The National Book Award-winning author of Felix Ever After delivers a beautifully tender story of two grumpy/sunshine, fake-dating actors navigating their love story both on and offscreen—perfect for fans of Casey McQuiston and Alexis Hall.
Logan Gray is Hollywood's bad boy—a talented but troubled actor who the public loves to hate. Mattie Cole is an up‑and‑coming golden boy, adored by all but plagued by insecurities.
When Logan and Mattie are cast as leads in a new romantic film, Logan claims that Matt has “zero talent,” sending the film’s publicity into a nosedive. To create positive buzz, the two are persuaded into a fake‑dating scheme—but as the two actors get to know their new characters, real feelings start to develop.
As public scrutiny intensifies and old wounds resurface, the two must fight for their relationship and their love.
A heartfelt, hopeful, and nuanced story about identity, healing, and growth.
Cast List:
Logan - André Santana Mattie - AJ Beckles Main Article and Video Reader - Dani Martineck Shaina Lively - Hannah Church Angel - Avi Roque Dave - George Newbern Uwuhearts - Patryce Williams Various Reporters - Sarah Mollo-Christensen Amy Tanner - VyVy Nguyen
Publisher:
Grand Central Publishing
Print pages:
352
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I’m led down halls with fresh white paint and tiled floors that smell like bleach. I’m wheezing and sweating, trying to take a deep breath and cool down before I enter the room, desert heat still sticking to my skin. I’m very late. I know I’ll get some points knocked off on first impressions for that alone, and I don’t think anyone will take an “I’m sorry, I’m not used to LA traffic” as an excuse anymore. It might’ve worked for my first role, but I’ve been in and out of the city going on a year now.
Samantha, the assistant who leads me down the halls, seems as nervous as me, and that’s saying something. “Are you sure you don’t want a water? Coffee?” she asks for the third time.
“I’m okay,” I say, still breathless. I catch her looking at me, gaze flitting away quickly, and I realize—oh, yeah, I’m supposed to be famous. I’m still not used to it. Love Me Dearly was released about six months ago, and after the promo tour ended, I wasn’t prepared for this kind of everyday attention. I feel self-conscious and try not to pull at my shirt, a nervous habit my manager, Paola, said I should work on.
Samantha opens the door for me at the end of the hall. I thank her as I hurry inside, trying not to flat-out run but also not wanting to stroll like I’ve got all the time in the world. The room has one huge conference table with a dozen or so people seated around it in a circle, and there’s a smaller table pushed up against the farthest wall with coffee and fruit. As soon as I step inside, everyone’s heads turn to me. My heart thuds. You’d think an actor would be all right with so many eyes on him, but my big secret is that I still have stage fright.
“Matthew!”
The director, Dave Miller, stands up. He’s white and has gray sideburns with a patchy beard. His button-up has a dot of a coffee stain on the collar. He pats my shoulder as he gestures to the room. “Everyone, Mattie. Mattie, everyone.”
There’s a mix of friendly smiles and handwaves and exhausted nods. I’m nervous not only because I’m standing in a room full of strangers staring at me but because of who the strangers are. I’ve watched most of these actors in my favorite shows and movies since I was a kid. And now I’m going to be in a movie with them. That’s the actual dream, and I’m still amazed each and every day that I’ve managed to make it this far. Now I just have to make sure I don’t screw it up.
One person at the table hasn’t bothered to look in my direction. Logan Gray. For a moment, I think that he might be asleep. He has shades on even though we’re inside and the room isn’t very bright, and he wears a hoodie that admittedly looks extremely comfortable as he leans back in one of the conference room chairs, his boots up on the chair next to him. He emits a small snore. Yep, definitely asleep.
