Crushed (Crystal Brook Billionaires) (32 page)

And in another part of town, there was an equally welcoming house, the one Gwen and I had grown up in. And, on top of that, there was a third one: Owen’s and mine.

Crystal Brook had come alive for me in a way it never had before. It sang with the promise of a happy future.

And it wasn’t just Crystal Brook. My last month in New York, spent packing and wrapping up loose ends at work, had been similar. The city streets no longer haunted me. I could walk down the avenues and feel grateful for the times they’d given me. I could feel grateful for what experiences they still had to give to so many other people.

Nothing was stopping me now. I was grateful for it all. Every single moment that had occurred and every single moment that was to come.

Holding Owen’s hand tight, we walked across the threshold to join our family.

The End

You may also enjoy the other standalone novels in the Crystal Brook world:

Damaged

Wrecked

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FREE BONUS NOVEL

B
EHIND THE
S
CENES

J
ESSICA
B
LAKE

Fresh out of film school at UCLA, Sydney Andrews is on her way to living her dreams. A job with one of the top five film production companies in the world seems almost too good to be true. On her very first day of the job… she realizes it probably is.

Enter Simon Mulroney, the handsome and cocky CEO, who uses people as if they’re extras in his life. With his careless attitude, he treats everyone like they're beneath them... until his new assistant walks in and gives as good as she gets.

The chemistry between Sydney and Simon is undeniable, but so is the mutual distaste. Determined not to back down, Sydney digs in her heels and fights back. And in doing so, may be the only person capable of breaking her beautiful bastard of a boss. If he doesn’t break her first.

“S
ydney Andrews. It’s my first day here,” I say brightly to the heavy-set security guard staring at my driver’s license so hard I think she’s trying to memorize the number.

“Mm hmm,” is all she offers before handing the license back to me and hitting a button that opens up the gate in front of my little 2005 silver Chevy. She doesn’t look at me once. Not that I care. I’m too occupied watching the magical divide in front of me rise up to admit my entrance into the heavenly land I’ve always dreamed of — Hollywood.

A car behind me honks and I realize I’m just sitting there, staring at the clean, mostly white studio lot. I slip my license into my pocket, intending to put it back in my wallet some time later, and hit the gas, cruising slowly onto the lot of Mulroney Pictures.

Three weeks out of film school at UCLA and I’ve got a job with one of the major seven film production studios in the world. Take that, Manteo, North Carolina, and all the people who said “no one actually becomes a film director” or “your job at the seafood restaurant will be here for you when you come back.”

Well, I’m never going back to that podunk spot on the edge of the Atlantic Ocean. I’m starting my new job as an office production assistant, and it’s only a matter of time before I move up the ladder to one day direct the kind of slow thrillers I spent the entirety of my high school years sitting in my basement watching. It’s only a matter of time before I become the first person in my family to work some kind of job that doesn’t fall under the category of blue collar. Start a life as an independent woman. Become the artist and person I always knew I was meant to be. It’s only a matter of time before I —

Run over the man right in front of my car!

I hit the brakes, and the car screeches as my chest bumps against the steering wheel.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” I gasp as I look up and over the dashboard. My windows are open, so I know he must have heard me. Instead of responding, though, he just glares, taking off his sunglasses to shoot daggers in my direction.

I open my mouth to apologize again, but can’t seem to get the air needed to form words. The man I’ve almost just killed on the very first day at my new job looks like he just walked out of the pages of Playgirl.

He’s tall and broad shouldered, with wavy blond hair and a strong jaw. His eyes — which are currently staring at me like I’m trash that needs to be taken out — are large and crystal blue.

I didn’t know until now that you could be attracted to someone who so obviously despises you, but human hormones are powerful, I guess. He could be snarling at me like a dog and I’d still be salivating all over the steering wheel, begging him to bite me.

“Watch it, lunatic,” he snarls before walking off towards a nearby car. My face burns with heat. God, what a douche… What a hot, delicious, douche… With a nice rear-end.

Another car honks at me and I snap to.
Focus, focus,
I tell myself, scanning the numbers on the buildings in front of me.
It’s time to rock this.

The buildings stretch out on both sides of me. Mulroney Pictures is
huge,
with multiple buildings for offices and a gigantic back lot with half a dozen sound stages.

I stare wistfully in the direction of the back lot as I drive, imagining all kinds of magic happening there. From where I am, it just looks like white, windowless factory buildings, but I know it’s so much more. The back lot is where the cameras, directors, and stars create cinematic history.

The office area is where paperwork — and now me — is located.

It’s still better than nothing. Hell, scratch that. It’s still amazing.

The office building I’m looking for is a small one story with a square parking area in front. No shade, unfortunately. Trees are scarce on production lots, I guess. Most of what I’ve seen so far is either made out of asphalt or steel.

I take a deep breath and practice grinning like a cheese ball — something I do when I need to calm myself down.

“You got this,” I whisper to myself. “Here we go.”

*

“Lunch is at noon for an hour, and if you smoke, there’s a spot out back. Just make sure not to leave your cigarette butts on the ground, or Mr. Mulroney will wring your neck. And not in a good way.”

