A Summer of Stars

by Liana Cincotti

Genres: Contemporary Romance; New Adult Romance; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

Fake relationship terms and conditions: do not fall in love.
 
After a messy breakup, it feels like the entire world hates tennis superstar Luna Aldridge. With her reputation ruined and her career at risk, the only way to repair it is a PR stunt: fake-dating Hollywood’s golden boy, Kieran Alexander. There’s just one problem... Luna can’t stand him.

For Kieran, the feeling is mutual. He’s about to lead a big-screen love story, but his dating history is jeopardizing the film’s success. His team believes the world needs to see him wildly in love. And who better than Luna, the person he loathes most?

Soon, Luna and Kieran spend the summer posing for cameras, sharing red carpets and flying around the world for the tennis circuit. But the more they pretend, the more they question if they can keep their hearts, and their careers, together. Especially with everyone watching…

Release date: August 11, 2026

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

“Luna Aldridge Is Returning”

—With Glamour

BEING BOTH A people-pleaser and a perfectionist was the most devastating, unbearable combination to have in a person. Let alone in a woman, who already worried too much about what others thought.

With those two problems in the pot, just mix in being a professional athlete with media exposure in the middle of a scandal, and you had yourself a hurricane-sized disaster in the shape of me.

Luna Aldridge: stylish, witty tennis player by day, and anxious people-pleaser during these meetings.

I stared at the tennis court below, watching doubles practice in preparation for this weekend’s matches. Teams of two struck the ball back and forth, serving and hitting forehands.

The tendons in my ankles felt sore watching them dash forward and back, using every nugget of strength in their abdomens until sweat occupied every crevice.

“Yes, yes, I understand,” Deidra responded. She had a tight-knuckled grip on her phone as she stood eerily still at the front of the room. The rest of my PR team—assistants, communication specialists, social media managers—was pacing and whispering while I sat watching, waiting, my leg bouncing under the table.

My manager decided I needed a PR team when I won my first women’s singles title at Wimbledon five years ago.

The women’s doubles champions had invited me out that night to celebrate with the rest of the victors. I remember putting on my most coveted denim skirt and wedges, only to go to a club that hosted millionaires. I’ll never forget how the bouncer didn’t ask for my ID because he recognized my face.

“Are you sure? I have it on me!” I argued. I had turned twenty-one a week before, and all of a sudden, turning twenty-one had lost its purpose. Especially in a country whose legal drinking age I met years ago.

You’d think that’d be the most embarrassing part of the story, but the worst part was being photographed in woven wedges while surrounded by designer heels. I met actors, investors, tennis legends, and models that I’d only seen on screen.

It was the first time I was photographed and published as a star rather than the up-and-coming prodigy. “Newest Tennis Champion Gets Cocky,” the headline read. Coach held the limp paper in his hand like a mother holding her daughter’s pregnancy test.

“If I was a guy, I would’ve been patted on the back for taking a night off,” I had protested. Especially because it was five in the morning, and I was in the middle of sprint drills.

He had exhaled. “This is the first and last lesson I’ll give you when it comes to the public: Women, especially in sports, have no choice but to be perfect. And even when they’re perfect, people will still find a way to pull them down. So don’t let what happens out there affect what happens on this court.”

I hired a PR team, led by Deidra, and a stylist, the next day.

Deidra became my partner off the court. But her official title was Public Relations Executive of Professional Tennis Player Luna Aldridge. My Problem Solver during working hours, Friend outside of work, and Uno Rival when I was feeling competitive.

When I met her, she was the first person to explain how my image would affect my career. The best players got the high-paying sponsors and the billboard brand deals. But they also got the most attention. The most criticism. Before her, I thought my only job was out that window, on the court.

“You know how much of a perfectionist she is, Andy—she’ll get the job done,” Deidra said matter-of-factly on the phone.

Perfectionist. That word sounded like a frayed violin string snapping. I used to take pride in that word. I relished perfectionism; it meant no one would have a reason to criticize me.

Not anymore. Now I was a villain. And Deidra was doing her best to handle damage control.

“Okay, thank you. Just send me the DocuSign as soon as possible so we can get this set in stone.”

She had bad news. Good news for her, but bad news for me. Her pursed lips gave it away.

“Do I have to get I Love Charles Elizabeth tattooed on my dominant arm?” I teased. Everyone in the room was silent with hesitation. It was as if I asked how much the widow was getting out of the will at a funeral.

