Chased by Love Trish Ryder (The Ryders #3) - Melissa Foster
“I’M GOING OVER. Should I go over? Tell me I shouldn’t. Or should I?” Trish Ryder clutched her cell phone, pacing inside her trailer on the set of her latest film, No Strings. She’d been trying to study her lines all night, but her co-star, famed rocker Boone Stryker, had a full-blown party going on at his trailer, and she could barely think past the noise.
“It’s midnight and you have to be on set in seven hours,” her best friend, Fiona, reminded her. “You’re the star, so yes. Get your ass over there and pull a diva.”
Trish stopped cold. “But I’m not a diva!”
“Of course not, but you know that’s what his groupies will think, which you do not care about. Right?”
“Right.” She nodded curtly, but she did care. She cared a lot, and Fiona knew that about her. She’d worked hard to keep a professional reputation clear of any diva attitude or impressions, and she didn’t want to blow it for a self-centered rock star making his film debut.
Fiona groaned, and Trish heard her friend’s fiancé, Jake Braden, say, “Give me the phone.”
“Do not give him the phone.” Trish paced again. She adored Jake. Not only was he an amazing stuntman, but he treated her bestie like a princess. But Jake, like each of Trish’s five brothers, had the protective alpha thing down pat, which meant he’d want to take care of this for her.
“Like I have a choice?” Fiona giggled, and Trish heard them struggling over the phone.
“Trish?” Jake’s tone made her name sound like a command she should salute.
Trish Ryder saluted no man. “No, it’s Mary Poppins.”
“Okay. Well, listen, Mary,” Jake said without missing a beat. “March your pretty little ass over there and tell the guy to straighten up. If he gives you any crap, call me back, and I’ll come to the set and knock some sense into him.”
Of course you will. “Thanks, Jake, but I can handle it. I just wasn’t sure I wanted to stir up trouble. He’s already messed up so badly, the whole crew knows the film’s on thin ice.”
“Even more of a reason for you to set him straight,” Jake said. “You don’t have to be a bitch. Just be your normal, confident self. He’d have to be a real dick not to rectify the situation.”
She sighed, and heard Jake pass the phone back to Fiona. Maybe they were right. She was a well-respected actress, and this was Boone’s first film. Maybe he simply wasn’t up to speed on film-set etiquette. Obviously, since in the span of a few weeks he’d missed the preproduction meeting, showed up late to the set, and screwed up too many scenes to count.
“I’m back. You okay?” Fiona asked.
“Yes. No. I don’t know, but I’m going over. You guys are right. If I’m awake all night, I’ll be the one messing up tomorrow, and I don’t need the director upset with me.”
After Trish ended the call, she set her phone down beside a copy of Rolling Stone magazine. A picture of Boone, shirtless, graced the cover. She’d read the article. She’d read every article about Boone taking on the role in No Strings, and they all said the same thing. Boone Stryker is everything fantasies are made of: warm brown eyes that say “help me,” “do me,” and “you’ll never forget me,” body ink indicative of a troubled soul, and an insurmountable dedication to his craft.
They left out self-centered asshole with no respect for anyone but himself. And based on his behavior, she wasn’t even sure he had that.
Well, guess what? It’s time to grow