Celebrity Crush

by Christy Swift

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

A romance writer’s wildest dreams—the bestseller list, a movie deal, and a date with the real-life inspiration for her Hollywood hero—are all within her grasp if only she can hold it all together.
 
 Author Emmy Ellison is a sucker for a page-turning happy ending, but she’s no longer counting on one for herself. If she stays focused on her career goals instead of her love life, she just might find success. And now that her latest novel is about to become a movie, she’s determined to become the latest social media sensation.

Enter her plan for her secret celebrity crush, the real-life inspiration for her romantic hero. When he accepts the starring role in the big-screen adaptation of her book, she’s determined to team up with a fake dating scheme—now that he’s in need of some good PR of his own. Ideally, she can ride the wave of popularity all the way to the top of the bestseller lists. But when the harsh spotlight of fame exposes the truth, will they try to turn their on-camera chemistry into a real-life relationship?
 

Release date: February 11, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

I’M A REDSHIRT in the movie of life.

That’s a character who’s only in the scene for plot purposes, who usually gets killed off right away, or at least pretty soon. I’m the one you don’t recognize, hanging back, searching for dilithium crystals in the exact perfect place for a stray laser blast to hit me or a two-headed pterodactyl thing to swoop in and carry me off, screaming.

I don’t mind it too much. At least I get some proverbial camera time.

No, that’s a lie. I do mind it, which is why I’m here… to level up.

I peek around the corner, spying a slice of the audience and hearing their roaring laughter. My handler, who looks like Natalie Portman with a grudge, stops me by pinching my elbow kind of hard. We’re right behind a row of spotlights with dust motes swirling in their halos. As a social media influencer, I’ve done tons of vlogs and podcasts, but this is the first time I’ve been interviewed on an actual television show. A complicated feeling invades my stomach, something between excitement and craving tacos. It’s not nerves. I don’t get nervous.

No, that’s a lie, too. I rarely get nervous. But this is The Terica Show. Who isn’t going to get a little nervous?

The audience bursts out in laughter, and as if that’s my cue, I stumble forward a step.

“Not yet,” Angry Nat hisses, yanking me back.

Her tone makes me feel more like a redshirt than ever. It’s been thirteen years since Hollywood and I last hung out together, and I don’t know how either of us feels about that. Well, this is Burbank, but close enough. Hollywood isn’t really a place, after all. It’s a universe. A universe I desperately want to belong to.

Except I don’t belong. I was told as much by a very credible source with very cold hands. I can still hear his exact words: You’re small potatoes. Forget it. Hollywood’s not for everyone. What was your name again?

The fact that I’m here to talk about My Book That I Wrote suggests, however, that hard work does sometimes pay off. That, if we play our cards right, redshirts, too, can become stars.

“Okay, okay.” Angry Nat presses her headset to her ear and swings in my direction. “We’re going to commercial. It’ll be another couple minutes.”

The wait is torture, but I tug my phone out of my back pocket and use the time to repost some of my favorite Lost Star Dance Troupe Saves the Universe memes. I remind my followers that one of the four hottest male celebs from everybody’s favorite sci-fi dance TV show is the inspiration for my celebrity crush romance novel and that I’m about to go onstage to talk about it right now. It should create some last-minute buzz for the show.

The best memes are all right there waiting for me in my favorites. I take a moment to feed my addiction. My BFF, Josie, says the devil is going to drag me to hell by way of Lost Star memes. I disagree. Everyone knows the road to hell is paved with Henry Cavill memes.

Terica says something I don’t catch. Was it my name? Oh God, did I miss my cue?

“Go, go, go!” Angry Nat gives me a shove, and suddenly my feet are moving, and I’m onstage smiling and waving like I’m Princess Kate. The applause is a giddy ocean in my head, and I blink in the bright lights. All the rules Nat barked at me earlier rush back to me: Don’t trip on the taped-down wires; approach Terica from her left; don’t look at the backstage crew… don’t look at them!

When I shake Terica’s hand, I feel like I’m getting sucked into her brown, perfectly made-up eyes surrounded by her brown, perfectly made-up skin. A copy of my book rests on the knees of her bone-colored pantsuit. Sliding into the cushioned chair across from her, I gaze out at the blurry sea of faces. Everyone is still clapping, so I wave some more, this time with both hands. I’m smiling so hard that I can’t feel my face.

