Mr. Hollywood’s Secret by Adora Crooks

Mr. Hollywood’s Secret

1

Nico

My boyfriend lies in bed beside me, sweat-slicked, panting, and frustrated.

I try to reason with him. “It happens to plenty of guys—”

“If the next words out of your mouth are at your age, I’m going to kill you.”

Eric North is, objectively, a vision. At forty-five, he has a chiseled body that men half his age would be envious of. Top that off with a grizzled beard, dazzling blue eyes, and thick hair that is going silver in all the right ways, it’s not hard to see why the camera loves him.

Or why I love him. Why I’ve been in love with him for the past five years.

He has a soft side to him. Underneath that rugged, steely exterior.

Unfortunately, Eric is embarrassed right now, and he has all of his walls up. There is no grappling hook I can use to climb walls that high.

I try, regardless. I slip my hand over his chest, comforting.

“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” I reassure him. “The movie. The stress.”

He moves away from my hand and sits up. He leans back against the hard oak of our headboard. “The only one who’s been pushing me is my agent,” he says. “She won’t let up about this fiancée bullshit.”

I press my lips together. This topic of conversation has been the source of grunting and growling from Eric for weeks.

You see, Eric, the action-movie star, Hollywood’s favorite leading man, has one very large secret…

Me.

Five years we’ve been dating. Three, we’ve been living together. And still, no one outside of our close-knit group of friends and family knows about us. No one knows he’s gay.

I sit up beside him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Coaxing Eric out of his shell is a nearly impossible task. However, every now and then, if you ask in just the right way, he’ll give in. “She keeps hounding me. She wants to set me up with a fake fiancée for the convention. She says it will be good for the PR run.”

“Is that what you want to do?” I ask.

Those blue eyes go sharp as knives. “Obviously not.”

I exhale a deep breath. “Alright. I have…an idea. Well. Less of an idea and more of a person.”

His lips draw into a thin line. “What did you have in mind?”

* * *

Eric and I live in a two-story house in San Marino, Los Angeles.

It’s a Mediterranean-style house with a red tile roof, ivy that climbs the exterior walls, and large, high-archway doors. Inside are hardwood floors, Vanguardia paintings on the walls, ceremonial masks from Mexico, and abstract sculptures cluttered around our immense living room. We’re closed off from the world, behind a private gate and giant hedges.

The house’s personality is mostly mine; when I moved in, it immediately became clear that Eric hadn’t moved a stick of furniture since he walked the house with his Realtor and said, “I’ll take it.” At one point, I’d pointed to a piece of tape over one of the light switches in the kitchen and asked him what it was there for. He’d just shrugged and informed me it’d always been there.

I couldn’t let that stand—to the point where I tore into the wall and nearly electrocuted myself not once, but twice to find the source of the phantom switch.

And that, truly, is us in a nutshell.

Eric would rather ignore a problem than change it (even if it is for his own good).

I, meanwhile, am incapable of leaving a problem unsolved (even if it is to my own detriment).

My favorite part of the house is out back, through the french doors, where it exits to a sparkling pool, a spa Jacuzzi, and an outdoor kitchen. Large palm trees hang over a long wooden table and ivy-covered awning, which is where we often host intimate dinner parties for our small circle of friends who know.

I come here to write and when I need an escape.

Like now. I want to be alone for the phone call I’m about to make.

I sit on the edge of the pool, dip my bare toes in the water, and call Chrys Hudson.

We went to college together and spent most of that time utterly inseparable, but we haven’t spoken in years—save the occasional “like” on each other’s posts or mild banter through Facebook comments. I prepare myself for an awkward conversation, but as soon as the phone stops ringing, the first thing I hear is “Nico fucking Ortega, this better not be a butt dial.”