I closed my mouth. It was easy to forget that my problems were theirs too. Especially since those issues were usually my next match, rather than career-ending headlines.

Deidra glared. “No, they don’t want the company name on your body.” She leaned against the head of the table, tapping her pen on the wood.

“What do they want, then?” I narrowed my eyes.

“They want you in another relationship as soon as possible.”

It was like a rope was thrown over my diaphragm and pulled tight, like twine on a gift. Except the gift was also being crushed in a vise.

“Why? That makes no sense. All they wanted before was for me to wear a few rings at events. There isn’t anything else I can do to keep them on as a sponsor?”

“They know they’re the only sponsor you have left.”

Shit. “Leverage,” I huffed.

“This was the only agreement we could come to in order to keep them on.”

“A relationship, Dee? Really?”

She sighed. “They’re a jewelry company whose main message is ‘Love, It Sparkles.’ How did you think they were going to react to the situation?”

I perched my elbows on the table, dropping my chin onto my clasped hands. “No, I get it,” I breathed.

If this was what needed to happen to hold on to my last sponsor, then I’d get it done. “How does this work? Do we have a PowerPoint presentation to go through men Princess Diaries–style?”

The women—Serena, Cecilia, Willow, Mary—on my team (who were also my friends outside this room) snickered. Deidra glared at them and nodded her head. They funneled out like herded sheep.

Once everyone was out, she crossed her arms, building her chest up with confidence. Then she spoke. “You’re going to date Kieran Alexander.”

Her words echoed in my ears as if I had been the victim of a nearby explosion.

Kieran Alexander.

I’d never heard the words date and Kieran in the same sentence, but now I knew I was allergic to them. Suddenly, I was going into anaphylaxis. My skin was hot, my stomach tumbled with nausea, my airways were closing up, and my mind was reeling.

The physical letters that formed the name Kieran pissed me off. They should all be banned and discarded from the alphabet, never to be used again. I’d lose half the letters in my name and sign off on being called Lu in order to support this law. I’d make that sacrifice for the good of the world.

The anxious muscles in my legs pushed me out of my chair, feeling the need to move—think, strategize, calculate a plan that wasn’t this. I bit my tongue, shaking my head. If I spoke, it wasn’t going to be professional.

Deidra watched me pace, waiting for my response.

“There must be someone else. I will date anyone else,” I said firmly.

“It needs to be him,” she responded decisively.

Her coldness caught me off guard. This was her job, I knew that. But not caring wasn’t like her.

Unless—“You picked him, didn’t you?”

“I chose him because I know it will work.”

This wasn’t fair. But after the last eight months, I was beginning to learn that nothing about life was fair.

“You know what happened,” I urged, reminding her, but more so myself. This scandal was some twisted lie. She knew that. She was part of our tight circle who knew the truth.

But she shook her head. “It doesn’t matter that I know what actually happened. What matters is what people think happened. Perception matters more than truth in these scenarios—you should know that more than anyone by now—and we need a solution to change their perception of you before you get back on that court. Mr. Alexander is our solution.”

The doorknob turned. In walked Amir Kumar, my friend and nutritionist. “Luna, you’ll never believe who was working at Guac My World today—”

I shook my head as a warning, widening my eyes to say not the time. Amir shut his mouth, mirroring my reaction with twice the horror.

“Leave the smoothie, Kumar,” Deidra stated.

He nodded his head and put the smoothie down on the table, then spun around on one foot and walked back out.

When the door shut, I spoke up. “You’re not telling me why it has to be him, though.”

“Mr. Alexander’s team is trying to promote his upcoming romance film. However, he’s garnered the reputation of a—”

“Frat boy.”

“—bachelor. Seeing him in a romantic relationship would help make his character more believable and increase ticket sales.”

“So he needs me.”

“No, you need each other.”

“Why can’t his team find someone else?”

“His team can find someone else, Luna. We are the ones who can’t. You also already know him—the public has seen the two of you interact in years past, so it’ll make this more believable. But if you’re not going to come out about the truth, then we need to be strategic about this. Your last and only sponsor wants you in a relationship to market their love-inspired jewelry. And the public sees you as a toxic, stuck-up, unloving woman because the world’s most popular tennis star said so. So if the public trusts tennis’s prince so much, then I’m positive they’ll listen to Hollywood’s king.”

