Hollywood Hookup

by Christy Swift

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Romantic Comedy; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

A former movie star is thrust back into the celebrity life where she finds herself competing for a date with her longtime crush in this funny and heartwarming rom-com about second chances and rediscovering your true self. 
 

Once a teenage TV star, she’s reinvented her life. Now her very public celebrity crush has put her back in the spotlight.

Josie Days has worked hard to forget who she used to be. Once upon a time, she was one of Mexico’s favorite bilingual teen star—until one disastrous decision ruined her budding career. These days, Josie’s happy to keep things very off-camera as a makeup artist. That is until her best friend ropes her into a charity game show where the prize is a date with her forever celebrity crush: impossibly charming Irish “It” boy Sean O’Sullivan.

Josie has no interest in winning. In fact, she’s trying to lose—and fast. But Sean is interested in more than a game. The problem? Josie isn’t who he thinks she is. And when the cameras start rolling and her past is exposed, she’ll have to decide if she’s ready for the spotlight again—or if her second act never should have started.

 

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 352

Sample

IF I COULD have any superpower, it would be invisibility. Yes, I know flying is more fun, healing more practical, and controlling people with The Force more gratifying, but as I stride up the sidewalk to the gates of Sweet Spot Productions in Hollywood, I can’t help wishing I could blend into the sun-bleached brick walls.

The security guard sees I have Peyton with me and waves us to the head of the line. Emmy told them I’d be bringing her, and while that’s all I’m doing—dropping my best friend’s daughter off to her at a studio—half of the nerve endings in my body are acting like I’m crossing into Dante’s inferno.

Relax, Josie. Nobody’s looking at you. And you’ll be out of here before the taping even starts.

We duck out of the breezy October air and squeeze past the snake of studio audience participants waiting for permission to find their seats. My gaze skates across the sea of California-ready women, their hair: perfect; clothes: designer or as close to designer as they can manage; makeup: influencer-approved. Meanwhile, Peyton is the Gen Z poster child in a Bruh baseball cap and FBI shades, and I’m—what am I even wearing? Yoga pants and a Maná T-shirt I bought at a concert in Mexico City when I was seventeen, so it doesn’t even fit anymore. My boobs look like they’ve been shrink-wrapped to my chest.

The shirt was a bad idea on several levels but mostly because it’s a clue as to who I really am, and I don’t need to be giving anyone any clues. I don’t need any of this Hollywood crap—the cameras, the adrenaline, the “magic” of television. I forfeited a place in this world a long time ago and did a pretty good job avoiding it, but then Emmy got famous and kind of pulled me along in her wake.

Yeah, we’ll just blame it on her.

As we excuse me our way through the excited crowd toward the stage, each glimpse of the hulking, heavy TV cameras sends my heart galloping. As a makeup artist for Lost Star Dance Troupe Saves the Universe, I work in a studio, but I know where all of our cameras are, and (spoiler alert) they’re not in the makeup room. A few feet away, a grip shifts the spotlight, and my whole body flinches, but he’s not turning it on me. He’s highlighting a sign at the corner of the stage: Date Your Celebrity Crush!

Lord have all the mercies, the game show is a cringey gimmick, but it worked. Emmy says the contest featuring the four leading men from Lost Star has raised over two million dollars for the local children’s hospital. If it had cost body parts instead of money, I expect we’d be seeing a lot of women hopping on one foot for a chance to go on a date with one of the hottest hunks in Hollywood. I would not be one of them.

“There’s my mom!” Peyton shouts. I love this kid as if she were my own, but she is loud. If the Quiet Place aliens ever show up for real, Peyton and anyone within one hundred feet of her will be the first to go, which is too bad because otherwise, I’d easily be the grizzled old survivor with a rifle and a bunker full of pork and beans. I’ve been operating under the radar for so long, it’s become second nature.

Emmy waves us out of the crowd, her highlighted curls pulled into a flirty pineapple ponytail, her dewy makeup making her look sun-kissed and shiny in her formfitting gold dress. She’s cohosting the show today, and even though you can’t tell she’s pregnant from the back, it’s her waddle that gives her away.

Until Emmy got pregnant, the only things I knew about pregnancy were what I learned when I fake-delivered a six-month-old on set during a taping of Bajo el Mismo Paraguas at my stepfather’s studio down in Mexico. My Spanish was decent, but my character’s wasn’t, so there was a lot of me shouting a poorly conjugated push! over and over again. Now, however, I’ve got an insider peek at what two people in love making a brand-new person looks like. It’s pretty amazing.