“Welcome, welcome, Emmy Ellison! How does it feel to have your novel on the New York Times bestseller list? You’re a New York Times bestselling author! Let’s give her another hand, everyone!”

As the audience claps and cheers some more, my chest balloons, and I don’t even know what to do with myself. When the applause dies down, I let out a deep breath. “It feels amazing, Terica. Thank you for having me on the show. Can I—” I hesitate but then just go for it. “Can I say hi to my daughter?” Terica’s tight, dyed-blond curls bob a quick yes, so I wave at the close-up camera. “Hi, Peyton! I love you! I miss you!” I know my tweeny-bopper will love that I gave her a shout-out.

Terica holds up my book. “For those of you who don’t know her yet, Emmy is a novelist and social media influencer. Over the last month, her posts around her rom-com Hashtag Celebrity Crush have gone viral, propelling it to number ten on the New York Times bestseller list, and it’s also been optioned for film. You may have seen her popular vlogs Dolphin Tells Your Fortune and…” She looks at her notes. “Random Yoga Poses. Those sound fun.”

My nerves have started to settle. I’ve been interviewed about my romance novel a bunch of times already for the publishing industry, but general audiences never paid attention until I had that extra glass of wine on vlog-taping night and admitted that the book was based on my actual celebrity crush. Authors like to imagine which actors might play their characters all the time, so it shouldn’t even be that big a deal, but in the world of social media, you never know what’s going to take off. When it does, you’ve got to jump on that rocket and ride it all the way to the moon.

My rocket was a viral internet poll. Boy, did that thing go nuts! Over six million responses. Oh, and I’m pretty sure Terica’s expecting me to reveal today who my celebrity crush really is. I don’t know if I should fess up or not. I could milk this thing for another couple of weeks if I wanted to. Although revealing him might bump sales even higher.

Meanwhile, Terica’s still telling the audience about me, because being a social media influencer with a book deal isn’t the same as being a bona fide celebrity. By Hollywood standards, I’m still a card-carrying nobody. No matter how well I do with my social media business, no matter how many sales my book gets, I’ll probably still see myself as Rhett Castle saw me thirteen years ago when I tried to peddle him my first screenplay at that swanky LA party: some young woman, no, girl, in last year’s slinky dress. Not blond enough but not brunette enough, either. Carrying a knockoff Chanel purse. Too loud. Too excited. Unpolished. Good enough to lure into bed, but not good enough for anything else.

Hollywood’s not for everyone. What was your name again?

All those feelings came rushing in on me this morning when I lifted my chin and saw those famous, colored LAX pylons staring down at me from a better-than-you blue sky. Even the air had a threatening nip to it—Cali showing me who’s boss.

I may not belong in Hollywood, but at least for today, I’m here, and nobody can take that away.

“Emmy’s on TikTok, Instagram, Facebook, and several more platforms. Wow, and you write books and screenplays, too. That’s a lot to keep up with.”

I clear my throat. “Yes, Terica. My philosophy is to take off and nuke the entire site from orbit…”

Terica stares at me. It’s my favorite Sigourney Weaver quote from Aliens, but she doesn’t recognize it. What a heartbreak. I have to finish it myself. “It’s the only way to be sure.”

Someone in the audience whoops, and I toss them a thumbs-up. At least there’s one sci-fi fan in the house.

“Where did you get your idea for the novel, Emmy?”

The honest answer is from real-life memes, Duran Duran songs, and maybe an itty-bitty bit of my crush’s personal life that I probably shouldn’t have put in there. But what I say is, “I love the Hollywood scene. I studied screenwriting at UCLA for two years before I got—before I realized what I really wanted was to write books, so I meshed that with the work I’m doing now in social media, and voilà!”

“That’s great.” Terica winks. “But that’s not what everybody’s talking about when it comes to your book, is it, Emmy?”

I shake my head, grinning.

“The male character, the love interest, is based on your actual celebrity crush, am I right?”

“‘Based on’ is a strong way of putting it.” I rub my knees. “I would go with ‘inspired by.’”

“Ah yes, the lawyers have gotten involved. Fair enough.” Terica looks to the audience, and they’re ready with the laughs. “The poll you created has narrowed it down to one of the four male members of Lost Star Dance Troupe Saves the Universe. Let’s take a look at those guys.”

