The following is a preview of my upcoming novel, THE HOLLYWOOD DIARIES. It will be released on Amazon Kindle in Spring 2026.

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My real life started with a party, and I can’t believe I almost missed my ride. It was a wrap party for a low-budget horror film, and it promised to be another drinks-and-drugs-fest, where the lights were low, the booze and blow were abundant, and the mingled haze of cigarette and marijuana smoke rose over everything. Everyone would rave about it on social media the next day, but odds were that no one would remember the party well enough to describe it or tell the truth if they did.

I knew a lot about parties like this, but not because I had attended one. My roommate had gone to lots of them, and she always shared every juicy bit of gossip when she came home. Now she had the rare opportunity to bring along a plus one.

Ivory, my roommate, had landed a small speaking role. It had called for her to be half-naked, and she had a body that would stop the average red-blooded male in his tracks. That’s what had happened with the star of this production. She ended up having a tête-à-tête with him in his trailer, although bouche-à-bite[i] was closer to the mark. He rewarded Ivory for her enthusiasm with an invite to the film’s wrap party, which, in case she had the wrong idea, included a plus-one.

Ivory, despite the plus-one, still had her eyes on the prize, and she had no intention of taking along one of her many boyfriends who might cramp her style. So, she turned to me.

“Daphne, come with me to the party tonight. Pleeeease?”

I looked away from my computer screen. I was drafting a quick email to my great-uncle, Guy Gilbért, responding to his dinner invitation for the following Sunday. Guy was a film producer of near legendary status and a chronic workaholic. He was also one of the nicest men I had ever met, and not just because he was family. One of the reasons Guy was so well known was that he was something of a patron saint to the independent film industry, and he had caused several films that might have otherwise languished in obscurity to become known and loved by millions. But to me he was just Uncle Guy, although I didn’t call him that. I also worked in the film industry, and Guy and I had agreed to keep our personal relationship private, so no one would think that my successes were due to him being my uncle.

Normally, I would have been busy working on a screenplay, along with half of the people in Los Angeles. Like the vast majority of screenplays, it would go on to get many rejections before I finally got it right. But it was my baby, and I had planned to get back to it when I was through writing to Guy. Still, a party like this one would be a great source for all kinds of material for my writing. (I was always looking for material for my writing. I called it ‘research.’ Others might call it ‘a distraction.’)

“Sure,” I said. “What should I wear?”

Ivory’s face fell as she considered what she had seen of my wardrobe. “What have you got that’s —dressy casual? You know—fun.”

Hmm. Her criteria ruled out the black dress I had on standby for funerals. It also eliminated any of the three bridesmaid dresses still hanging in my closet, as I was not cruel enough to inflict them on the poor souls shopping at the local thrift store. I thought hard about Ivory’s question. Then I offered, “What about my sage green jersey knit top and some jeans?”

Ivory’s face brightened. “That could work. You can borrow a pair of my heels. Jeans are cute with heels.” Ivory and I shared a shoe size, but that was the only size we had in common. Her shoes were size seven, but her clothing was size two. My clothing size also had a two in it, only I was a size twelve. I wasn’t fat, but I wasn’t thin, either. “Rubenesque” was the word I preferred—it sure beat “chubby.” It was a quality that former boyfriends had appreciated, even if the fashion industry didn’t.

When the time came, Ivory readied herself with exacting precision. She slithered into a shimmery silver crop top and a micro-mini jeans skirt, both of which fit her like the skin on a snake. She then turned her eyes on me.

“You need more makeup.”

I stared at myself in the bathroom mirror. “I don’t have any more makeup.” What makeup I did have was no doubt out of date. It promised me infection, death, or at least zits from putrefying chicken guts if it were to touch my face. “You know I don’t wear makeup.”

“Well, you’re wearing it tonight.” Ivory reached into one of the drawers holding her own arsenal. Fortunately, our coloring was similar. We both had fair skin, although I had no idea what Ivory’s original hair color was. “Sit,” she ordered. I sat and resigned myself to the ordeal ahead. Umpteen minutes passed while my face was patted, creamed, dusted, and drawn upon. She was coming at me with a pair of false eyelashes when I put on the brakes.

“I can’t wear those.” I scrambled for an excuse. “I’m allergic to the adhesive. It will make my eyes swell shut.”

“Oh.” Ivory looked disappointed but settled for an extra application of mascara. She worked for a few more minutes, touching up here and there. Finally, she stood back. “Okay, you can look now.”

I stood up and studied my face in the mirror. Ivory had exercised some restraint. My green eyes looked enormous, but not too painted, and my skin had a lovely, natural-looking glow instead of its usual pasty radiance. I was—kind of pretty. “Nice!” I conceded. “Thank you.”

Next, I squeezed into shapewear (Ivory insisted). Then came my tightest jeans, my sheerest bra, and my silky knit top, along with the three-inch heels that were as high as I was willing to go. The top clung to my breasts, and the jeans hugged my body (okay, the shapewear was a good idea). My low neckline and cinched-in waist emphasized my most striking feature: my D-cup bosom. Ivory spritzed a little cologne into my cleavage and bedecked me with as much boho jewelry as I would tolerate. Finally, she finished and stood back, looking at her work with a critical eye.

“You look good.” She gave me a fond smile as she gazed upon her new creation. Cinderella’s fairy godmother might have worn such an expression. “Grab your purse and let’s go!”

There was another slight delay as I replaced my usual shoulder bag with a small clutch. Armed with only my keys, my phone, a pen, and a tiny notebook, I set off with Ivory for my very first Hollywood wrap party.

*          *          *          *          *

It was a madhouse.