“Spotted: Luna Aldridge Photographed for the First Time in Eight Months—Everything We Know About Her Return”

—Pop Culture Weekly

MY “SPOTTED SIGHTING” was a morning run through my secluded neighborhood. At least I had worn my good sports bra.

But the headline felt like some mistake; had it truly been eight months?

Eight months ago, I couldn’t fathom returning to professional tennis, not after everything that happened with Jeremiah. I felt like a wrung-out towel left to dry in the sun after spending too many hours in the water, every fiber of my being whittling away and flaking off, leaving me hollow.

They—my team—had given me six months after I left Jeremiah. Six months to breathe and peel my anxiety and sadness off like some stubborn Band-Aid before reentering the limelight.

I was going to convince them to give me a few more weeks once the six months were up. Just another month hiding in my childhood home, allowing mornings to blend into afternoons, and afternoons to nights. Of granting my body the permission to bleed as many tears as I wanted and practice my sport like it wasn’t my job. Like it wasn’t supposed to be perfect.

Then everything exploded two months ago.

Deidra showed up on my doorstep and played me an unaired interview that would be released in hours, given to us early to prepare.

My skin iced over. My joints stiffened and my mouth dried up, and it felt as if I were watching myself from afar, like Scrooge witnessing his foreseeable future. But this wasn’t fear for the future or some teaching lesson. It was happening simply because my existence bothered Jeremiah.

She played the interview. His voice was the same. Of course it was the same. And suddenly, there was mine too. He had pulled a sound bite from our argument to justify his stance. I vomited at the sound of my voice.

I went from empty and evasive to hated and pushed out when Jeremiah participated in that insane interview and released that recording. It seemed like there wasn’t a person in the world who hadn’t watched it. Which meant that there wasn’t a person in the world who didn’t hate me. He turned me into a commodity for his personal amusement, using the one thing that scared me most to keep me hidden:

Ruining my reputation.

I wanted to hide for another six months—years—as I read people’s reactions.

My PR team flooded my messages with game plans and prepared responses. My foot bounced and my lip bled under the weight of my teeth as I read and listened and watched, praying that someone would speak up.

But they all believed him.

I didn’t respond; I didn’t leave my home. Yet colleagues and fans and the media repeated the names he called me, as if in solidarity. Within one night, the whole world decided I was worthy of their anger. Hate mail, lost sponsors, spammed social media accounts with criticism. I was suffocating in an empty home with their words.

Almost two months had passed since then. Two months that allowed fury to curl around itself and build.

I wanted my goddamn sport back.

Jeremiah was a resurrected nightmare that had returned one more time to stab me in the back. But I didn’t feel like crying with the knife in my back anymore, so I yanked it out and handed it to Deidra.

If she said Kieran would be my answer, then I’d do whatever it took to get my life back.

“Don’t do this, Luna, this is ridiculous.”

Sweat was forming its own river down the side of my temple. I cut its path short, wiping it with the back of my hand.

One more mile to go.

“Dad, it’s happening, it’s already been decided.”

He grumbled. “Then why did you call?”

I rolled my eyes. “Because we always talk on Saturdays at seven.”

“Well, it’s noon in Lisbon.”

“What’s in Lisbon?”

“My newest investment.” There was a jolly note in his tone. I could hear his smile through the phone. “I’m currently walking around a vineyard outside my newest restaurant with a glass of wine. Did you know the Portuguese make the best wine in the world?”

“I can hear Nonna rolling in her grave at that remark. Also, I thought Walt cut you off from any more investments?”

“Your brother may be my financial advisor, but that doesn’t make him any less my son. I know a good investment when I see one.” His voice moved in and out of the speaker, which meant he was waving his hands around.

“What about that wine that sparkles when you pour it?”

“God forbid I make one mistake out of eighty-nine investments!”

“It was a fifty-thousand-dollar investment,” I corrected him. Turning a corner, I caught my breath outside a small bakery before returning to a jogging pace. It was often quiet this time of day in Scarsdale.

“If my mind serves me right, you were a pretty big investment too,” he grumbled. But it was a fatherly grumble, the kind that emerged when he gave in to his children.

“This investment has had a pretty big return,” I pointed out.

“Not if you’re going to frolic around with some actor.” Here we go again.

“Dad, this is so they’ll get off my back, so I can do what I do best, remember? We’re doing this Deidra’s way,” I explained.

“This is Jeremiah’s fault, so we should be making this his problem.” My foot slipped at the sound of his name, my phone taking the fall so I could catch myself on the pavement. The beat of my heart sat in my throat as his name rang in my ears.