It’s also pretty amazing seeing Emmy in her element like this—the star I always knew she’d become. “You look great,” I tell her as she kisses her daughter’s baseball cap before sending her off.

“Thanks.” She hugs me and adds an extra squeeze. “Listen, I need a favor.”

I freeze. I don’t like the sound of that. Not here. Not now. On set, cameras everywhere.

“One of our contestants had to bow out. I need a replacement.”

I glance around and spot the other Jason—the colossal Jason “Mount” Ramirez, not Emmy’s husband, Jason Connor—skirting a corner. Through an open door, someone rises from a chair, his identity blurred by a swarm of hairspray particles. I think it’s Zachary Tay.

I swallow hard. “Wow, you need a replacement contestant for a celebrity dating show? Wherever will you find one?”

Emmy’s nostrils flare. “It can’t just be some rando, Josie. What if she’s a serial killer? Or a multilevel marketer? I can’t subject the guys to that.”

“Is that why your contestant had to ‘bow out’? You found out she sells essential oils?”

“No! She had a heart attack. She’s, like, eighty, and she’s had transplants and I don’t know what else, and she’s got a super-huge crush on Sean O’Sullivan.”

At the mention of his name, my traitorous heart leaps. There’s no excuse for it. It’s not like I’ve never met the guy. He’s one of Jason Connor’s closest friends, and I do work on the Lost Star set. I’ve gotten a hug from the fearless Captain Footwork, danced with him once, too. I’m still recovering from both of those things. But this is too big an ask.

“Emmy, I can’t,” I whisper.

“Why not?”

My voice box slams shut like she’s asked me for the launch codes. I haven’t told Emmy everything about my past. She knows I used to live in Mexico when I was a kid, long enough that I sometimes still think in Spanish, but I kind of left out my showbiz career and the dumpster fire that turned into. For example, she has no idea that, for six years, I starred in the highest-rated bilingual children’s show in the country. My stepsister, Lupe, and I had a regular segment with her ventriloquist puppet about learning languages and cultural exchange and how not to be a total jerk to kids who were different from you, which is ironic because, off set and at home, we were often total jerks to one another.

Club Bilingüe was an instant hit. In fact, we were so popular that an educational firm in the States licensed our content for their ESOL and Spanish-language programs. Our smiling faces appeared in textbooks and classrooms from New York to LA. We were featured on Sesame Street three times. We even had a theme song: “Friends Para Siempre.” Emmy has no idea that, for a lot of folks in Mexico and the U.S., this gringa is a household name.

Well, not Josie Days. They don’t know me by that name. They know me by my real name—Savannah Bateman.

“You know how I feel about cameras,” I say.

I don’t remember exactly what excuse I gave Emmy the last time she tried to wrangle me into the spotlight. When you tell enough lies, they all start to run together, like watercolor paints. Not that I use watercolors. When I create art, I like it bolder: acrylic and gouache or thick, sticky oil pastels. Anyway, I think I told her something she could identify with—that the eye of the camera triggered me because it reminded me of the Eye of Sauron. Stupid, I know, but a lot of people were traumatized by The Lord of the Rings movies. That was a lot of orc. Mucho orco.

“Sometimes, in our heads, things can seem bigger than they are.” Emmy’s hazel eyes are determined. “I need you. A lot of people gave money to this. We’ve announced one hundred contestants, so we can’t run the show with only ninety-nine. Contestants have to be vetted, and because I know you and I love you, you’re automatically vetted.”

“Whatever happened to backups?”

“We already used the backups. Apparently, there’s this thing that happens to people called life.”

I don’t want to disappoint Emmy. She’s my best friend, practically my family. She got me the makeup artist gig on Lost Star after I mortgaged my soul for F/X makeup classes, and I love getting to be a part of showbiz again, in a safe, hidden, backstage kind of way. But I can’t be in front of the cameras ever again. It’s just… not possible. If anyone finds out who I really am, it’ll be another shit show.

It’s amazing how something stupid you did when you were eighteen can haunt you for the rest of your life. But whatever. That’s life, right? We screw up, we flee the country, we dye our hair and change our name, and we move on, hiding out with our estranged bio dad, getting him all excited that he’s reconnecting with his kid, and then we find out he’s really sick and take care of him until he’s gone, and then we’re alone, with a cosmetology certificate and just enough money to buy a trailer and plop it on a pad in a sweaty trailer park on the Gulf of Mexico. Maybe make a friend or two. Or just one.

But she’s a good one, and those are hard to come by.

