Description
In my defense, I didn’t know which celebrity I’d be cooking for. How was I supposed to know that my new client would be the one celebrity I can’t stand, Dylan Colt—the boy band star who humiliated me online a week ago?
Here’s the problem. When my twin sister died, she asked me to finish her bucket list before our 30th birthday. I’ve managed to fulfill every item on the list in her memory except for one: sing a public duet with Dylan Colt. My birthday is one week away. I have sponsors. I have fans. Everyone is rooting for me to reach my goal except Dylan, the jerk who said no . . . and is now standing in front of me in his kitchen, wearing nothing but a towel. (What kind of celebrity greets his personal chef in a towel, anyway?)
Clearly I’ve been given another chance to convince him to help me, but he’ll fire me if I tell him who I am. A teeny little white lie about my identity might buy me some time to fulfill my sister’s dying wish. In the meantime, I refuse to think about how he looked standing there with wet hair, because . . . wow. It isn’t only his voice he’s famous for. Ahem.
One thing’s for sure—I definitely cannot spring for the boy band star.
Comments