Married to the Rockstar

Nothing about this arrangement is convenient...

Jeremy Dillion—a.k.a. Knox—has no intention of succumbing to wedded bliss. Gag, no. His parents divorced when he was young and the only stability in his life comes from his bandmates. But now they’re finding their own forever sweethearts, and Knox is feeling the heat of being a lone wolf in a group effort. Still, an actual relationship? No. Ick.

Irina Carmichael is ready for her big break. The problem is no one takes a second look at her, since she doesn’t fit into the general mold created for Hollywood starlets. Her hips are too big, her nose is too sharp, and her lips are too wide. But she’s so ready to step out of the background and into the spotlight.

When Knox gets trashed in the tabloids, his publicist pitches the idea of an image-saving marriage to Irina. Irina figures the publicity can't hurt and accepts—until the offers for major roles start pouring in, and she doesn’t need the arrangement. Unfortunately, Knox has broken the first rule of marrying an actress for publicity: don’t fall in love. But can he handle a real relationship? And is she ready to stop pretending?

Married to the Rockstar
By Christina Hovland

Chapter One

Irina Carmichael loved little more than planning a good party. That one thing she adored more? Her nearly nonexistent, dehydrated excuse of an acting career. A soon-to-be rehydrated acting career, if the plan went well. A career she would nurture, cherish, and water like nobody’s business.
For now, she focused on her upcoming publicity stunt of a wedding. Super-fake in the love sense, but very real in the legal sense, and hopefully enough to give her career the jump-start it needed.
They were two days away from the big engagement news drop—a carefully positioned leak to the tabloids to spill the news. They’d thought about a big proposal. She’d even pitched it to the groom, because who wouldn’t want that? But in the end everyone worried it’d be too in-your-face and obvious.
“This is a lot of effort for an event that doesn’t really count,” Jeremy “Knox” Dillion—her friend and groom-to-be—said. He sat on the floor of the Denver, Colorado house they currently shared with her best friend Courtney and Courtney’s guy, Knox’s bandmate, and their baby. Currently they were babysitting little Harley so her mom and dad could catch a breather.
Baby Harley wasn’t even a year old yet as she hung out in her green giraffe bouncy seat. Knox strummed his guitar for her as Irina worked at the table with two planners, three kinds of scissors, stickers out the nose, and a stack of bridal magazines. Not to mention a Venti Vanilla Frappuccino.
“You’re barely paying attention.” It’s true, he was extremely uninvolved with the wedding planning, giving only cursory head nods and the occasional mm-hmm. Even when she’d been the one entertaining Ms. Harley with decisions about napkin color and lighting options.
“True.” He didn’t look up. “But I still notice, and I gotta say, you only need to put in about half the effort and you’ll still get the results.”
“Look,” Irina said. “I’m probably only going to have three or four weddings in my entire life.” She stapled a piece of cloth she intended for bridal gowns to her vision board. Well, it’d started to cover the entire wall, so it was more of a vision mural. But who was keeping track? “I want to make each one count.”
She used to harbor fantasies about happily-ever-after with the man of her dreams, but she’d fallen in love early and they’d ended up breaking each other’s hearts. Best not to get feelings involved, she discovered.
Knox harrumphed as a response and went back to strumming on his guitar. Saying something under his breath, and then grumbling about the strings before going back to his notes.
“If you didn’t have the tour coming up, then we wouldn’t be on such a tight schedule, hmm,” Irina sang the words, working them in with the few bars he’d been fighting with for the past hour.
Knox was tall—really tall—with blond hair he kept a touch too long, and a muscled body that made a girl want to touch it all over. He lived his life as a rock star. Specifically, keyboardist for the insanely popular Dimefront. Though he was officially on the keyboards, he also played guitar. And today he’d spent the entire afternoon drafting what he assured her was a new hit single. She believed him because she’d been listening—the song was excellent.
He even had Harley cooing.
Irina loved spending time with Harley and her mama. Her dad Bax wasn’t too bad, either. But Irina missed her life in Los Angeles. Not that she had tons of work there, which was why she needed an exposure boost to launch her career. Knox needed an image makeover since the paparazzi had branded him a big ol’ jerk of a player. This marriage of convenience between them was created with the hope it could fix both of their issues.