Maybe I’m overreacting. My rational brain tells me the world should have forgotten about me by now. They probably would have, too, if my stepsister’s beloved puppet hadn’t been ruined and gone missing along with me. There wouldn’t be news stories and conspiracy theories and Bring Back Chuy memes. I haven’t seen one of those for a while, thank goodness.

Still… “It’s a hard no, Emmy. I’m sorry.”

I hate the hurt look on her face. She doesn’t take my shit as much anymore since she leveled up from bestselling novelist to bona fide celebrity, so I know I’ve got it coming.

“Anxiety is a liar, Josie, and I’m not going to let it make you miss out on a chance to go on a date with Sean O’Sullivan.” My face heats, and she adds, “Uh-huh,” as if I’ve just openly pledged my undying love to the man instead of having a completely uncontrolled physiological reaction.

“I don’t want to date anyone famous. That lifestyle isn’t for everyone,” I complain, but she’s already grabbed my hand and is navigating us through the staff-choked hallways like a couple of spies through a lasered security net.

“This wouldn’t be dating him, it would be a date, just like it would be for poor Vera hooked up to her EKG right now. No strings attached.… just electrodes.”

Emmy halts in front of a barely cracked door. The sign above it reads PRIVATE GREEN ROOM. Inside, five of the hottest men in Hollywood are sitting along the walls, sipping clear or dark liquid out of etched glasses, chatting, and looking at their phones. What they spent on shoes and haircuts alone could fund a small nation for a year. You wouldn’t think a show called Lost Star Dance Troupe Saves the Universe would contain as much testosterone as it does, but hoo-boy. I think it’s the choreography. Or maybe all that butt-hugging space-leather.

The scent of them wafts into the hallway—subtle, like a fragrance insert in a men’s magazine—and I’m yanked back to the night I danced with Sean O’Sullivan at the Pershing Square ice skating rink. He was wearing a ridiculous stocking cap, and his coat smelled like this when I hid my face from the cameras in it. I held on tight as he led me, spinning and spinning, while the air throbbed with Wham!’s “Last Christmas,” and the lights around us sparkled, and I got lost in time and space and the firm grip of Captain Footwork’s arms just like his alien lover in that one episode that I secretly watched over and over and lied to Emmy about when she caught me.

“Josie?”

“Electrodes,” I repeat to confirm I’m listening, not fantasizing. Also, electrodes sound pretty good right now. I could use something to zap my heart back into rhythm.

“I know you like him,” she says. “It’s written all over your face.”

Accurate, if the going definition of like also describes the feeling I get when I see a perfect pudding parfait with its whipped cream in a flawless whirl like Ramona always manages to do with Captain Footwork’s pompadour. I just want to shove my face into it and gobble it up without breathing. The parfait, not the pompadour.

“I work on the show,” I argue. “That’s got to disqualify me.”

“Nope,” Emmy chirps. “Our lawyers kept it wide-open on purpose. Even their moms can win it. Heck, their dads could win it!”

“Aren’t I supposed to make a donation? I don’t have any extra cash right now.”

“I’ll do it in your name. Come on, Josie. You deserve nice things, too.”

A bud of guilt blossoms in my chest. Would she say that if she knew that I’ve been lying to her about who I really am? In six years of friendship, I’ve never had the guts to find out.

I’m scrambling for another excuse when the green room door pulls all the way open, the scent of cologne mushrooms our way, and suddenly there, standing in a rectangle of light, is my perfect Irish cream pudding parfait—Sean O’Sullivan.

ALL SIX FEET one inch and one-hundred-ninety pounds of Sean O’Sullivan engulfs the doorway in an amethyst purple unstructured suit, eggplant scarf, and John Lennon glasses. I freeze as the proximity of this outrageously sexy Professor Plum living his best life in tweed overwhelms me. He smells like a dark room full of leather-spined books, maybe with a spinning door leading to a mysterious lair with a low bed covered in silk sheets. His fingers are adorned with rings of every flavor of precious metal: gold, platinum, vibranium, unobtainium—I’m not sure about those last two. Jewels, too. Emeralds, diamonds, a thick slice of amber.

God, why am I so attracted to him? It’s not even fair.

“How’s Vera?” he asks Emmy in a breathy whisper. His Vandyke facial hair only serves to accentuate the natural pout of his extraordinary mouth. I’ve touched that mouth—twice, actually. For work.

“In surgery, but her prognosis is good.”

Who are they talking about? Oh, right. Heart attack grandma. “You know her?” I blurt out, and when those emerald-green eyes fix on mine, something inside me lurches to life like a rickety carnival ride that’s not safe to operate.

