1
SOPHIE
Sophie Lyon was not in a good place.
More specifically, she’d had one (or three) too many the night before. So instead of falling asleep on her bed, she was lying on the couch with a paperback book as a makeshift pillow. Her legs were tucked up in the fetal position inside her billowy dress. And as she licked her lips, she tasted vodka and fried chicken, which she didn’t remember drinking or eating.
She attempted to open her eyes, but her lashes stuck together from the makeup she’d forgotten to remove the night before. With the help of her index finger and thumb, she managed to peel one lid open. White-hot summer light poured in through the arched living-room window and her mint green walls, a color she’d specifically chosen for its soothing properties, were mockingly chipper.
But even more unsettling was the book on the coffee table directly in front of her, Whisked Away. Sophie’s first published book. She closed her one good eye and wished she’d never opened it.
Her mom had always dreamed about Sophie filling an entire bookshelf with all her titles, the years of working multiple day jobs while tinkering on romance books finally worth the struggle. But, as it turned out, Whisked Away would be Sophie’s one and only book. Had she known she’d be a one-hit wonder, she wouldn’t have ordered the little placard for her writing desk: Ask Me about My Tropes.
The worst part was that she had sold a follow-up book—or, at least, a pitch plus the first three chapters—but she hadn’t been able to finish The Love Drought (a title so tragically similar to her own personal problems that it made her cringe). She’d been given multiple extensions but missed all of them. And, per her contract, her publisher had the right to terminate their deal if those deadlines weren’t met. But no matter how many drafts she started, Sophie couldn’t find her way to the happily-ever-after that all romance books promised and that she loved.
The phone call with her agent started with We need to talk... and ended with You have six weeks to finish this book or your contract, plus the advance, will be taken back.
She’d spent most of that advance, though, along with the royalty checks that grew smaller and smaller as interest in her last book waned. She needed money from turning in the next book if she wanted to continue paying for things like food or a place to stay.
She should’ve seen the implosion coming. Her horoscope had warned that the entire month of June would be bad for important communication. But the damage was done: Sophie was a romance author with writer’s block, and in six weeks’ time, she’d lose her publishing deal.
So she’d done the only thing she knew would make her feel better: called Poppy. And her best friend had suggested a night out at their favorite downtown karaoke bar to drown away the loud whir of failure.
She cautiously sat up, then settled her feet into the woven jute rug. Her legs were as firm as Jell-O when she stood. Still, she managed to make it to the hallway mirror, where she saw that her normally side-swept curtain bangs had morphed into Medusa, snakelike tendrils across her forehead, and she had more flakes on her face than her pet goldfish had in his bowl.
She cringed. Rain Boots. Her goldfish was twelve years old and the longest relationship she’d ever had. She planted her hand on the wall for support and shuffled over to her bedroom, where a large glass fishbowl sat on her bedside table. Rain Boots swam in the exact middle and blinked at Sophie with large accusatory eyes.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Sophie croaked out. “I know we have our bedtime routine, but Mommy got horribly drunk.”
She tapped the glass with her index finger and waited for a response, but none came. Eventually the silence broke when her doorbell loudly ding-donged and caused her to jump in surprise. The next, and bigger, surprise came when she made her way to the front door and saw her landlord waiting on the porch.
Dash Montrose wasn’t a tall man, but he had presence. Part of that was because he always seemed to be fidgeting—tapping his fingers, shifting his feet, or pacing slightly—but also, he had thick arms with swirling,
inky-black tattoos.
It’s not that Sophie had stared at those arms in prior instances but...well, yeah, she probably had.
Still, her first instinct was to hide behind the couch because what the hell was Dash doing there? She and Dash lived next door to each other, but they were not close. In fact, Dash hardly ever acknowledged her existence. He lived in the large house tucked behind her bungalow, but he was always walking away in some kind of a hurry. If she waved, he only ever nodded back. She didn’t think he was intentionally being a jerk, but he clearly had no interest in interacting with her. They hadn’t spoken actual words to each other in at least a few months. She Venmoed him the rent, and sometimes he left a thumbs-up in response. That was the extent of it.