I scrambled to pick up my phone, brushing the gravel off my knees. Fortunately, Dad was still busy talking. “If we were doing it my way, there’d be a lawyer on that douchebag’s steps and an interviewer on yours for a tell-all.”

“This will work,” I decided, running again.

“Nowhere in this plan is there a strategy to put Jeremiah six feet in the gr—”

“I don’t think people are fond of letting criminals invest in their businesses, so I’d lower your voice.”

“Criminals invest more than you think.”

“Well, let’s not add that to your portfolio, Walt himself would swim to Lisbon to kill you. Now I have to go; I just got home.”

There was a sigh of unrest on his end. “Next Saturday?”

“Next Saturday,” I confirmed and hung up.

When I walked inside, I kicked the mail on the floor to the side, ignoring the one on top from Jeremiah—it would go straight in the trash anyway. Walt was still asleep on my couch. I gave the man a whole guest room, and he still managed to fall asleep in the living room every time he was visiting with one of Dad’s investors.

I pushed my sneakers off before I approached the couch. He was curled up like his orange cat; his dress shirt untucked, resting above plaid pajama pants. How he found the energy to change his pants but not his shirt, I had no clue. We had very different ideas of a nighttime routine. His: work on your laptop until enough is done that you can nod off and slip into REM. Mine: matching striped pajama set, only the nightstand lamp on, and a shortbread cookie on a cocktail napkin in bed.

Extremely different habits and personalities, but you’d never know. We looked like we were picked from the same litter. We had the same brown hair. The same straight bridge of a nose. The same oval face. Mom always said we looked like each other rather than her or Dad. As kids, she’d even give us the same haircut until I was five (him seven). Unfortunately, the decided haircut suited him more than me. But I’d never admit that to him.

“Walt,” I said, nudging his shoulder. Nothing. “Walt,” I repeated. He groaned on the third nudge, picking his head up from the armrest.

“Sleeping Beauty, I have to get ready,” I warned. “So if you’re going to shower, it needs to be right now.”

“Okay, okay, I’m getting up,” he muttered.

“I just got off the phone with Dad—heard you’re giving him a hard time,” I teased.

“If he considers not going bankrupt ‘a hard time,’ then sure. It’s not like I fly out to meet with a board every time he finds something interesting.”

“What time is that meeting?”

He reached for my phone. “Hour fifteen.”

“At least you get free lodging.”

“Not free meals.”

“You want me to cook for you?”

“Ew.”

“That’s what I thought.” Neither of us got that gene from Mom. “Get off my couch so I can clean up.”

He stood from the rearranged cushions to collect ruffled papers from the coffee table. “Why are you in such a rush?”

“I have a meeting in the city too.”

“Perfect, we can drive in together.”

“Not if you’re going this slow.” I whacked him with a cushion.

“Wait, what do you have a meeting for?”

“I’m rejoining the WTA tour.”

His hands paused on a stack of papers. “You’re serious?”

“Completely.”

“You’re sure?”

“Completely.” I picked the pillows off the floor.

“You don’t think you’re rushing into this?” he asked. “Seeing as everything just blew up like… two months ago.”

“It’s embarrassing enough that I’m jumping in in the middle of a season. I’m not going to wait until next year and prolong this. Then it’ll be a whole thing.” Tournaments began as early as January, and it was already the end of May.

“I think this is already a whole thing.”

I stopped and stared at him. “Thank you for your support,” I deadpanned.

He rolled his eyes. “I’m not supposed to be back in the city for a bit, but I can always find a reason if you wanted to go over a plan or needed help making a statement of some kind?”

That was Walt—a plan of attack, a spreadsheet, a formal pre-planned statement. He never knew what to say, but he sure could help you figure out what to say. Ensure things went smoothly. Avoid future catastrophes. Hence why Dad (a man who dropped catastrophes behind him like pieces of pocket lint) caused him so much stress.

Walt always inserted his opinion. You’d think getting a word in was a personal achievement for him. But his words had a melancholic edge, dripping with protectiveness.

It reminded me of when we were kids. We’d go from bickering over the shower before school to him giving me a head start to the bathroom by pretending to sleep in, knowing I had had a disappointing practice the night before. Even as an adult he didn’t know what to say.

“It’s okay, PR has a plan, so I’ll let them handle that while I handle winning,” I reassured him.

“And that plan would be?” he asked, moving so I could place another pillow back.