I take the ID badge Stacey handed me and clip it to my jeans, wondering why she’s even suggesting there’s a good way to get your neck wrung.

“Thanks,” I say to the receptionist, choosing to just forget about the topic.

“You’re really pretty,” Stacey continues, matter-of-fact. She’s maybe in her early thirties, with short, black hair, and heavily mascaraed eyes.

“Wow. Thanks.” My heart warms at the compliment. After the awful start with the man I almost drove over, it’s nice to run into someone who could potentially be a friend. I wonder if Stacey also takes lunch at noon and if she knows of any good places within walking distance.

“All you really need is to wear some make-up and not dress so frumpy,” she continues, and my hopes of us ever being close go crashing to the ground.

“I’m more of a minimalist,” I mumble, trying to control my anger. I’ve run into enough women like the kind I think Stacey is — the ones who feel the need to always keep other women in check — to know it’s best to just not engage in prolonged conversations with them. “Where do I go?”

“Last door right down the hall,” she says, pointing to my left. She picks up the desk phone and presses it to her face, dismissing me.

There are two short hallways. I take a quick peek at the one to the right. Bathrooms, a water closet, and a closed office door. Got it.

I pick up my neon-orange backpack from the floor and head down the other hall, passing several more office doors on the way. My heart is beating so hard it feels like it’s about to burst out of my chest, and I realize I didn’t even check my reflection before getting out of my car. I’m about to start work with the head of Mulroney Pictures, and for all I know, I could have breakfast on my face.

I take a second to halt and slip out the little compact mirror that I keep in one of the backpack’s side pockets. The hallway is empty, but I still try to be as inconspicuous as possible in checking my reflection. My short, wavy brown hair is still pinned back in place. My blue eyes, though, look a tad frantic — kind of like I’m an animal walking into the slaughter house.

Calm it down, Sydney,
I tell myself while I put the mirror away. As I get closer to the end of the hall, the sounds of people talking and phones ringing grow louder. I stop at the last door, boasting a sign reading “Simon Mulroney,” and take a right through the open doorway.

My heart sinks. What greets me is less than impressive.

I’m in an office with several desks all cramped together. A long window runs the length of the far wall, with views of the ass of another building. A closed door sits adjacent to the window.

Two young men are on phones, shuffling through papers, and clicking on laptops as they talk. The third person — a girl not much older than me with blonde, pink-tinged hair and glasses, gives me a wave.

“Savannah, right?” she asks.

“Sydney. But you got the city part right.”

She gives a little smirk, but it’s a friendly one, and I’m relieved my often pathetic humor has hit its mark.

“I’m Dana. We’ll be working together. These guys are Chuck and Daniel.” She nods at the two men who are also somewhere in their twenties. They both wear pastel colored button ups and both seem impervious to my appearance.

“Great,” I nod. “Is Mr. Mulroney in?”

Dana gives another smirk, except this time it doesn’t seem like a good one. “Oh, is he ever,” she responds with heavy sarcasm. “He’s in a killer mood today. I’ll buzz you in.”

She takes a step over to a desk and hits a button before speaking into the buzzer. “Mr. Mulroney, our new assistant is here.”

A second passes and a buzz is followed by a brusque man’s voice. “Send her in.”

Dana gestures towards the closed door on the other side of the room before promptly turning away to a wall covered with notes. I take a deep breath and walk across the room to open the office door.

The man in the room has his back to me, his hands in his pockets. As he begins to turn around everything moves at a normal pace at first, but then time abruptly stretches out, each second happening in agony-drenched slow motion. His tousled blond hair. The vibrant eyes that catch the light coming in through the window. The broad, tense shoulders.

Mr. Mulroney raises his head to take me in, the initial look of nonchalance on his face turning to first one of surprise, and then contempt.

Holy freaking shit.

The world is still spinning in slow-mo as I take a deep breath and make an instant conversion to the religious life — any fucking religious life — in order to send out a prayer to heaven.

Please God, don’t let him fire me,
is all I can think.

“You’re not going to knock me over?” he asks. “You didn’t get a chance to finish what you started on the asphalt.”

I chuckle slightly, hoping he’s making a joke. His lips tighten into a thin line.

Okay, so he wasn’t trying to be funny.

“I-I am
so
sorry,” I stutter in a voice that doesn’t even sound like my own. It sounds scared; slightly pathetic.

The hard line of his mouth breaks and he smiles before walking behind his desk to sit down. I take a deep breath. Okay, so maybe he
was
trying to be funny.

He runs a hand over his jaw, bringing one hundred percent of my attention to the fullness of his lips, and his eyes dart up and down my body.

Hold on a second.
Did he just check me out?

“I need a black coffee,” he says, opening a drawer at his desk and pulling out a folder.

“Um,” I say. That’s it? No ‘hello my name is, and you are?’ Granted, I already ruined my first impression when I almost ran him down but, seriously, does one mistake warrant me not even getting a chance to properly introduce myself?