But there he was, in jeans and a T-shirt. What could he want? Did he somehow know her funds were about to run out and he was preemptively evicting her? Sophie avoided confrontation at all costs, but she couldn’t run away from him, not when his face was pressed against the window of her door and he was peering directly at her. She clutched her arms across her chest, extremely aware that she was still dressed in her clothes from the night before, as she made her way to him.
When she opened the door, she was hit not only with the heat from the high sun above but by the sight of Dash’s wet hair slicked around his face. Water trickled down his neck and splotched his faded shirt, like he’d come straight over from a shower. Which meant a few minutes prior he’d been totally naked, covered in soap and water and...
“Hey, uh, whoa.” His voice cut through Sophie’s thoughts. When she glanced up, Dash gave her an uneasy expression, then gestured down the length of her. “What happened...”
She never left the house without a minimum of tinted sunscreen, but of course Dash came on the one day where she closely resembled a Madame Tussauds wax statue melting in the sun. Sophie gently swiped her index finger under her eye, and it came back coated in black liner. Excellent.
“Vodka happened,” she muttered.
She rubbed the liner between her fingers. Something was wrong. Mercury must’ve been in retrograde. If thirteen-year-old Sophie had known that she would be renting a place from Dash Montrose—former teen heartthrob movie star turned still-hunky landlord—and he was seeing her hungover...she’d be even more embarrassed than she already was. And she’d probably also be delighted. Because Sophie had maaaybe had a photo of him from a magazine cover on her wall when she was growing up. His film Happy Now? was her all-time favorite movie.
She absolutely did not have a crush on adult Dash, though. Well, he was undeniably hot. No point in glossing over that thick, dirty-blond hair, the dimple in his chin, or any of the other tatted-up details. But he was Poppy’s brother and so off-limits that Sophie had built a wall around Dash in her mind. Though bits of the wall appeared to crumble at the sight of his strong jaw and the dark circles under his eyes that made him all the more mysterious to her.
“Poppy asked me to come check on you. She said you weren’t answering your phone.” He glanced behind her, as if searching for a potential thief holding her cell hostage.
“My Poppy?” Sophie had worked at Poppy’s spa, Glow, for years—one of the many day jobs she’d had before quitting to write full-time. Though, now that she had endless writer’s block, she might have to beg for her old job back.
“She’s my sister, so she’s technically our Poppy.” His hands landed in the pockets of his jeans.
Sophie looked behind her to where the phone usually was, and blessedly, while she’d been drunk enough to use a book as a pillow, she’d been just sober enough to plug in her phone. She rubbed at one of her throbbing temples and walked over to her desk, grabbed her phone, then held down the power button and watched the white icon flash back.
As she waited for the phone to boot up, she walked back toward Dash.
“Okay, she wants me to tell you that there’s a video of you going viral?” Dash gestured to his phone, which made his forearm flex and Sophie’s eyes widen in response.
She tried to process what he’d said. She needed an intense boost of caffeine—maybe a matcha—to be able to comprehend the words coming out of his mouth. “A video?”
“I don’t know, she said you needed to see it. And that I needed to make sure you saw it.” He shrugged, but the small motion lifted the edge of his shirt up just enough for Sophie to catch a glimpse of his boxers.
Sophie didn’t want to be impolite—Dash was Poppy’s older brother, after all—but what was she supposed to do? She couldn’t so much as look at a candle shop without rushing in to buy one. Dash was the male equivalent of fresh beeswax. She was definitely staring.
Just then, her phone erupted in a series of pings, vibrations, and what sounded like one deafening goose honk. If she owned pearls, she’d be clutching the hell out of them. The screen filled with notifications—emails, texts, missed calls, and push notifications from Instagram—but she pulled up Poppy’s text conversation first.
Soph, are you up?
It’s 10. You never sleep this late.
I’m at work, ARE YOU OK
I’m sending Dash over.
YOU’RE NOT DEAD! YIPPEE!
OK, here’s the vid. Don’t freak out!!
Dash’s phone pinged, too, he looked down, then sighed. “Did you get it?” He sounded a little irritated.
