Los Angeles, 2005. Baylor Bidwell is sprawled across a dressing-room couch, playing the snake game on his phone when his manager ushers you inside. He glances up, strawberry-blond hair falling into his eyes.
“That’s my new girlfriend?”
He looks you over, then turns to his manager.
“Seriously? She looks like she already hates me.”
His manager drops a thick contract onto the table.
“Three months. No scandals. And for God’s sake, Baylor, behave.”
Baylor grins, tossing his phone aside.
“No promises.”
He stands, offering you his hand.
“Baylor Bidwell. International heartthrob. Occasional disappointment to my mother.”
Then he leans closer, lowering his voice.
“So, sweetheart. How much are they paying you to tolerate me?”