doesn’t she look magnificent, sweetheart?”
My father scans a look over me as if he’s only now realized I’m in the same car with them. “Yeah. You look great, sweetheart. Real great.”
I lift a brow. “Thanks,” I say in a tone as flat as the compliment I’m thanking him for.
Being the only daughter of one of Hollywood’s biggest producers and the founder of a chain of exclusive spas, I’m used to the short bursts of attention I get from my parents. Sometimes I’m surprised I was ever born. They only give one another short bursts of attention, too.
My mother fancies herself a doting parent, but let’s be honest, she falls short—extremely short. I mean, when your only daughter has the lead in Annie at the age of ten, and not just some school production, but a professional production, you don’t take that as the opportune time to go to Europe and tour all the spas for research for a pet project. But that’s what my mother did. She spent six weeks in Europe building her business while I sang my heart out, wishing for the sun to come out tomorrow.
My father, on the other hand, doesn’t even try to dote on me. Oh, I can have anything I want. After all, I am his baby girl, even at thirty. And by anything, I mean as a teenager, my credit card was always paid off and never questioned. My first car was a Lexus. And yes, I have a condo in Beverly Hills that is paid for, and I’ve lived there since I was eighteen. It was a graduation gift.
But, if I want his attention, then I must be in one of his movies—in which I’ve so far only been an extra.
He won’t invest in the “silly” movies I star in. He doesn’t see the appeal of romantic comedies, even though they are box office gold with the right duos. His money, and time, go into productions where the world gets blown up, every-single-time. Where F-words are much of the script, and where there is on-screen sex to fill the space. His premieres are the kinds where you see action heroes on the red carpet looking sexy as hell next to a waif of a model who might pass out at any time. And always, my father in his tux, his sunglasses on, and my mother and I at his side for show.
“You’re presenting with Graham Crowley?” my mother asks as she adjusts her breasts in her dress.
“Thanks for the reminder,” I say, hoping that my voice resonates the displeasure I feel about that.
I can see my assistant’s eyes glass over when I talk about Graham. She’s a fan. I am not. I’ve worked with the man for years and am probably one of the few women who finds him flawed and annoying.
Once movies began streaming, and they began using ensemble casts, I found my home filming romance movies for the Love Is in the Air network.
I’ll admit, when they announced that Graham Crowley was joining the cast of my first movie, I was smitten, too.
He has those sexy, boy-next-door looks. The kind that say, “You remember me. I used to deliver the paper, but now I want to rock your daughter’s world.”
But then I met him, and I kissed him—contractually, of course. Talk about a lack of sparks.
It could be that he finds it humorous to eat bags of Doritos before our kissing scenes. And he hurries from the set to his trailer and hides out there. He’s always distracted, as if he’s working on some devious plot against me.
And let’s talk about the fact that I’m usually in the same state I am now—starving. So maybe it’s not the stunt he’s pulling with the Doritos, but the fact that he can eat a freaking bag of nacho chips and still have sex appeal. Seriously though, what kind of professional leaves cheese dust on their co-star?
Part of being a first-class actress is not letting on that the romantic scenes between me and Graham are anything but romantic. I work my ass off to not react to the smell of him or the taste. It’s led to more than one heated exchange.
We can’t stand one another. That’s not an exaggeration either.
He murmurs words under his breath as he walks away to his trailer, and I have been known to throw objects at his head.
We do our jobs, and by the ratings and the numbers of fans that show up to our fan events, we know we’re convincing.
So, we collect our paychecks, and smile in public. When we’re at fan events, cons, or just happen to be out in public at the same place, we’ll smile at each other, hold conversation, and I’ll even hold his hand—as he tends to grab mine. Now that I think about that, I wonder if it’s an insecurity he has. Is he afraid that I’m the string his shiny star hangs from? That he can’t risk me getting too far from him?