“Hey, are you going to write me a song for the wedding?” she asked, because a wedding song would be super kick-ass and a very nice addition to the soirée. She eyeballed a different shade of emerald green for the flower girl dresses—tone on tone might be perfection—as she spoke.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he mumbled with a pen clenched between his teeth. “You want one?”
“Uh-huh. Bax wrote Courtney a song. Lynx wrote Becca one, too.” These pairings were also genuine couples who had fallen in love. The home they stayed in was Bax and Courtney’s, across the street from Lynx and Becca. Up the way, at the end of the cul-de-sac, was Knox’s current renovation project. He’d bought the house from a couple who had a lot of cats that peed on the pink carpet regularly. The whole place did not smell good, and it was super pink. Not cute pink, either.
Once they got married and the renovations were through, Irina would stay there sometimes for the photo ops, but the true love thing? No. That’s not what Knox and Irina had. They were friends who got along well enough to get married, and he was wicked hot. Her goals did not align with a love match and neither did his, so it all worked out.
Who had time for love when there were future blockbusters to get callbacks on?
“Courtney had Bax’s baby.” Knox strummed a few chords, nodded, then wrote something on the lined music pad. “Becca puts out on the regular,” he continued. “That’s why they got songs. You wanna have my baby or put out for me?”
Hold up. She and Knox didn’t need to get carried away with things. She was neither going to put out or have his baby. But…
“I’ll put up with you since I’m marrying you!” This was a big deal. Banks would link his credit to hers, she’d be legally responsible as his next of kin, and if he went to prison, she’d be the one who had to visit!
Again, an enormous deal.
“We are both getting what we want out of this.” He glanced up, grinning that wicked smile of his. That smile and those dimples were the kind of thing that got him in trouble. The abs and the talent didn’t hurt the total package situation either.
Knox took some serious heat in the tabloids for being the only original Dimefront band member still single and playing the field. It didn’t help that every time he turned around the tabloids were twisting something he said or did to make him look like he really was a player and a jerkface.
Sure, Dimefront had added two new guys to the stage. But they were still wet behind the ears—no one expected them to settle down and fall in love. Not when the groupies tossed themselves in their direction like confetti from a cannon.
But Knox? He was being branded as a player since he’d had his confetti days, and the world now wanted to see his love match.
The branding him as a player thing? Totally hysterical, because he actually was not a player. Knox was a good guy with a heart so big sometimes she wondered how he wasn’t head over heels in love for real.
Anyhoo, this was the point at which Irina strode onto the stage.
An actress in need of some Hollywood-style attention meets a rock star in need of a partner.
Enter Courtney, Irina’s best friend and a publicity professional, who suggested a marriage of convenience.
They’d both agreed, and ta-da they were doing this thing.
“What if I bake you something?” she suggested. Her kitchen skills actually held up. While most actresses took waitstaff positions, she worked in the kitchen. She could bake for him while he wrote her some lyrics. Ba-da-bing. Ba-da-boom.
“Now we are talking.” Knox rubbed his hands together, his eyes positively sparkling.
She liked the sparkle thing, and it didn’t hurt that Knox was a looker. With his a-little-too-long rocker hair and his California boy tan skin, he’d be perfect for the wedding photos. Oh yeah. Not to mention the blue eyes that made women throw their bras at him on the regular. She’d even considered it on more than one occasion during a weak moment or two.
“Any requests from the kitchen?” she asked, circling back to the baking for a song option.
He scrawled something on the paper and followed it with a tapa-tap-tap against the guitar. “How long does the song need to be?”
“At last two verses and a refrain.” Not that she’d given it a ton of thought…only a little thought.
He pushed his hands in his hair, slicking it back. “You’re killing me here.”
She pressed her hands against her hips. “My job as your future wife is to harass you.”
He gave her a not-buying-it look. Which, whatever, he could think what he wanted. It’s what she convinced him to do that mattered. Luckily, she was a professional at convincing.
“Any specialties in the kitchen?” he asked.
Uh. Yes. “I’m good with scones.”
He lifted the side of his lip into a semi-cute baby snarl. “What are we? At high tea with the Queen? Do I look like a guy who eats scones?”
In all the time she’d known him, she’d actually never seen him eat a scone. Clearly, scones were a no go. But he did like—
“Pie?” she asked. She’d seen him on more than one occasion with an entire pie and a fork.
