The Princess and the Porn Star Read Free

“walking”. God, where would I be without Quinn and his warped sense of humor?
    In a pretty bad place, actually. He and I both knew I’d have gone a whole lot further off the deep end three years ago if I hadn’t had him there. Quinn was the only reason I made it to—or through—anything toward the end, and that usually meant he spent half the morning holding my hair while I puked and the other half pouring espresso down my throat while he talked me off whatever ledge I was on. He stayed with me longer than my record company and my fiancé. You know you’ve hit rock bottom when the man who’s picked you up a thousand times is dropping you off at rehab and telling you he won’t come back until you pick yourself up this time.
    Lost in my thoughts, I misjudged a step and very nearly rolled my ankle, but I caught myself.
    “You okay, love?”
    “I’m fine.” I put my arms out for a few seconds to give my balance a chance to level out. “Yeah, I’m fine.” I took another step and grimaced. Five minutes into wearing these things, and my right ankle was not happy. I’d be lucky if I could walk after this rehearsal.
    “Hey, Quinn?” I asked over my shoulder.
    “Yes’m?”
    I gingerly took another step. “Could you call and make me an appointment for a cortisone shot this afternoon?”
    “Ankle?”
    “Yep.”
    “On it.” He paused. “Want me to get some icepacks ready too?”
    “That would be awesome.” I glanced back at him. “You’re a lifesaver.”
    “It’s what I’m here for, love.” He polished his flawless nails on his shirt. “So have you seen this guy you’re working with today?”
    Wincing, I turned around. “No. Why?”
    “Oh. Honey .” He grinned over the top of his iPad. “You need to research these things.”
    I rolled my eyes. “I just want to get in and get it over with before these shoes murder my feet.”
    “You’ll be fine, babe.” Quinn waved a hand. “You just haven’t worn heels in a while.”
    “Right, so should I really be wearing these ”—I pointed at my feet—“when I haven’t worn anything above two inches in like three years?”
    “Just be careful. You’ll be fine.” He shifted his gaze to his iPad. “Especially once you see what you’re dancing with today and tomorrow.”
    “Oh yeah?”
    “Mm-hmm.” He moved his hand rapidly over the screen. “And thanks to your darling assistant’s third degree black belt in Google-Fu, you may now feast your eyes on your dance partner. I present to you”—he turned the iPad around—“the one and only Buck Harder.”
    “Buck Harder,” I muttered as I took the iPad from him. “What a name.”
    “And what a body ,” Quinn mused.
    Staring at the screen, I said, “Can’t argue with that.” And I couldn’t. Wow. He was… Well, I could see why he’d apparently done so well in his line of work. He was broad-shouldered, tanned, with flawlessly defined, hairless abs. He obviously spent a good chunk of his time at the gym, but he wasn’t huge. Not a bodybuilder or a steroid junkie, just fit. Very, very fit.
    His thumbs were hooked in the pockets of his jeans, his hands angled just right to direct my attention to his crotch, where the skintight denim clung to at least one reason he’d gone into porn. My God.
    I made myself quit staring at his package and instead looked at his face. His sandy blond hair was neatly trimmed and perfectly styled, and those vivid green eyes might have been mesmerizing and knee-weakening if not for the arrogance radiating from them as well as that smarmy grin. Forget what he had in his pants. Something told me his ego was his largest appendage.
    “Cute.” I set the iPad down. “Looks like he knows it too.”
    “Of course he does.” Quinn scoffed. “He gets to have sex for a living, even if it is with women”—he stuck out his tongue—“and he’s one of the most popular and highest earning out of all the other men who have sex for a living. Of course he knows he’s