Free Chasing the Dream: Dream Series, Book 3 by Isabelle Peterson

Street.
    “The car is back there,” I said, thumbing behind us.
    “Town Car equals fans following. I need a break,” he said, tugging us along, slipping the jacket he’d just swiped onto his back.

    M aking Dreary Dana quit was fun. If I had to endure another day of her sucking up to me and fan-girling, I was going to lose it. Granted, my little performance of swigging back a flask I told her was filled with vodka, and coming on to her like she was begging for it, was a bit much. I didn’t mean to tear her shirt, but once I slip into a role, sometimes it’s hard not to go full throttle. I wouldn’t have had sex with her. I would have come up with something before I ‘had my way’ with her. But the slap she delivered me, and my fake passing out from it, worked well. Best improv ever!
    And my reward? Phoebe.
    Phoebe was so cute, so innocent. And she seemed like a caring girl. She had a sparkle in her eye. She wasn’t full of herself and giggling like every other twit that came my way. She wasn’t constantly complimenting me, and telling me what a wonderful actor I was. She wasn’t having me pull out the various accents and talk to her like a Brit, or Aussie, or my favorite, the Jersey guy.
    Maybe she was playing hard to get. Oh, I’ll get her all right. I always get the girl.

CHAPTER 8

    I couldn’t believe my eyes when we stopped in front of Ed Scott’s Steakhouse. My mother worked here when she was in New York for her odd, month long stay back in April.
    “I know onion rings, and this place has the best …stacked on juicy filet mignon,” he said, licking his lips, his gorgeous full lips. I suddenly wasn’t thinking about my mom anymore. The sight of his tongue and those lips…My stomach was doing that flippy thing again.
    Chase opened the door and stepped back, sweeping his arm across his magnificent chest. “After you m’lady,” Chase said in his British accent. I shuddered with excitement. Why did accents do goofy things to girls?
    “Thank you, Mr. Smythe,” I said, raising a brow at him, and walked into the restaurant.
    I had fond memories of the place when I was here five weeks ago. The staff had been really nice to me, and the food was great. My mom looked like she really liked working here, too. It was weird watching her work. She had never worked outside the home while I was growing up. I looked behind the bar and saw a gal I remembered, but couldn’t remember her name. Cheyanne? Charlotte?
    The hostess at the front stand spoke. “Table for two?” she asked. Table for two, I repeated to myself. A table for two—me and Chase Freakin’ Smythe! How impossibly romantic! Stop it! You are his personal assistant. This isn’t a date or anything, I chided myself.
    “Yeah,” Chase answered, pulling the cap off of his had and re-arranging his mop, flashing the hostess with his camera-worthy smile.
    The hostess gasped and blushed. “You’re….”
    “I am,” Chase answered with a wink. And before the hostess could find the rest of her sentence, he put his finger up to his lips, and ‘shushed’ her, letting her know that our being here was a secret.
    She started to pant a bit, and wildly searched the main restaurant area and the seating chart on her stand. “Um, it’ll be about ten or fifteen minutes for a table to open up,” she said hopefully.
    Chase glanced at the bar. “We don’t really have that kind of time. I have to be back on set in an hour, and my girl is starving,” he said, draping an arm around my shoulder and pulling me into his muscular form, practically electrocuting the whole side of my body. We fit perfectly, I mused. “Mind if we sit in the bar?” Chase asked pointing at a high top over in the bar section.
    “Oh, um, sure, but—” she stammered, glancing at me, with a touch of… jealousy?
    “Great, thanks,” and Chase pulled me off to the bar before the hostess could object.
    As we approached the open table, Chase dropped his arm from my shoulder and jumped