I’d auditioned for the lead in Write Anything. Riley Mason is a great character, but he feels similar to the roles I’ve had before: upbeat, optimistic, the character audiences automatically love. I’m worried about being typecast so early in my career, and I wanted to push myself with Quinn Evans. Quinn is…more complicated. He messes up, hurts himself and others in his own attempts to grow. He’s the sort of character that’s more challenging for an actor. If I’d gotten the role, it would’ve been hard work to stay true to Quinn and the source material. It would’ve been difficult to find glimmers of sympathy for his character while delving into the pits of his self-loathing, all while trying to make him sympathetic to the viewer, too.
I was beside myself to get cast in a movie like this at all. Crying and jumping up and down with my mom and my sister is one of my happiest memories. I have to admit that I was also disappointed to lose the role out to Gray, though I can’t say I’m surprised. Gray’s been typecast as well. He’s the kind of actor who screams drugs and sex in a way I probably never will, no matter how much I try. “He has that edge,” my publicist said.
Gray is among the actors I admire. He’s got raw talent. I’ve studied him. I’ve watched interviews with him, trying to figure out a kernel of his magic. I’m amazed at how easily he scoffs at technique and process. He rolls his eyes at interviewers whenever he’s asked about craft, saying that it’s just a fancy word assholes made up as an excuse to say who is allowed to be nominated for awards and who is not.
And there was the other, more recent interview I’d seen with Gray, too, just two weeks before, right after I was cast. A bolt of anger flashes through me, but I remember what I’d decided: I’ll pretend I never saw the interview at all. That’s what I’ll have to do, if I’m going to be able to work with him.
Dave either doesn’t notice that Logan is fast asleep, or he’s used to this behavior. He invites me to grab a seat, and I sit down awkwardly in between Scott Anders (five-time Oscar award winner, one of the greatest actors of all time, I could watch and rewatch his brilliant performance in Duchess Down a thousand times, and I’m pretty sure I have) and Monica Meyers (nominated for Best Supporting Actress five times, though she has not yet won, clearly a coup, especially for her heart-wrenching performance in The Sky Cries). Scott grins and shakes my hand and says he’s a big fan of my performance in Love Me Dearly. I have to force the inner fanboy to calm down, while Monica purses her lips, probably miffed that I’m late.
Copies of the script with each actor’s name on the covers have already been passed around. This is technically the second table read, but since I was brought on so late in the process, it’s my first. Writers and assistants and a ton of other people sit in chairs along the wall of the conference room with copies of the script, pens ready and laptops open. More people to perform for.
Dave sits at the head of the table and adjusts his ball cap. “Someone wake up Sleeping Beauty,” he says, opening his script.
Samantha rushes forward. She clears her throat and taps Gray’s shoulder. He doesn’t stir. She tries again. “Mr. Gray…?”
He grunts something, sits up—looks around the room like he’s forgotten where he is, and maybe he has.
Dave opens his script. “Gray, if you don’t mind removing your sunglasses so that we can see those beautiful brown eyes of yours.”
Gray doesn’t move for one long second as he stares at Dave silently. I shift uncomfortably. Heat begins to radiate in the room. Dave, again, doesn’t seem to notice as he licks a finger and turns the page of the script, but it’s clear to everyone that we won’t begin until Gray does what he was asked.
Logan removes the shades. There are a few (okay, maybe a little melodramatic, we are actors after all) gasps around the room. I swallow thickly. A purple bruise flourishes over Gray’s swollen right eye.
Dave glances up. “Oh, Jesus Christ.”
“Same old shit, right?” Gray says, voice hoarse.
“This isn’t a joke. God, fucking…” He twists in his seat to look at an assistant. “There isn’t any footage in the tabloids, is there?”
* * *
Video begins:
A crowd in a nightclub has formed. Streaks of light blur across the screen, but Logan Gray’s face is clear for one moment. Another man shouts unintelligibly. Derogatory slurs based on sexual identity are used. He is notably much larger than Logan. Logan only smiles, before he spits in the stranger’s face. There are gasps, the camera shakes. There is the distinct sound of a fist impacting skin.
Video ends.