The screen behind me flickers to reveal the vlog post introducing my poll. The unattractive thumbnail has me sporting pursed lips in midsentence and a sloppy bun with wavy highlights escaping. Behind me are the familiar living room walls of the travel trailer where Peyton and I live on the west coast of Florida. Can anyone tell it’s a trailer? The video crackles to life.

EMMY: Okay, friends and fans, it’s time! I’m Emmy Ellison and the Hashtag Celebrity Crush poll is up and ready for your votes! Which hunka hunka dancin’ love is my book inspired by? Let’s take a look at what we’re working with.

First, there’s Sean O’Sullivan with that one lock of yellow in his raven hair strategically bouncing as the world explodes behind him. O captain my captain! Gotta love that unshakable self-assurance. You also gotta love how half his shirt is ripped off. Anatomy students, do you want to name those muscles for us? Hold the phone, here comes the Irish smolder! Look at that mouth. So pouty and sensual. I’ll just give you a moment on your own with that mouth.

Next, it’s our gentle giant, Jason “Mount” Ramirez. Pretty nimble on his feet for a big guy. I swear he’s Mario Lopez and the Rock’s love child. Those brown eyes are like pools of infinity… I can’t look away. I. Just. Can’t. Here he is curled up in his sexy space underwear, presumably lost in a shuttle floating away for eternity. Who didn’t cry during that episode? On a side note, I hope the men’s underwear industry is taking notes because that’s a future I want to live in.

Next in line is the other Jason, Jason Connor, our charmer with his endless facial expressions. Let’s run through a few of those. The fierce face. The worried face. The confused face. The sweet-slash-shy face. There’s the million-dollar smile. Oh, the curls! Don’t you just want to cut them all off and make a little nosegay to lay on your pillow at night? It can’t just be me. And the famous “Hey, buddy” photo, where he’s holding his newborn son. Excuse me, I think I just received a lethal dose of awwww.

And last, but not least, Andrew Valentine, our long, lean cowboy. His Lost Star character is a bit shady, but Andrew himself is an awesome guy! Really musical. Here he is playing guitar… cue the swoon! Still spends time on the family ranch. Look at that wink! Mmm. Not available, of course. Andrew and his wife just celebrated their tenth anniversary. Congratulations, you two! I’m still allowed to have a harmless fangirl crush on him, though, so don’t count him out.

All right, so here’s what you do… read the book, see if you can figure out who my celebrity crush is from the clues, and place your votes. Thanks for tuning in! Don’t forget to like and subscribe. Emmy Ellison signing off!

The video ends, and I startle to see Terica leaning in toward me. Her voice drops a register. “Now, Emmy, I don’t think you know how big this has gotten.”

The numbers on my Fitbit tick up. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“These four are in actual competition for this title you’re offering. They’re trash-talking each other. It’s like Fight Club. I think there might even be a Ferrari in it for someone.”

I know she’s joking, but I’m giddy and thrilled all the same. “They wouldn’t know unless they’d read the book.”

“Ah, yes, the clues. I spotted a few when I read it.”

I swallow hard. A terrifying thought occurs to me. If Terica has read my book and figured out who my crush is, there’s a chance he could actually be here. Maybe she brought him here to meet me!

I cough into my fist. Hell to the no, I’m not prepared for that. This is about a poll. This is about a book. This is not about meeting the man I’ve swooned over through screens for years. He can’t be here today. That can’t happen.

Although, this is Hollywood. And he does live here.

I spy a glass of ice water on the table next to me and gulp half of it down.

“Time for a commercial break!” Terica announces.

Once the cameras are off us, I brace for her to drop the bomb on me or to at least give me a clue that my freaking celebrity crush is here, but she just turns to the side and checks her phone instead.

I spit ice back into my glass and take a couple of cleansing yoga breaths. I’m overthinking this. I’ve been away so long I’ve forgotten that, here in Hollywood, it’s all about the hook. Terica’s teasing is just fun and games for the audience’s benefit. She doesn’t know who my crush is. He’s not hiding in the back, waiting in that little area behind the screen where I was a few minutes ago. Still, I crane my neck for a look. I can’t help it.

“You ready?” Terica tucks her phone away as the camera-person cues her.

