I’ve never written acknowledgments without a few tears falling, and honestly, I hope I never do. This is the first time I’ve written these thank-yous as a full-time author, and the feeling is utterly surreal. Like so many other writers, I crammed in my words whenever I could find a spare moment, between a day job and every other life commitment. Without the help of a village of people, I wouldn’t be living this dream of being a full-time author, and my gratitude knows no bounds.
Special thanks go out to:
Dad, I miss you so much, but I know you’re cheering on your little girl as I chase these big dreams. Thank you for teaching me not only to dream so big I scare myself most days, but for teaching me the power of hard work. There will never be a day that I don’t count myself lucky to be your daughter.
Mom, you’re the strongest woman I know, and I am in awe of your grace. I love you so much.
Angela Smith of Grey Ghost Author Services, LLC, my amazing PA and best friend. It’s been a wild and crazy ride, but this is only the beginning. I’m so proud of you and blessed to have you in my life.
Angela Marshall Smith and Pam Berehulke, editors extraordinaire, for once again helping me deliver the best story I’m capable of writing.
Chasity Jenkins-Patrick, kick-ass publicist, for talking me off more than one ledge and always pushing me in the right direction.
Natasha Gentile, for being a fabulous beta reader. Love your messages, lady!
Sara Eirew for shooting a fab cover pic, and By Hang Le for the absolutely gorgeous cover design.
The Meghan March Runaway Readers Facebook group, for being the most fabulous collection of ladies I’ve had the pleasure of (virtually) meeting. Hope to hug you all at events soon!
All the book bloggers who take the time to read and review this and any of my other books. Your time and dedication are truly appreciated.
My readers—I’m infinitely grateful that you’ve picked up this book. Without you, I wouldn’t be living my dream.
COUNTRY STAR JC HUGHES CAUGHT BETWEEN A COCK AND A HARD PLACE
How is he going to explain this one away to girlfriend Holly Wix and his fans?
“That two-timin’ son of a . . .”
I hiss under my breath as I stare at the headline—and the compromising picture accompanying it—splashed in vivid color across the front page of the gossip rag displayed prominently in the checkout line at my supermarket. For the second time in two months, it’s a picture of my “boyfriend” locked in an unmistakably passionate embrace with another woman, except this time she’s wearing a giant black strap-on.
The edges of the paper crumple in my sweaty grip, and I fight the urge to tear it to shreds, along with every copy sitting on the rack in front of me.
He’s going to destroy my career before it even has a chance to become a reality.
One year, they said. One year in this joke of a “relationship” and I’d earn my stripes, be all set in the world of country music. Judge me all you want for agreeing, but when your brand-new record label puts something like that in the contract that will jet you out of the backwoods town you’re dying to escape, you don’t ask questions. You sign on the dotted line.
But reality is a cold slap in the face, and some days it hits you when you’re standing in line at the grocery store. What happens when they finally catch JC with a guy? His habit of swinging both ways, but preferring men to women, is about to become the worst-kept secret in Nashville.
I’m Holly Wix, winner of a make-me-a-star TV show, and handpicked by the label to buoy JC’s once-impressive but now flagging career. It didn’t seem like a big deal when they slipped it into my contract in the beginning. What starry-eyed girl wouldn’t be thrilled to have her name linked to a country star?
Instead of the one-way ticket to stardom I naively expected, I’m becoming the butt of every industry joke faster than the guys back home can spend their paycheck on twelve-packs and scratch-offs. But I’ve got one shot at keeping this dream career alive, and honestly, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do to save it. So this situation with JC needs to get settled before things spiral further out of control.
Tugging the bill of my trucker hat lower, I glance around to see if anyone has noticed me flipping out in the checkout line. A woman behind me clucks her tongue as she pulls her sunglasses out of her baby’s mouth.
Crap.
That cluck of her tongue was aimed at me, not the toothless, blue-eyed, smiling baby. Surprisingly, though, the expression on her face is sympathetic, not angry.
“Men are assholes, am I right? Being famous just makes them bigger ones.”
I smile weakly, and she continues. “Don’t believe everything you read in the papers, doll. They’re always ninety-five percent bullshit. Probably Photoshopped. He should have his head examined if he’s cheating on you.”