“No, but I’m her Number One.”

“Her Number One?” Why am I asking so many questions? Why am I speaking? Why am I still here?

“I’m trying to talk Josie into taking her place,” Emmy explains, “but she’s being difficult.”

Suddenly, I’m fully aware of how not-California I am right now. Yes, yoga pants are acceptable, but not these yoga pants, purchased in a three-pack from Costco. I’m a makeup artist, yet I sport a rush job—base and some tinted lip gloss and mascara compared with Emmy’s popping eyes and Sean’s pores-don’t-exist cheeks. My beat-up Skechers with their toes pointing toward Sean’s calfskin loafers embroidered in gold thread (probably by artisans in Spain) look like poor orphans asking please, sir, can I have some more? In my defense, I thought I was just dropping Peyton off!

“You’ll do it, won’t you?” he asks.

The question is delivered in a gentle, vulnerable, dare I say, pleading way. I’ve seen him deliver lines this way a million times, but I’m hypnotized and battle the urge to reply, Yes, of course, anything you want, Sean.

“Yes, of course, anything y—” I manage to cut myself off there. Blurting has always been my toxic trait. “Anything for the children,” I choke out.

“Excellent!” His pleading expression transforms into one of confident satisfaction. He follows it up with a soul-destroying wink and then smooths the dyed-yellow lock of hair on his wavy, dark head before turning and taking his place in the Seventh Circle of Hot Guy Heaven.

Emmy shoves a ticket into my hand and gives me a loud, smacking air-kiss. “Thank you! You’re seat number sixty-three. There’s a QR code on the back of that ticket. Use it to fill out the questionnaire in case you make it to the later rounds.”

I mumble something unintelligible. A Colombian friend taught me a phrase for this cosmically horrible type of happenstance. Cagada marciana. That shit fell from Mars. I feel like that sums up my current situation quite nicely.

“Remember, you’re just a butt in a chair.” Emmy steers me through the backstage maze to the audience seats. “The math is in your favor—one hundred contestants and only five winners. If you tank the questions on that questionnaire, you’ll have even less of a chance of getting picked.”

“What if I don’t answer the questions at all?”

“You have to.”

“What if I don’t?”

“Then I’ll have Peyton answer them for you.”

“Sold. Tell her to make them horrible.”

“It’ll make her day.”

Emmy’s co-emcee, Terica, appears at her shoulder in a bright blue wig, her halo eye impeccable. She flashes me a sheepish grin. “I need to take this mama away from you for a few minutes. There’s been an incident with my cue cards.”

“What incident?” Emmy whirls, the end of her curly ponytail almost whipping me in the face as I lean back. But I don’t wait to hear the rest because I have my own incident to deal with, and seat number sixty-three to get to, and a panic attack to head off at the Not-OK Corral. The audience is a restless, murmuring sea around me as I slink to the third row and find my designated place between Smiley Bohemian Lady and Emo Teen. My seat is far to stage right. That’s good—less of a chance of the cameras finding me.

It’ll be okay. I’m just an audience member, one of a hundred. There’s no reason for anyone to single me out. I’ll do whatever it takes to get eliminated early on, and this crisis will be averted. Note to self: drop Peyton at the gate next time. She’ll be fine. We’ll both be fine. Everything is fine.

My notifications ping. It’s a message in Spanish from Miguel—the one friend from my past whom I’ve kept in touch with. We start chatting.

Miguel: Did you watch the last episode of Más Allá de las Estrellas? It’s the one I was telling you about! The one where I cry real tears!

Savannah: Of course I watched it. But I don’t believe for a minute those were real tears. Juan Ernesto was off camera flicking water at your face.

Miguel: ¡No manches! That’s my proudest moment.

Savannah: Seriously, you were great. You’re all great. It’s the best show on TV.

It’s true. Miguel is doing a fantastic job on this new sci-fi show my stepfather, Juan Ernesto, is producing. Everyone is, in fact, including my stepsister, Lupe, who plays the young, female captain. The writing is fantastic, the characters are nuanced, and the plot lines have surprised me at every turn. I’m happy for all of them. It’s the first big hit Castillo Studios and its cast have had since I blew up Club Bilingüe.

I’m pretty sure that my recklessness cost my stepsister a couple of prominent telenovela roles over the next couple of years. Mom told me when she was auditioning for them and when she was turned down. I watched both of those shows after they came out. Lupe would’ve been a perfect fit, but the studios likely considered her a liability. How could audiences see her as anything else but that girl from the puppet scandal?