I grin and nod. I’m starting to feel a bit like the girl I used to be back in college. Bright, shiny Emmy with a bright, shiny Hollywood future ahead of her. The Emmy I was before I realized that my little mistake with Rhett was growing bigger every month. Before I turned tail and ran.

The cameras roll, and Terica catches up those just tuning in before focusing back on me. “Emmy, celebrity crushes are all about fantasy. So, if you were to get the opportunity to meet your actual crush, what would you do?”

Suddenly cocky, I drop my voice. “What would I do or what would I want to do?” The audience laughs, and my heart flutters in a good way.

“It’s a family show, Emmy,” Terica says in comedic deadpan. “You know that, right? Let’s keep it clean.”

The audience is really going now. She’s a great wingwoman.

“Well, Terica…” I tap my finger on my lips. “I don’t expect him to carry me off into the sunset on a horse or anything, but I would like… a hug.”

“Awww.” Terica draws it out in a way that cues the audience to awww with her.

“And it would have to be a long hug, long enough to make everyone else in the room a little uncomfortable.”

“Hmm.” She raises her eyebrows.

“Not because I’m trying to be creepy, or not necessarily because I’m trying to be creepy…”

Laughter. I’m on a roll.

“But because, when it happens, I’m going to be totally freaking out for the first several seconds, and if the hug ends too quickly, I won’t have had a chance to enjoy it. It needs to be extra long, so I can let all that nervous energy work its way out, and I can relax and—” I pause, searching for the right word. “Appreciate it.”

“That’s nice.” Terica turns to the audience. “All she wants is a hug.”

“Not just any hug. A quality hug.” Well, maybe that’s not all I’d want, but that’s all America is getting out of me today. Honestly, I don’t know why I’m telling the whole world the secrets of my heart. But then again, why not? Maybe my crush will see this show and… No, that’s crazy.

“I don’t think that’s too much to ask of a perfect stranger,” Terica says. “What do you guys think?” The audience hoots and hollers.

Then something changes. Terica is quiet for longer than usual. I feel it. The audience feels it. A kind of tenseness envelops us, like we’re all waiting for someone to jump out and yell, Boo!

“Okay, Emmy,” Terica finally says. “You know I read your book, right? I loved it, by the way. And you’re right, there are a lot of clues in there, but I still couldn’t figure out who your celebrity crush was. So…”

She pauses, and I stop breathing. “So, what?” I gasp.

“So, I invited them all!”

A tsunami of screaming rises from the audience, and I jolt in my chair.

No, this can’t be! I search Terica’s face for a sign that I’m being punked. Wait for it, Emmy. Any second, it’ll come. But she’s not even looking at me. In fact, she’s whipping the audience up into even more frenzied applause, and oh hell in a handbasket, she isn’t joking! This is real! This is happening! I’m about to meet my celebrity crush and three other superhot megastars.

Icy prickles ripple across my skin in the wake of a terrible thought. What if he’s a jerk? What if he blows me off, and I’m here looking all smitten and dumb, and I humiliate my twelve-year-old on TV, and all my new fans decide I’m too cringey to subscribe to? The lights on my dashboard click on, one by one. The ship’s computer warns me there’s a perimeter alert, a singularity forming, a bogey on my tail.

“Should I bring them out?” Terica shouts to the audience above the din. “Sean O’Sullivan is probably chewing off his very sexy foot back there! Let’s put him out of his misery, what do you say? Come on out, guys!”

“Wait—” I start to protest, but my voice is drowned out by a wall of noise. If I thought the audience was excited a moment ago, it was a paltry shadow of what they are doing now as the Lost Star men emerge from stage right. I may go deaf from the decibel level in the studio, but thank God and Tom Hanks I’m not blind, because it would be a damn shame not to see this.

Four specimens of manly perfection make their way across the stage, preceded only by a breezy mixture of their respective colognes. Andrew Valentine comes out first in skinny jeans, snakeskin boots, and a sport coat over a retro Las Vegas T-shirt. His trademark white cowboy hat is perched on his head, and his lopsided smile doesn’t falter as he spins away from the audience, shakes Terica’s hand, and then sets his sights on me. As he closes the distance between us, I consider standing up, but my legs don’t get the message, and it’s too late to move as he takes my hand and shakes it before falling into a chair that has (magically?) appeared beside me. A crew member mikes him up.