Sophie frowned at the blurry thumbnail of a woman, but clicked the link, which sent her to the TikTok app. Then, almost immediately, she saw herself
reflected on the screen. The video was taken at the karaoke bar, and Sophie was the main event. She stood onstage as the undeniable background music to Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” played. She had requested that song, hadn’t she? The small pieces of her lost-memory puzzle began to click into place.
Only, in the video, she was sobbing, with tears running down her cheeks, as she gazed wild-eyed into the crowd. Poppy ran onto the stage and attempted to coax Sophie off, but Sophie grabbed the mic and shouted, “I’ve never been in love, okay?!” Her voice was so angry and vehement that she appeared to be deranged. The person holding the phone zoomed in at that exact moment to capture Sophie’s grimace as she shrieked out, “Love isn’t real!” Then Poppy yanked the mic out of Sophie’s hand and dropped it for her. End of video.
“Stop, stop, stop!” The words screeched out of her as she furiously poked the screen to try to delete the video. Then she remembered this was not her video—someone else had uploaded it. Eventually, her eyes drifted down to the caption, which read Relatable! The video had over two hundred thousand views and thirty thousand likes.
“Oh, my holy hot hell.” She was a writer but could not think of any other words in that moment. Her mind raced at the thought of hundreds of thousands of people watching her have a public meltdown and liking it.
Normally, Sophie was an optimist, but after the last twenty-four hours, she was beginning to understand the appeal of pessimism. Her hand instinctively went to her chest and her fingers tap-tap-tapped at her pacemaker—something she always did to steady herself—as she scrolled through the comments and saw that not one but multiple people had recognized her.
Sophie Lyon is FUN
Sophie Lyon is secretly unhinged and it’s sending me 👏
I hated her book, but I like this?
“Just breathe.” Then Dash’s hand was on her back, steady and warm, which momentarily distracted her, but not for long.
The heat outside had intensified to Palm Springs–level boiling and caused Sophie to break out in either hives or a rash. She furiously clawed at her throat with her free hand. She walked away from Dash and down the porch steps. Her bare feet hit the cool blades of grass in her yard, and when she looked up, the iconic Hollywood sign perched in the Santa Monica Mountains shined pearly white in the distance. Seeing those letters from her yard every morning used to make her feel closer to the success she so deeply craved, but now she felt buried under the weight of its implied expectations.
She stumbled, and Dash was next to her within seconds, holding her steady. He grabbed her elbow with one hand, and the other wrapped around her waist to cup her hip. His skin was warm against her, even
through her dress. Her stomach flipped, probably from the lingering alcohol. “Sophie, you really need to sit. You look like you’re about to faint—”
The sound of her phone pinging cut him off. And when she looked down, a familiar name flashed across the screen. Carla. Sophie stopped scratching her throat. Her ex. The woman who she’d dated for close to a year. A year in which Sophie could feel herself beginning to fall head over heels, and then... Carla had ended it and dragged their relationship to the trash. Sophie stared at Carla’s name, and the text underneath, which read Saw the video... As in her ex had seen the video of Sophie having a full-on meltdown.
It was at this moment that she tilted her head back, let the punishing sun burn her eyes, and shouted as loudly as she physically could. When she eventually stopped screaming, her head felt light. The edges of her vision blurred with the realization that she had nothing left, her life was over, and she was completely mortified.
“Seriously, Sophie? My ears are ringing.”
Sophie was so focused on her own humiliation that she must’ve forgotten that Dash was right there.
“Are you on something?” Dash asked.
Sophie frowned. No, she was not on something. She may have been braless, hungover, and hanging by a thread emotionally, but what kind of an accusation was that?
And even if she were on ayahuasca and beginning to see rainbow caticorns encircling her feet—which sounded great, actually—what she did with her body was absolutely none of his business. She paid her rent on time. This was her place. He was the one who’d come bounding over, all wet and wearing a too-tight shirt, and now he had the nerve to suggest she was the one out of line?