Knowing I’m going to be presenting an award with the man, while I’m sewn into a dress and my stomach is growling, makes me even more irritable. I’ll bet he’s eaten full meals today and his stomach won’t growl.
My father tucks his phone into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. “Okay, we’re the next car up,” he says.
My mother taps her fingers to her cheeks to give them some color as my father removes his reading glasses and hands them to my mother to put into her clutch. It’s probably the most married-couple thing they do.
He then takes out his sunglasses and puts those on. It’s dark outside, but what would Hollywood be if you could see everyone’s eyes?
Penny hands me my clutch. “Your phone is inside, as well as powder and lipstick.”
“Thank you,” I say, watching the lights to the theater come into view.
The streets are lined with people corralled behind barricades and being monitored by security guards.
The car slows and comes to a stop.
I can see Graham already talking to the press. In less than a minute, he’ll come toward me smiling as if he’s been waiting for me all day. That’s the plan that I was told, and I don’t like it. I don’t need him as arm candy. I can manage the press on my own. I hate it, but I can do it.
Penny gives me a reassuring smile as the door to the car is opened.
In well-practiced protocol, my father exits the car and there are hushed applause and a few camera flashes. Producers aren’t instantly recognized or appreciated like the actors that people see on TV or in the movies.
While my father buttons his jacket, my mother reaches for the hand offered by one of the ushers and steps out of the car. My father is too busy taking in the scene and shaking Graham Crowley’s hand to help his own wife out of the car.
There are a few more cheers for my mother. She’s not an actress, but she’s the face of her chain of exclusive spas, so people see her all the time on TV or on billboards and in ads. She’s elegant, graceful, filled with Botox, and as sewn into her dress as I am.
Graham heads toward the car. Now my growling stomach clenches.
I move to the door and take the hand that is offered to me.
“Thank you,” I say as I step out, my hand clasped in Graham’s.
He flashes that smile that makes the ratings go up, but makes my stomach churn.
Dark locks are brushed back and look to be as secured with lacquer as my curls. He’s cleanly shaven, and his signature woodsy scent hits me hard as I step in next to him.
“Nice to see you, sweetheart,” he says, annunciating the t’s sharply.
“Oh, you too, darling,” I say through gritted teeth.
He interlaces our fingers and begins to wave as the crowd’s cheers grow louder. This little stunt is pissing me off. Him walking me on the carpet just gives him double the time in front of the press. This is my entrance. With him holding my hand, he’s taking my cheers, and now he’s in all my photos.
I squeeze his hand hard while wearing a brilliant smile. My nails dig into his flesh.
“Ouch, darling,” he leans in toward my ear as if he’s saying something intimate. “Perhaps you can ease up?”
Through my gritted teeth, smile still brilliantly in place, I say, “Maybe you could give me some space.”
“The press expects us together.”
“To present,” I say as we walk toward the first of many reporters, stopping intermittently to pose for pictures.
“Oh, honey, haven’t you seen the rag mags or the talk shows? We’re a hot item.”
When he says that, I stop walking and turn to him.
The extra flashes from cameras don’t even register when I yank my hand from his.
“What?” I nearly shout.
Graham looks around, his smile still in place. “Oh, don’t do it, Malloy,” he says, calling me by my last name. “Don’t make a scene.”
“Why do they think we’re a couple?” I’m whispering loudly.
He leans in close again. “It’s what fans want.”
“I’m not in on this.”
People begin to call our names, a chant, if you will. I look around and realize that this little conversation is being recorded on every cell phone within a mile radius.
I put the smile back in place on my lips and let Graham take my hand again. “We need to have a talk about this,” I say.
Graham maneuvers his hand out of mine and wraps his arm around my waist to pull me in closer while flashes from cameras blind us. His fingers are pressed to the exposed flesh at my waist, as the designers saw it fit to make sure I was somewhat exposed.
“No doubt, princess. But for now, let’s be in love. We can hate each other again when this is over.”
I’m already there.