“Pie.” He nodded.
“What kind?” He hadn’t shown a particular preference, as far as she could tell.
“I enjoy all pie. Strawberry. Blueberry. Chocolate. Chocolate French silk. Banana cream. Key lime.” He made a slurp sound. “Put it in a flaky crust and I’ll devour it.”
She’d sent her libido to sleep ages ago so she could focus on her career, but, uh, the way his gaze landed on her when he said the word “devour”? Her nerve endings all woke right the hell up, immediately putting her on the sexual defensive. So much so that she nearly said something about flaky crust mirroring his choice in women. But since she was the lady du jour, and he wasn’t actually a player, it didn’t really track.
“Just be sure the crust isn’t soggy.” He made a yuck face, because he obviously hadn’t felt that uncomfortably sexual shift in the room. “That’ll ruin everything. Even more than runny filling.”
“Well, Pie Boy,” she said, brushing aside an uncomfortable ache low in her belly. “I will happily make you pie for a song.”
“Just a pie?” He tickled Harley’s tummy, set his guitar aside. Stood. Moved to the piano. “Uh-uh. Lots of pie.”
“Define lots?” As a unit of measure they could interpret it many, many ways.
He tapped a little ditty on the ivories, nodded, then did it again. “At least six. Different flavors.”
Oh, is that how he was going to play this? “Three verses, one refrain, and a drum solo.”
That got his attention.
“Serious? You’re going to make me write a drum solo?”
“Yup.” She sauntered toward him to prove to herself the sexual energy pulse was nothing more than a blip. “I love the drums.”
Knox had balked ever so briefly at the engagement idea. During those moments, she’d started negotiations with Tanner—the Dimefront drummer. Tanner could hardly speak to a female without seizing up, but he’d been on board. Funny that… Irina hadn’t been as excited to have him as her pretend husband. Tanner was sweet, but he wasn’t Knox. In the end, though, his agreement spurred Knox into saying yes. Sometimes Irina just liked to mess with Knox a little and remind him that Tanner was happy to do the matrimony-for-press gig with her.
“Fine,” he said as a grunt.
“And while we are on pie,” she whispered, giving a glance to Harley, but the munchkin was nearly off to dreamland.
Irina traced her fingertip along the top of the piano. Blurgh, she hated having to say this, but they were going for good publicity, not terrible publicity. So she needed to lay it all out. “We need to discuss your need to refrain from lady pie, unless your, uh, friend signs a nondisclosure agreement,” she said, quietly.
He stopped playing the piano and looked her straight in the eye. She hated when he did that because it always made her feel so…seen.
Not just as an actress or someone who loves the spotlight—but really seen. The dirt and grit, along with the gloss. The last guy who’d done that? Well… it’d ended badly for them both.
“NDA? That’s gonna put a crimp in my pickup game,” Knox said, low and mellow. Again that prickle of desire tugged at her.
She ignored it once more, and softly snort-laughed. “Like you have a game.”
“I have loads of game.” He feigned shock, but they both knew it wasn’t true.
She leaned in to rebalance the scales, because it hadn’t gone past her notice that he was a breast guy, and she was struggling way more than he was with the whole turned on thing. Leaning in this way would give a little cleavage boost to her standing in this conversation. “Then why are you marrying me?”
Ha. He totally checked out her girls before saying, “Because I don’t hate you.”
“Thanks.” She rolled her eyes.
“Besides, are you getting an NDA before any games of hide the salami?”
Uh-huh. “One, don’t call it that. Two, yes. Three, it doesn’t matter because I’m actually planning on being celibate during our time together.” Her insides all seemed to whine at that announcement.
He scowled and totally looked at her girls again. “Why would you do that?”
She straightened, because instead of giving her better footing, her chest display only seemed to make her more exposed.
“Because sex is overrated,” she said. “I’m going to keep my focus on my career once I have one.” She moved back to the table with her stuff. “Can’t do that on my back.”
“Whatever you say.” He sat at the keyboard and worked out some bars, saying nothing. Absolutely unaware of what had just happened with her.
She peeked at sound-asleep Harley, then placed photos of her four extremely different short-listed gown options on the table before her.
The one with the lace cape-style sleeves and the fitted bodice with the mermaid tail was probably the correct option for this wedding round. The style would photograph so beautifully. Also, it looked like what the wife of a rock star would select for herself.
“What do you think of this dress?” The style wasn’t her first choice, but it did scream rocker’s wife, so it’d likely be the one he’d pick.