* * *
From the awkward glances, it’s clear that there is footage in the tabloids. I haven’t seen it myself because I try to stay away from papers and gossip sites. That’s a one-way ticket into a weekend of self-pity and depression. Even the word tabloids makes certain phrases echo in my mind: “wannabe Tom Holland,” “Leonardo DiCaprio in his prime if Leo wasn’t as talented or cute.” Ouch.
Dave rubs his temples. “Damn it. Sam, set up a meeting with me and Logan’s manager. What’s her name again? Louise?”
“Audrey.”
“Let’s see if we can stop this man-child from ruining the film before it’s even begun.” Sam nods and excuses herself.
If Logan has any feelings on being called a man-child, he doesn’t show them. “Getting punched in the face hasn’t impacted my ability to read,” he says.
Dave’s eyes narrow dangerously for one moment, before he straightens. “Then let’s begin.”
The morning’s drama firmly put aside, the professionals around me open their scripts, and the table read starts. Richard, the AD, speeds through the narration and directions so that the actors can focus on their roles, the writers on edits and Dave announcing his own thoughts every now and then. Even though I play opposite the lead, I don’t appear until a few scenes in, so I get to sit back in my chair and watch the magic of my idols.
Gray is amazing, of course, even half-asleep, with a black eye, and possibly a hangover. He transforms into Quinn Evans: charismatic, smug, an asshole you can’t help but love. Monica already brings tears to my eyes with her reading as his mother, widowed and worried that Quinn will never open his heart to finding true love. Scott, Quinn’s boss, has too understated a role to really take advantage of his enormous talent, but I assume there are publicity reasons he’s been brought on, along with a ton of money. Keith Mackey, playing Quinn’s best friend and comic relief sidekick, lands all the laughs, even when Dave murmurs something to one of the head writers, who nods in agreement and starts to scribble red all over the script.
My heart begins to speed up. I’d started acting in junior high, but this fear—the jump before the performance—has never gone away. If anything, it’s only gotten worse. But once I’ve done it—once I’ve managed to leap from the cliff and fly through the air—the exhilaration soars through me, and every time I seem to forget how much I hate the feeling of nervousness that comes right before I open my mouth.
Keith leans back in his chair with a grin, swiping bleached hair out of his face. “Hey—pretty boy,” he says, glancing up at me.
I swallow. My words begin to blur on my script. “Sorry, do you mean me?”
I can hear the hollowness in my voice. It doesn’t ring true. There isn’t enough authenticity. I clear my throat. Scott glances up from beside me.
Keith goes on like he hasn’t noticed. “Is there anyone else around that you’d describe as pretty?” he says. He barks a laugh, then seems to crack himself up and keeps laughing. Smiles widen at the table.
My hands are hidden beneath the table in my lap. I tug on the end of my shirt. “No—uh, no, maybe not.”
The smiles around the table are a little tighter now. Gray watches me from across the room, eyes focused, calculating, dissecting my entire performance even though it’s only been a few lines. I try to block out the memory of the interview I’d seen, against my better judgment—but it was everywhere, all over social media and popping up in Google alerts every three seconds. A reporter shoves a mic in Logan Gray’s face on the red carpet and asks him, “What do you think about Matthew Cole joining the cast of Write Anything?” Logan didn’t hide his annoyance. He rolled his eyes. “He’s a shitty actor,” he said. “I hate people who get by on looks and charm and absolutely zero talent.”
I try to block out the memory of the interview, but Gray’s voice rises in my head with every vacant word I speak. “Wait, hold on,” I say, turning the page with sweaty fingers. “Aren’t you Quinn Evans? The author?”
The next line belongs to Logan. He doesn’t look away from me as he leans in his chair, rocking back and forth slightly with a squeak, squeak, squeak.
“Gray,” Dave says, annoyance a little more obvious now. “That’s you.”
Gray’s eyes don’t leave me. “So are we all just going to pretend this isn’t happening?”
My heart plummets. Everyone looks up before heads turn and gazes rest on me for a brief second. We all know what he means. Dave clenches his jaw. “Just read your line, Gray.”