“A public relationship with Kieran Alexander.”

He spun. “The guy who called you an excuse for a tennis player?” Evidently a rhetorical question. “You’re actually going to entertain this?”

I huffed, throwing the last pillow down. “It’s just business. I’m not happy about it either, trust me, but it’s just temporary.” Or at least that’s what I’m telling myself.

I left the room and walked upstairs past my trophy display: five Wimbledon trophies, three from Roland-Garros, two from the Madrid Open, and one from the Australian Open. It wasn’t much compared to what others achieved at twenty-six in pro tennis. But the one that taunted me most was the missing US Open trophy. I managed to lose it.

Every. Time.

A dress shoe hit the floor before a foot was shoved into it, tapping up the stairs behind me. “You’re being oddly calm about this,” he said.

“I have no choice but to be calm. I’m doing what I can to smooth out this scandal. That way I can return to tennis without worrying about people shouting at me from the stands.”

There was a fist closing around my heart. All I could picture were the headlines saying I should never step outside, let alone on a court.

“It’s just a PR stunt. People in the industry do it all the time, it’s like a rite of passage,” I said. Everything will be fine. I exhaled, trying to alleviate the tension in my chest.

“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to, Luna,” he stated firmly. “Mom would say the same thing.”

He was right. She would. But she wasn’t here, and she didn’t know the situation.

“It’s me versus Jeremiah right now, and I’m not going to let him win by continuing to hide. Now go shower or we’re both going to be late.”

I finished the steps and closed my bedroom door.

Two hours until hell froze over.

Five Years Prior

“Film Writer & Director Penelope Collins and Actor Kieran Alexander’s Romance Ends”

—Hollywood Today

I FREED UP all the drawers in my place for Penelope. When I looked back on it now, I wasn’t sure if it was because I loved her or if it was because I was alone. But in those moments, I was sure that I loved her. I loved the way she set her toothbrush next to mine on the sink. I loved the way she sat by the open window of my apartment when a new idea came to her, scribbling it in her notebook. I loved the way she spoke, like every word had to be deserving of a soliloquy.

Back in Spain, I grew up familiar with the sound of the coffeepot gurgling and the door across the hall from mine clicking open. Mom would knock, ready for me to start cooking breakfast. With Dad already at El Mar, his restaurant (Spanish for “the sea,” because of its proximity to the ocean), there was one fewer set of hands to help.

I’d go straight to Abuela’s door. She didn’t need anyone to motivate her—her favorite time of the day was the morning—until Abuelo’s passing. Now she only watched the seabirds from her window, making it that much more important to keep her moving. Grief loved immobility. So I cut the fruit, cooked the omelets, poured the juice, and met her outside for a walk on the beach. It was a routine we could both count on.

Moving to New York City years later to pursue acting—no family, no sea, no routines—I missed it. But Penelope brought color back into my life. She was a writer and director, directed a film I costarred in. When it wrapped, we celebrated in a dimly lit corner pub where she told me she found me “charming.” So I kissed her, and she kissed me back. Two weeks later, I didn’t want to let her go. Months later, I had to. She had a work trip to California for a few months.

“Don’t come, I’ll be flooded with work. It wouldn’t be fair to you,” she had urged.

“But, Pen—”

“No, Kieran, I mean it. I need to focus.”

“Yeah, of course, I get it. I’ll see you when you get back.”

Two months passed, and I was at her door the night she said she’d be home.

Then two hours passed as I watched the hydrangeas on my lap wilt away. Soft and fatigued. When I realized she wasn’t coming, I left, only to catch her as she was walking into the apartment complex. Satisfaction was slow to hit me in the chest, but quick to leave when I saw someone walk in with her.

“Kieran, what are you doing here…” she had said, looking between me and the guy beside her.

My cheeks were flushed, as if I had come in from the December air, rather than October’s comforting autumn. She stared at me, lost, like there wasn’t a nightstand in my room dedicated to her things. Like the necklace sitting around her collarbone wasn’t something I had bought.

“You had said… I thought…” I couldn’t compile the words. Not with him there, watching me the same way she was. I had never felt so small. “You’re back,” was all I could manage.

She said nothing, only took my wrist and dragged me outside. “What are you doing here?”

“Just searching for ways to booby-trap the lobby of my apartment complex since there’s such an influx of mice lately, and your place really seems to be managing the epidemic well.”

“Kieran.”

“Penelope, I’m here to see you, of. . .