Planning on Prince Charming(4)

By: Lizzie Shane

“Could you tell me if it’s Daniel?” The Suitorette—Sidney—wheedled. “Then I’ll go back to my room like a good girl and no one will ever know the difference.”

A muted bing from around the corner interrupted his reply—and shot chills through his blood.

The elevator.

The show had bought out the hotel and all the girls were supposed to be tucked away in their rooms. The elevator could only hold one of the producers or production assistants. And here he was, drunk off his ass in the hall with a Suitorette.

A jolt of adrenaline crashed through his system to clear his thoughts as voices carried around the corner—one of them feminine and cracking with authority.

Miranda Pierce.

The executive producer of Marrying Mister Perfect was a dragon in skirt suits, with a sleek, edgy haircut and a terrifying efficiency that didn’t negotiate or accept less than perfection.


He could talk his way out of this. All he had to do was tell the truth. He’d gone for ice and she’d run into him. He could throw the Suitorette under the bus and walk away from this with his job intact—at least temporarily. But she would be booted from the show so fast her head would spin.

Her teal eyes flared with panic as she heard the voices too. And damn if his instinct to save the damsel in distress didn’t kick in like never before.

Acting on instinct more than thought, he grabbed her arm and tucked her between his body and the door of 312 so she wouldn’t be as obviously visible if Miranda came around the corner. He waved his keycard in front of the sensor, hoping he wasn’t actually staying in 321. If this wasn’t his room they were so screwed, but after only a second’s hesitation the door beeped and popped open. Hallelujah.

Together they stumbled inside, Josh snapping the door shut behind him with his foot. He held his breath, listening against the door for some indication that he’d been seen smuggling a Suitorette into his room.

Shit. What had he been thinking?

“Was that…?” the girl whispered.

“Miranda,” he confirmed direly.

“What happens if they find us together?”

“I get fired and you get kicked off the show. And the tabloids run the story for weeks.”

Teal eyes widened. “I can’t go out there.”

“No,” he agreed, without hesitation.

“So we’re…”

“Stuck here.”

To his left, the abandoned half-bottle of six-year-old scotch taunted him from the wet bar.

To the right, a light illuminated the bed like a spotlight, casting a glow over the massive expanse, piled high with pillows and an overstuffed comforter.

And in between stood the picture of temptation in pink yoga pants and a freaking Tinkerbell T-shirt.

If Miranda came to check on him, there was no way he’d be able to explain this away now. This day just kept getting better and better.

Chapter Two

Sidney had gone looking for Mister Perfect and found Josh Pendleton.

She tried not to read too much into that. Sure, they were trapped together in his hotel room, but nothing could happen. He was famous for being happily married, for crying out loud—not to mention a million miles out of her league. And she was going to meet the man of her dreams tomorrow.

Maybe. Provided it was Daniel.

But in the mean time she was trapped with one of Us Weekly’s 100 Hunkiest Hollywood Hotties in his hotel room.

The room was posh. Luxurious. Easily double the size of her own, with a sitting area, a wet bar and a giant gift basket overflowing from the small coffee table. Stepping deeper into the room, she turned in a circle in the center of the sitting area. “Your room is nicer than mine.”

“Well, I’m the talent,” he said with just enough faux arrogance to be self-deprecating.

She felt her lips curving in a smile as he crossed to the wet bar—which looked like it could host a rock band for a week without needing to be restocked—and put the ice she’d nearly knocked out of his arms on the bar, next to a half-empty bottle of something golden.

Normally she would feel uncomfortable, alone with such a disturbingly attractive man. Chiseled features and the kind of toned body that was more commonly associated with action stars—the man was lethal. But her tongue wasn’t tying itself into the usual awkward knots. Maybe it was the fact that he was so clearly off-limits. Or maybe it was the three mini-bar bottles of liquid courage. Or maybe it was the familiarity of the warm, understanding brown eyes that had gazed sympathetically at countless Suitors and Suitorettes over the many seasons of Marrying Mister Perfect as they had their countless hearts broken.