She would tell Dash that he needed to leave. But when she opened her mouth to say as much, she felt the bile rise in her throat. Her eyes bulged wide as she closed her mouth and held back something akin to a burp. Dash clocked her panic, and his eyes narrowed. She shook her head, but there was no use. She was definitely going to hurl all over her high-school celebrity crush. And without even being able to call out a warning, she projectile-vomited all over Dash.
2
DASH
Dash growled at the vomit on his shoes.
The thing was, he’d just showered. Like, he’d been in the shower and enjoying a post-workout scrub and tug, to be honest. He’d soaped up his hands, grabbed his dick, and thought about his head between a woman’s thighs, licking his way up while being watched. He was all about eyes. Give him eyes that sizzled like hot pavement in the dead of summer. Eyes that crinkled at the edges with mischief. A woman who could give him a single look and make him hers. He hadn’t had sex in eighteen months, and while he didn’t have much sexual tension with anything these days, beating out any lingering needs never hurt.
But then he’d heard his phone ping, then ring, and when he looked at the caller ID he was nervous because Poppy only called when it was an emergency. So he’d turned off the water, quickly towel-dried, and answered.
He hadn’t intended to be gone for more than a few minutes to check on Sophie, but now he was still holding her elbow to make sure she didn’t crumple to the ground like a slinky. And then, of course, there was the vomit. Which was just...not great!
Sophie’s head lifted, and her dry, bloodshot eyes met his. “I’m so, so sorry.” Her painted nails flashed like bright red warning signs as she wiped at the corners of her mouth.
Even though he didn’t want to spend another minute in this situation, he couldn’t just leave her there. He was going to have to help her back inside because, with her shaky legs, she looked about as stable as a Chihuahua in a wind tunnel.
“Do you think you can walk?”
She shook her head no. “I just need to stop moving for a minute, if that makes sense?”
He let out a resigned sigh. “Sit here. I’ll get you some water.”
“Can you make it a coconut water, please?” She looked up at him. “Extra electrolytes. Thank you!”
She’d clearly been spending way too much time with his health-nut sister. He cocked his head in an intentionally mocking way. Then he quickly moved up the steps, through the open front door, and into her place.
Well, his place, legally speaking. But as he eyed the potted ponytail palm, the framed photos of clementines over the gas fireplace, and the honey-lemon couch in the center of the room, he realized this wasn’t really his anymore. The guesthouse was sunshine—unrecognizable from when he’d first rented the plain one-bedroom to her. He couldn’t say he appreciated all of Sophie’s choices—he was pretty sure an IKEA kitchen table was threatening to disintegrate from the weight of a stack of notebooks—but this wasn’t his space to decorate.
And he couldn’t linger for too long, as Sophie was waiting. So he walked to the kitchen, went to the sink, and cleaned up with paper towels. His shirt was another matter, so he decided to just take it off. Dash carefully peeled the shirt over his head, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it in the trash.
In the kitchen, she’d installed a twee, retro-looking fridge, but the only food inside was a half-eaten wheel of Manchego cheese. There was, however, an abundance of water options—sparkling, mineral, and coconut, which he grabbed a bottle of.
As he walked toward the door again, she was not sitting in the grass, as he’d instructed. Instead, she stood at the top of the steps with her body pressed against the pillar for support. Apparently, she hadn’t listened to him at all.
“Dash...what happened to your shirt?” She smiled, a cocked little thing that raised one side of her mouth and revealed a very pronounced canine tooth, like a demented hungover vampire. He’d occasionally found that smile charming, but today? Not as much.
“Someone puked on it.” He gave her a tight nonsmile back.
A hot wind whipped across the porch and her dress opened slightly to reveal a sliver
of freckles that trailed between her breasts.
He coughed and looked away. Part of the problem was that Dash had always found Sophie attractive. Before renting to her, he’d met Sophie through Poppy a handful of times, and every time, he inevitably noticed something kind of tempting about her. Like, when she genuinely laughed, it was loud and uncontrolled and caused people to turn and stare. And perhaps it was a little weird, but he liked the scar on her chest and always wanted to ask her how she got it—he knew there was a story there. Not to mention that she wore these light, flowing dresses that clung to her whenever there was so much as a slight breeze...