A scandal that could have been avoided if I’d made better choices.

Miguel: How’s Florida?

I hesitate. I haven’t told Miguel that I moved to California.

Savannah: I’m starting your fan club. I’m the president. Now I just need to find another member to make it official.

Miguel: Ha ha. By the way, your mom says hi.

I grimace. I haven’t told my mom about the move, either. It’s harder to stay hidden here in Hollywood than it was in sleepy little New Port Richey, Florida, and I can’t take any chances. Besides, talking to my mom always ends in the same conversation—her trying to get me to come down there for a visit, which I can’t do. And it’s not like I never see her. After Dad died, we set up a yearly get-together. She flies into Orlando every spring, and we spend a nice weekend at one of the Disney resorts. Even that’s been hard to pull off since I moved out to LA. I suppose I could tell her I’m in California now, but then there’d be questions, speculations, and whatnot. People could overhear. People could talk.

Savannah: You haven’t told Juan Ernesto that we talk, right? Or Lupe?

Miguel: You ask me this every time.

Savannah: Is that a no?

Miguel: It’s a no. Although, would it be such a bad thing?

Of course it would be a bad thing, and Miguel should know this! Savannah Bateman needs to stay buried and forgotten, like velociraptor DNA. She was a spoiled little diva whose temper tantrum on live TV ruined a show and a brand, not to mention a puppet beloved by children across North America. Well, they’re all adults now, but whatever.

Just then, a woman with a headset steps onstage and begins to hype us up. I tell Miguel I need to go and add my reserved clapping to the hubbub. Wow, these women are positively rabid for their celebrities. That’s good. If I somehow get picked, it’ll be easy to do a handoff. In the midst of our cheering, Emmy and Terica take the stage. Our handler urges us to cheer even louder, if that’s possible.

“Welcome, welcome!” Terica greets us.

“Thank you so much for being a part of this important event!” Emmy adds.

“Out of the thousands of entries in the Date Your Celebrity Crush! contest, you all were lucky enough to be chosen to be here today!”

“And no matter what happens, you’re all going home with an amazing gift!”

The volume of cheering rises. I should have brought my noise-canceling headphones.

“But…” Emmy pauses until the decibel level dies down. “Only half of you are going to get to come up here with us onstage…”

“… when we bring out our five dreamy studs and really get this competition going!” Terica finishes.

A curtain at the back of the stage is whisked away, revealing several rows of empty chairs. “Look under your seats right now! See if you’re one of the lucky fifty!” Emmy cries.

“That’s it, right now! If there’s something under there, hold it up!” Terica crows.

A rustling sound rips through the audience as a hundred contestants, mostly women, reach down under their seats. The only difference between them and me is that they are hoping to find something while I’m begging the universe to let the bottom of my chair be empty.

My palm smacks against the plastic underside of the seat. For a split second, I think I might be home free and able to slink out the emergency exit for a Starbucks on the way home. Then I feel it—the laminated corner of something taped to the bottom of the chair. I rip it free and stare at the yellow sign screaming WINNER in a chunky black sans serif font. My heart starts whipping like a sheet in a hurricane. I need to get rid of this. Like now.

“Here, take this!” I shout to Smiley Bohemian Lady, realizing a split second later that she’s not paying attention to me because she’s too busy screaming her head off over her own laminated winner sheet.

I pivot to Emo Teen, but she’s got one, too. What the hellustrations? Am I sitting in Winner Row?

Apparently I am, because the first several rows of women are all on their feet, waving their yellow papers above their heads and jumping up and down like the studio has transformed into an adult bouncy house. The staff steps in, guiding us to move from our seats to the chairs onstage in an orderly fashion.

Oh, hell to the no. I can’t do this—be onstage where anyone can see me. I didn’t sign up for that. Still, I follow the crowd, brain firmly in lizard mode, eyes peeled for lit exit signs. I spot one and lurch in that direction only to be blocked by a team of grips toting an enormous cutout of Sean’s head. I try to wait them out, but the line of women presses against me from behind. There’s no way I’m strong enough to hold back the Celebrity Crush Sea! As I’m buoyed forward against my will, Peyton falls into step beside me, further blocking my access to freedom.

“I used an AI program to fill out your questionnaire.” Her eyes shine with pride as she hands me a printed sheet of paper.

“Did you tell it to answer the questions like a sociopath?”

She giggles. “Of course not, Tía. Why would I do that?”

At this point, I’m squarely onstage, and if I bolt now, I’ll call even more attention to myself. In a move born of p. . .