Hot in Hellcat Canyon by Julie Anne Long Read Free Book Online Page B

year ago, and with quite a bang, at least according to Wikipedia.
    He hadn’t been linked to anyone seriously since.
    Rebecca Corday, on the other hand, had been linked to Sir Anthony Underhill ever since.
    The “After Blood Brothers ” section was short, too: he’d been in two types of movies, the kind with explosions and car chases, and one romantic comedy. One had tanked, the other two had limped to a break-even status, all were derided by critics, though his performance wasn’t blamed and he was generally considered the best thing about either movie. Several years later his performances in two independent films that almost no one saw were lavishly praised. One of them was shown at Cannes. He was nominated for a Golden Globe for the other one, Agapé . Somewhere in his downtime between films he’d acquired a black belt in karate.
    A year later he signed on to play the lead role in a series set during the Gold Rush in California, called The Rush , due to air on cable television beginning in 2017.It would be filmed in part on location in the Sierra Nevada foothills of California, site of the Gold Rush itself.
    Right near Hellcat Canyon, which was why he was here, of course.
    On his way to that wedding Casey mentioned.
    The “Controversy” section was naturally where all the juicy stuff was.
    A playful rivalry between him and his friend, co-star Franco Francone, had gotten genuinely ugly when Rebecca Corday left Francone for Tennessee. There was something about a fistfight in a parking lot, but no photographic evidence of that episode apparently existed. McCord had once punched a photographer who had allegedly said something unspeakable to Rebecca Corday. He drank a bit too much more than once. Toward the end of the series, he developed a bit of a reputation for being difficult on set, showing up late from time to time.
    A few years after his show had ended, he’d demanded, “Do you know who I am?” of a cop who had pulled him over. Wow. That one was wince-worthy.
    It was nearly full dark outside, and she’d begun to hear the stirring of nocturnal animals—raccoons and possums, probably, but hopefully not a coyote—by the time Britt decided to look at the photos.
    She clicked “John Tennessee McCord—’90s.”
    In photo after photo he was untenably gorgeous, almost dewily young. The girl was different (if equivalently beautiful) in nearly every photo but his expression was about the same: a sort of wicked, mischievous, slightly dazed grin of a man who just cannot believe his luck. Her father would have called it a shit-eating grin. But he’d never really looked innocent. Even at that age he’d had the presence of someone who’d seen things. A bit of an edge that conferred dignity beyond his years.
    There he was sitting with David Letterman, whose head was thrown back laughing. Accepting an Emmy for his role in Blood Brothers , slim as an arrow, devastating in a black tuxedo. Beaming and leaning over the red velvet rope cordoning off the stars on the red carpet from the dazzled hoi polloi, a sea of paper and pens and hands thrust out at him. Posing with a state trooper who had pulled him over for speeding. The trooper was grinning as if he’d caught the biggest bass in the lake.
    “I’ll be damned,” she said softly, amused. It was the same red truck in that photo that she’d seen parked on the street today. Circa 1990-something, if she had to guess. Kind of like her own car.
    There were the magazine features: “Why John Tennessee McCord Is Kryptonite.” “John Tennessee McCord: Serious Actor, Olympic-Caliber Flirt.”At least one of those things was very likely true, as far as Britt was concerned.
    On YouTube she found something called “The Tennessee McCord ‘Daaaamn’ Supercut.”
    It turned out to be a few dozen spliced-together scenes of him delivering his character’s signature word in every imaginable inflection. An impressed “Daaaaaamn, son!” A frustrated “Daaaaaamn, Lorelei!” A