“It’s a waste of time,” he says. “I’m not going to do a table read with someone who can’t even figure out his character. That impacts how I end up playing my role. Don’t punish me because you decided to choose Hollywood’s flavor of the week.”
Julie, who plays the main antagonist as Quinn’s girlfriend, whispers loudly enough for us all to hear. “Don’t be a fucking asshole, Gray.”
“Am I an asshole for saying the truth?” He shrugs. “Fine. Okay.”
Heat grows in my throat. I cry easily. That’s always been my biggest problem, my dad used to say. I cry whenever I see cute toddlers hugging puppies. I cry whenever someone is cruel to another person and I’m too angry to speak. I cry whenever I hear a beautiful song. I sure as hell cry whenever my feelings are hurt—when I’ve been humiliated in a room filled with people I look up to and admire. Easily crying has its uses, especially on the stage and in front of the camera, but the tears only add to the humiliation now.
Dave’s mouth hangs open. “Okay,” he says loudly. “Let’s take five.”
Chairs roll back, people begin to chat about their weekends, recent industry announcements, LA traffic, anything but what just happened. I rub my eye as I get up to find a bathroom, walking away from the table before anyone can stop me. I just need a second to look at myself in the mirror, splash some water on my face, and get myself together.
Someone follows me out of the swinging doors of the conference room. I expect it to be Dave, but when a hand touches my elbow, I turn around to see Julie.
“Hey,” she says, “are you okay? Gray can be such a dick sometimes.”
It takes me a second to process the fact that Julie Rodriguez is talking to me. She played the lead role in one of my favorite Disney Channel shows growing up. She’s stunning in person, even with her hair pulled up in a messy bun and bags under her eyes.
Even though I feel humiliated, I still struggle to not be starstruck. “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say. “He’s—you know, he’s right. That was an awful read.”
“We’ve all been there. And this is your first lead role, right?” When I nod, she pats my arm. “You’ll be fine. Don’t let him get into your head. Everyone’s really excited that you’re a part of the cast, Matt.”
I thank her—and I mean really, truly thank her—and she gives me a reassuring smile before she walks back into the room. Logan Gray might not be happy to share this film with me, but I can’t let him scare me away. Not when a role like this has been my dream—everything I’ve worked toward for so many years. I take a deep breath, and I force myself to walk into the room again.
I sit in the second-floor lounge with a massive headache. Nothing’s helped. Not pills, not sleep, not sex. I’m just starting to wonder if getting punched in the face gave me permanent brain damage when Willow appears beside me. She sits down on the old-fashioned red velvet seat, crosses her legs, and stirs a straw in her favorite martini I’d ordered so that it would be here by the time she arrived.
“Did you call me here to break up?” she asks, picking up the glass and taking a sip.
“Yeah,” I say, leaning back. “Three months. That’s what we agreed, right?”
She sighs. “It was fun while it lasted.” She’d been the one to come up with the idea, a few months ago after we met in some club and she followed me back to mine. This kind of shit is usually set up by PR and involves a fuck ton of NDAs, but I guess she wanted to go around the bureaucratic rope. Easier to just deal with me.
Something else is clearly on her mind. She glances up. “We could release a publicity statement, as usual, saying things didn’t work out as planned, thank you for the support, blah, blah, blah.”
“Or…?”
“Or we could try something new. Something fresh. Ariana Grande released an entire song and album once.”
“You’re a musician now?”
She ignores me. “I was on your phone the other night.”
She pauses, maybe expecting annoyance. I am annoyed, but I don’t see the point in saying anything about it. We’re about to break up this publicity stunt of a relationship anyway.
“I noticed you had some photos,” she says. “A video.”