I pull my gaze away to find Mount Ramirez already towering over me in a pin-striped button-down shirt that is trying not to tear itself to pieces over his huge pecs. I mean, all these guys are muscled, but this dude is Chris Hemsworth muscled. My hand is swallowed by the warmth of his as I nod into his clean-shaven, dimpled face with those soulful dark eyes. God almighty.

I don’t even catch a breath before the Lost Star captain himself, Sean O’Sullivan, is in front of me in a three-piece gray suit with that mouth and his one wavy lock of blond hair practically glowing. I swear, if someone told me the world would end in a fiery blaze of pain and destruction unless I tore my eyes away from him, I’m still not sure I could do it. He raises my captured fingers to his lips, and I’m pretty sure my eyes go wide, because one corner of his mouth tweaks up in a knowing grin and a wink before he, too, shifts to the side and finds a seat.

But they saved the best for last.

Jason Connor saunters my way, his easy smile aimed at me like a weapon of mass destruction. He’s in jeans and a silk Hawaiian shirt that is so wrong for the decade and so right in every other way. He captures my hand in his, and when my gaze locks onto his azure eyes, it’s like I’m in a free fall through a cloudless sky because suddenly there’s no oxygen in the air, just citrus-musk cologne and adrenaline. A brown curl falls across his forehead as he leans in and says, “It’s nice to meet you, Emmy,” his voice cracking on my name. It’s the sexy, vulnerable little crack that comes out when he’s doing an emotional scene. That little voice crack kills me.

He’s already moved aside before I can reply, and I check to make sure that (a) I’m still breathing, and (b) I haven’t melted into a puddle on the floor that Angry Nat will have to mop up later.

Did I just meet Jason Connor? Did he just touch me? Did that happen?

Maybe it’s happening to a version of me in an alternate universe, like in Lost Star season one, episode eleven. Maybe a rift in the space-time continuum has caused our energy signatures to align. God bless you, quantum physics.

The coolness of Terica’s hand on my forearm yanks me back to this dimension. Her crocodile grin is wide. “That was kind of mean of me, wasn’t it?”

I’m about to agree, but then something occurs to me: how much fun this is. This is so freaking fun! Whoever gets to do this? Me, that’s who. And I’m going to enjoy every nanosecond of it.

Leaning forward with obvious relish to get a better look at the four superstars to my right, I reply, “On the contrary, Terica, you’re officially my new best friend. A woman named Josie in Florida is going to be very upset.” I glance around for the close-up camera. “Josie, hon, I’m sorry! I’m really sorry!”

Terica laughs along with everyone else. My chest swells to see the guys chuckling, too, especially Jason Connor. He’s made me laugh so many times that it’s kind of nice to return the favor.

“I’ve been meaning to have some of the Lost Star cast on to talk about the charity work they’ve been doing. I didn’t think you’d mind hanging out while we do that. You don’t mind, do you, Emmy?”

“I think I could carve the time out of my schedule, Terica.”

More laughs, and then Terica turns her attention to them. I’m grateful because it gives the blinking heart on my Fitbit a chance to catch its breath. Plus it’s fun to watch these guys just be themselves as they talk about raising funds for children’s hospitals and all the escapades they’ve had while taping their show with the Lost Star female cast members, Amanda and Kayla. I try not to stare too hard at Jason Connor, but he’s right there, looking better than any person has a right to, talking with his hands, joking with his costars, laughing with those gorgeous blue eyes. These guys love working together, and you can tell. I can’t help but wonder if I had stayed in LA—if I had been able to stay—could I eventually have been part of something like this, too?

Then my stomach twists up when I realize that, in a few minutes, I’m probably going to be telling Jason Connor face-to-face that he’s the inspiration for my book. How is he going to react? Is it going to be weird? I’ll probably blush. God, I hope I don’t blush. Maybe I shouldn’t do it today after all.

He catches me looking at him, fidgets, and looks away. Does he already know? Great. I haven’t said anything yet and already it’s weird.

I don’t know why I’m so nervous. He’s just a person. They’re all just people. The fact that they do a job that puts them on my living room screen at the press of a button doesn’t change that. And I’m pretty sure none of them really cares whether they’re my celebrity crush. I mean, why would they?

But I care. Because I’ve loved Jason Connor forever.

The conversation winds down as the screen behind us anno. . .