“I think you should wear whatever you want.” Pencil between his teeth, he scowled at the music paper he’d scribbled and scratched out. He’d been like this for hours.
“But do you like it?” She stood back and squinted at the photo. She wanted him to like it since it was his event, too. Sure, she liked that it accentuated her breasts without accentuating her ass. But she wasn’t entirely sold on the lace. There was a lot of lace.
He glanced up.
She held the photo so he could see better.
“I thought we agreed wedding planning would go smoother without my help?” he said, lifting his eyebrows. “I’m the finance guy, and the show up guy, and the stand where you say guy.”
“Maybe I changed my mind, and you can add give-opinion guy to your list?” She made the photo do a little dance across the table. “Do. You. Like. It?”
“Like is a funny word.” He sort of made the same yuck face as before when he spoke.
“So you don’t?” Huh, she seriously figured this one was the one he’d dig.
He frowned and shook his head. “No, too white.”
Said no bride ever.
Okay, she crumpled up the photo and tossed it to the bin. Next option.
Unfortunately, the four choices were all white.
But there was one…
She flipped through Wedding Binder Number One and found the plastic sleeve with the reject images she’d held onto for a future wedding.
Her throat clogged a little at the dress image she’d tucked there. She swallowed.
Not white, this one was crimson red with silver accents, and a sleeveless top that wouldn’t look great with her arms. The bodice wouldn’t even accent her breasts, they’d be on their own. But the skirt was full on Cinderella with a freaking bustle! And it didn’t even look silly because the gown was classic and classy and—
“That one.” Knox stood behind her, his breath against the back of her neck, and pointed his index finger at the image.
She sucked in a whole bunch of air. When did he come over here?
“It’s expensive.” She traced her fingertip along the edge of the plastic sleeve.
Honestly, it wasn’t more expensive than the other dresses. But this one was just…her…and she didn’t want to be herself at this wedding because she should be the persona of Irina. The woman Knox married for the photo shoot and the one who married a rock star for the career boost.
This dress was not for that character.
“You’ve got my credit card.” He pointed at the image. “I want that one.”
“No negotiation?”
He sighed. “Do you really want the other one? Because when you look at that one”—he pointed to the red dress again and wiggled his fingers like they were tracing stars falling—“you get all dreamy.”
“I don’t get dreamy.” She put on a decidedly not-dreamy mask.
“Dreamy looks good on you.” Knox gave her a look that made butterflies flutter.
Yes, this was that look guys get right before a girl leans in for a lip-lock. Their breaths both came uneven, and her pulse sped up. The air between them stilled like all the fizz had left the club soda, but it wasn’t a disappointment, because in the stillness something more potent seemed to build.
Harley fussed in her sleep, breaking the moment. They both turned to check on her, but she settled again without them.
Irina took the interruption as an opportunity to scoot away a few inches.
Uh, that thing with Knox—this thing with him—was a no go, because she definitely needed platonic in this shebang.
She huffed, then said, “You’re not supposed to think it looks good on me.”
“I can think what I want, it’s my brain.”
She gestured between them. “This gig between us requires that you not notice if I get dreamy or not dreamy.”
He held up his hands. “Fine. You do you, boo.”
She would do exactly that, thank you. At least, she’d do a version of that—a version that made more sense for the character she’d be playing.
“Have you given any thought to honeymoon locations?” Knox asked. “I was thinking someplace tropical.”
Ew. No. “That’s a little cliche, isn’t it?”
“Things are cliche for a reason.”
He wasn’t wrong, but—
“We should do something different.” She thought about that. “Unexpected.”
Something that would get them more attention than doing the usual…
“We could rent a cabin up in Estes Park?” she suggested.
He wrinkled his nose. “With the bugs?”
“I was thinking it’s unique, and then we can pop into town often for paparazzi photos. Boom. Rocker and actress not doing the usual same ol’, same ol’.”
He shook his head. “The problem with a cabin in the mountains is it doesn’t come with a tropical beach.”
Grr. “Maybe you should just let me handle specifics and you just show up and smile.”
“If there are bugs, then I want them to come with white sand and a Mai Tai. Otherwise, whatever you want works fine.” He strode back to the keyboard and went back to tapping out the melody of the new song.
No bugs, white beach, ugh.
This was going to be harder than she’d thought. She pulled the red dress photo from the binder and folded it before dropping it into the waste bin. Long ago she’d decided that her life wasn’t about red dresses, white beaches, or prickly tingling brought on by her groom. Not at all.