I know which one she means. Willow and I agreed to treat this like a monogamous relationship. Polyamory and open relationships aren’t widely accepted by the public yet. I wasn’t supposed to date anyone else, wasn’t supposed to have sex with anyone else, but about a month in an old friend, an actor named Briggs, visited from Sydney and stayed in town for a weekend, and, well, one thing led to another. Briggs took a quick video for the memory and texted it to me, and I forgot it was still on my phone.
Willow isn’t as angry as someone might be to find out their boyfriend was cheating on them, but then again, I wasn’t her real boyfriend. She continues. “I wondered if it might be interesting to…I don’t know, release the video. One last publicity stunt.”
“You want me to post my homemade porno?”
She must sense my agitation. “It’s not a big deal, right?”
“It’s a little dramatic, isn’t it? A little into attention whore territory, even for you?”
Now she’s pissed. “You’re as much a part of this as I am.”
Willow’s right, I know. I didn’t really want to go along with this bullshit at first, but she was fun and I was bored. Besides, the act did its job. Sure, she just wanted to use me, but this boosted my profile, too. Now, I’m the bad boy boyfriend of innocent Willow Grace—not just the drugged-up asshole no one wants to work with in Hollywood.
“We agreed to do this fake shit,” I say, “but going through my phone…asking me to post my private video…”
She at least has the decency to look a little ashamed, though in a city like this, it’s hard to know what to believe. She raises her chin. “I’m sorry if it was a bit much, but we need a believable reason to break up, and this would be a way to go out in style. The headlines, the gossip sites—they’d go absolutely mad, Gray. And everyone would get a good reminder of how fucking hot you are.” She pauses when I don’t answer. She must feel how upset I am, even if I’m not showing it. “I didn’t think it’d be such a big deal. This isn’t your first—you know, film.” She takes another sip.
It’s not even my second. The first video I took was on my eighteenth birthday, officially marking the end of my innocent child actor career. It was purposeful. A big fuck you to the industry and my father. The second film was difficult to see. It was just my back and my ass 90 percent of the time, hands tied to the bedframe, but enough people recognized my side profile when I twisted around, strip of cloth wrapped around my eyes. It was taken without my knowledge or permission. Pretty sure it’s still up on Pornhub, no matter how many times my team’s tried to get it taken down. And now this.
Willow says she doesn’t think it’d be a big deal to release it, but I know it’s a calculated move on her part. Her career had been waning, and this drama of dating me, one of the most hated people in Hollywood, has thrust her back into the spotlight. Now this video will only earn her sympathy points from around the world. Fans will flock to her, saying that I didn’t deserve her, that she’s too much of an angel for a devil like me. I’ve already quit social media. The number of trolls was impossible for my social media manager and her assistants to control. I decided to fold them into my manager’s team so they wouldn’t lose their jobs just because people can’t fucking stand me, but there’s nothing for them to do. It doesn’t matter.
If the video is released, my manager, Audrey, and the others will need to go into overdrive (and probably overtime) trying to contain the story and control my image. I have to be a persona. A character I play off-screen, too. I entertain people in movies, sure, but I learned early on that my entire life is a source of entertainment also. I’m the villain. People enjoy picking me apart and berating me. I give them someone to hate. I’m used to this. I even look forward to it, sometimes. It’s all that I know. It feels like a comfort. People screaming “You’re an asshole, Gray!” is like a lullaby after a while. Besides, maybe this will give my social media team something to do.
“Fine,” I tell her. “Post the video.”
My manager Paola was frantic when she told me Dave had called for a meeting. “Just play it cool. But not too cool. You don’t want to look like you don’t care. Tell them you’ve been rehearsing a lot more. But, you know. Don’t act like you’re desperate.”
Word got back to her about my not-so-great table read, and she thinks I’m going to be fired. She might be right. My heart sinks at the thought.
“It would be fucked up, absolutely fucked up, if they fired you after watching you perform for five minutes,” she said under her breath.
“Do you really think they’ll fire me?”
I could practically hear her catch herself over the phone. “No—no, of course not,” she told me, but I know she only wants me to be in a good headspace.
I hired her when my career was just starting to expl. . .
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