Celebrity Love in New Orleans

He's the rock star in freefall. I'm Elizabeth Bailey, the PR fixer with a foolproof plan for rehabbing his image: a fake relationship.Logan Richards used to be the golden boy of rock. Now he's one headline away from becoming a has-been. My job? Make the world love him again.My strategy is simple: pair him with the perfect fake Hollywood star girlfriend and coach him into playing the role of America's boyfriend.Except Logan doesn't do "simple." He resists control at every turn. But somewhere between the banter, the sparks, and those late-night "rehearsals," the line between fake and real disappears.The first rule of PR? Never fall for a client.Too bad Logan Richards makes me want to break every rule.

I'm the only one who knows that movie star Luke Fisher is hiding out in New Orleans.And somehow, he's ended up living next door.After a scandal that broke the internet (and his nose), Hollywood heartthrob Luke Fisher escapes to New Orleans, hoping to disappear. The plan works-until Anna Amato, the feisty Italian writer next door, recognizes him.Anna knows what it's like to have your heartbreak make headlines. After her own breakup hit the news, she swore off love, fame, and men with PR teams. But behind Luke's maddening charm and magazine-cover good looks, she finds someone vulnerable, sincere, and, annoyingly, really good at making her laugh.When Anna agrees to help him stay hidden and discover the real New Orleans, the line between pretending and something true begins to blur.He's the movie star everyone wants.She's the only one who sees him clearly.

I met billionaire Topher Brodie in the most graceful way possible: by crashing my airport shuttle into his limo. He didn't take it well. Actually, he got me fired.The only upside? I figured I'd never see him again.So imagine my shock when I overheard him introducing me as his girlfriend. His what now?Turns out, Topher's mom is sick, and to keep her life stress-free, he invented a relationship . . . with me, Kathleen Avery.Frankly, I'm shocked that anyone believes that we're a couple. He's a workaholic in a thousand-dollar suit with a private plane, a yacht, and several vacation homes, and he usually dates supermodels. And me? Well, I'm not a supermodel, and my net worth couldn't cover his dry-cleaning bill.It was only supposed to last a few weeks. Just long enough to help him out and get a warm place to crash in return. No feelings, no strings, just one absurd lie.But the longer I play along, the harder it gets to remember what's fake. And what's not.