Other than the sound stage setting and trendier apparel, and minus the beer pong, this wrap party looked like something you would attend at a frat house. The sound stage was dark, cavernous, and disordered, as the set was already being disassembled to get ready for the next production. The air was filled with the smells of pizza and marijuana, along with a hint of cheap beer and sweat. I felt disappointed that it wasn’t glitzier, but I wasn’t surprised. I was part of the production team, and I had seen the budget and heard Ivory’s tales from the set. I was amazed they could afford the pizza.

The studio had assigned me as assistant producer to a man who was the biggest sexist prick I had ever met, and I had spent a few uncomfortable weeks avoiding this man’s attempts to play grab-ass. The grab-ass game ended after he got a little too insistent, and I left him applying an ice pack to his unhappy private parts. I also left a handprint on his face. So, I did not receive my own invite to the wrap party.

I felt worried that this producer might be there, too, but I didn’t see him anywhere. Still, I felt out of place. So, when Ivory plunged into the fray, I plunged into the nearest corner where I could people-watch. It was quite the show.

At first, I had fun observing. The noise levels went up as the drinks went down, and I got to see all sorts of air-kissing and fist-bumping and glad-handing. All these details went into my little notebook. There was a karaoke setup at one end of the space, where an off-key tenor was singing some cringeworthy ballad, while at the other end was a DJ. George, one of the sound crew, was pumping out dance music for the athletically inclined. Everywhere around me, I heard names being dropped, and I learned about all the possible projects in ‘development’ or ‘pre-production.’ These were movies where final casting decisions were pending, but almost everyone was ‘being considered.’

I caught sight of Ivory playing tonsil hockey with a man who had his back to me and his hand up under Ivory’s skirt—not a difficult accomplishment since her skirt came up to her ass. I didn’t bother to write notes on this. I would get the details from Ivory later. Other than Ivory’s shenanigans, everything seemed repetitive. So, buzzing a little from my contact high, I decided it was time to go. I planned to catch a cab and go home in time to get in a few more hours of writing. I was about to go through the doorway when a newcomer walked in, and we nearly collided.

I somehow kept my mouth from falling open. He was gorgeous.

He wasn’t tall, but he was taller than me, and possibly thinner (I tried not to dwell on that part). His skin was fair; his hair was blond; he was muscular without it being obnoxious; and he had the bluest eyes I had ever seen. Just looking at him was an aphrodisiac.

I felt my heartbeat quicken. I licked my lips nervously, trying to ignore the fact that my breasts had noticed him, too. My nipples were trying to poke holes in the front of my shirt. Then he looked into my eyes and smiled. I was dazzled.

“Hi. I don’t remember you.” This beautiful man was speaking to me. He was standing in front of me, smiling. “What part of the production were you working on?”

“Me?” I somehow pulled myself together and laughed. “I worked as an assistant producer, but tonight I’m just my roommate’s plus-one.” I pointed out Ivory in the crowd. “There she is.”

“I see. Looks like Ralph’s got his date for the night.” The gorgeous man chuckled.

“Ralph? Ralph Whittiker?” Ralph Whittiker was the film’s director. I stared. He looked different with his back to me, trying to maneuver his hands under Ivory’s crop top.

“Yep. That’s Ralph.” My new acquaintance made a moue of distaste. I was quick to notice it, and tactless enough to mention it.

“Don’t you like him?”

He looked noncommittal and a bit wary. “Why don’t we start at the beginning? Hi, there, miss. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Frank Lee.”

I couldn’t help it. I giggled. “As in ‘Frank Lee, my dear, I don’t give a damn’?”

This was the moment when everything could have gone south in a hurry. But it didn’t. He threw back his head and laughed.

“I’m afraid so. God knows what my mother was thinking.”

“So, are you part of the cast?” I had never seen his face before that night, but there was no way he could have been so handsome and not be a movie star. How had I missed him?

“I had a small part,” he—Frank—said. “Nothing worth talking about.”

“Oh.” It was the best I could do. I felt so tongue-tied, so inadequate, and so incredibly turned on.

“Enough about me. Now tell me about you.” Frank smiled his encouragement. I thought I might melt.

I could manage to obey a direct order. “I’m an assistant producer by day, writer by night.” There. It wasn’t entirely accurate, but it sounded cool. Okay, it sounded lame. Hey, I tried.

Frank’s response took the wind out of my sails. “That sounds interesting, but what’s your name?”

Right. Introduce yourself. I gave myself a mental kick in the pants. “I’m sorry. My name is Daphne Dubonnét.”

Frank’s eyes widened. “Seriously? Or is that your pen name?”

I shook my head. “I don’t have a pen name. I’m from New Orleans. My great-great-great—I’ve forgotten how many greats—grandfather brought the name over from France.”

“Huh!” There was his smile again. “You don’t sound like you’re from New Orleans.”

“That’s because I’ve been here in California long enough to lose the accent. But trust me, if you ever heard me on the phone with my Aunt Louise, you would know beyond the shadow of a doubt.”

Frank’s smile deepened. I tried not to hyperventilate. He reached out and took my hand in his to shake. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Daphne Dubonnét.”

It felt as though an electric shock passed between us. Frank’s easy smile faded as his gaze became more intent. I felt a rush of giddy satisfaction, telling me somehow everything was going better than I would have dared hope for. “Pleased to meet you, too, Mr. Frank Lee.” I could hear the soft drawl of the South lilting into my voice. Frank noticed it, too.

“There it is.” A slow smile spread across his face. “I do love a sweet southern accent. It makes everything sound like a song.”

I told myself to never talk like a Yankee again, as Frank’s fingers tightened on mine. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s dance.”

[i] “mouth to dick.” Do not use this with a native French speaker. You might get slapped. Or encouraged to do something you might not want to do.