But despite all those little details he continued to notice, he knew that he had to keep his distance from Sophie Lyon. Because not only was she his tenant but also his sister’s very best friend in the whole world. And his sister didn’t have a lot of close friends. None of the Montrose children did, because of who their family was. And he wasn’t about to mess up the one true connection Poppy had just because he thought Sophie was kind of cute.
“You’re dehydrated,” he quickly said, clearing away any lingering thoughts. “Here’s your papaya water.”
“Coconut water,” she corrected. “But thank you.” She reached for the bottle, and their hands met. Despite the heat outside, her fingers were icy cold.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not usually this...messy.” He couldn’t think of a better word for what she was in that moment, but he still winced as he said it. “What happened?”
She let out a pitiful little laugh, then unscrewed the cap and took a small sip. “Well, my life is over. Like, I will probably never work again, and I’m totally embarrassed, and I can no longer go to karaoke bars. And I love karaoke, so it’s kind of tragic... Did you see the video of me?”
“I did.” He’d watched it over Sophie’s shoulder right before she let out the scream of an angry banshee. Not that he blamed her. She’d gone viral while drunk and shouting that love wasn’t real. How many times had he been wasted and done things he couldn’t remember?
“Are you going to make a response video or something?” Dash tried to be helpful, as TikTok was something he actually knew a bit about. “People would eat that up.”
“A response video?” She swallowed loudly. “Maybe I’m just really hungover, but I feel like you’re not using words correctly.” She rubbed the back of her hand across her forehead.
Why had he said anything? He didn’t need to be doling out advice, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. “Just tell people your side of the story. And make sure to add hashtags. Those are important.”
Sophie frowned. “The thing is, I don’t really have my own side of the story. What I said is true—I’ve never been in love.”
“So I heard,” he said jokingly, but she just carried on talking.
“And I can’t seem to finish my next book because I can’t figure out how to give my characters a happily-ever-after.” She blew air through her lips. “Sorry, I know I talk a lot.”
She talked a lot and kind of quickly. But Dash wasn’t comfortable with people who just unzipped their issues and spilled their feelings all over the place. He found that a lot of actors had this quality. Being on camera meant you were required to be able to tap into a range
of emotions at the word Action! But he’d never gotten used to the immediate openness of his former job. Dash was more of a tin can when it came to feelings: tightly sealed, hard around the edges, and not worth the effort.
So he did what any person would when wanting to avoid emotions and pivoted the conversation. “I’ll carry you to the couch,” he said.
“You will not carry me,” she said. “Dash, that’s absurd.”
“I don’t have all day.” He checked the time on his phone, as if he had somewhere to be when, really, he had an entire day of nothing ahead of him. “If you fall here, it’s much more serious than falling in the grass. And besides, I can bench-press at least five of you.”
Her gaze flitted to his bare chest, and he decided to flex his pecs, just for fun. She awkwardly coughed at that, but eventually looked back up.
“Come on.” He came next to her. “Wrap your arms around my neck and I’ll scoop you up.” He planned to put his hands underneath her knees and lift once she’d latched on to him.
“I want to die,” she said. But she wrapped one, then both hands around his neck.
“If you do, Poppy will kill me, too.” He wrapped an arm around Sophie’s waist and another behind her knees. Her head was tucked under his chin, and her soft hair grazed his Adam’s apple.
“Okay, one, two, three.” He picked her up so her body pressed into him and her arms tightened around his neck. The soft fabric of her dress brushed against his skin and gave him goose bumps despite the heat outside.
“I’m not sure if this or the vomit is more embarrassing.” Her breath came out hot against his chest as she spoke.
“The vomit.” Definitely the vomit. He took careful steps toward the front door and into the living room, then quickly deposited Sophie on the couch.
“Need anything before I head out?” He was desperate to get home. A headache loomed just behind his eyelids, and he pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers. Surprises were not his idea of fun, in general.
“No.” Sophie undid her messy bun, and wavy honey hair spilled around her face. ...
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