Hey loves!
I’m so excited to share a sneak peek of The Naughty List with you! This book has been an absolute joy to write – it’s got all the holiday chaos, sizzling chemistry, and laugh-out-loud moments that I love packing into my rom-coms.
If you’ve been following along, you know this is my holiday gift to you this year. A Christmas rom-com releasing on December 26th? Yes, please! Because who says the romance has to end when the presents are unwrapped?
I wanted to give you a taste of what you’re in for, so I’m sharing an entire chapter right here on the blog. So grab your favorite holiday beverage (mine’s a peppermint mocha, thanks for asking), get cozy, and dive in. And if you love what you read – and I really hope you do – you can preorder The Naughty List right now so it’s waiting for you on release day.
Happy reading, and happy holidays!
xoxo,
Ian
I stared at my reflection in the oversized vanity mirror, still wearing Dr. Brock Blaze’s signature white lab coat—now artfully splattered with what the props department swore was raspberry jam but looked disturbingly like arterial spray. My hair had gone slightly flat under the stage lights. My jawline, which Soap Opera Digest had once called “chiseled by the gods themselves,” looked as sharp as ever, but my eyes told a different story. They looked tired. Haunted, even.
I’d just filmed the season finale’s climactic scene—the one where Dr. Brock Blaze performed emergency heart surgery on his ex-lover’s current husband while confessing his undying love. To a mannequin. Because the actor playing the husband had food poisoning.
“The only heart I can’t save,” I’d intoned, staring intensely at the plastic torso on the operating table, “is my own.”
The director had literally applauded. “Emmy-worthy, Sam! Emmy-worthy!“
I wanted to die.
I peeled off the lab coat and tossed it onto the leather couch that dominated one wall of my dressing room. The space was nicer than my first apartment in LA—all modern minimalism with pops of color courtesy of the interior designer the network had hired three years ago. Chrome, glass, and tasteful abstract art that meant nothing to me. A mini-fridge stocked with overpriced sparkling water. A standing desk I’d never used. Plus, a closet full of designer suits for press junkets and award shows where I’d smile until my face hurt and answer the same five questions about Dr. Brock Blaze’s love life.
The face in the mirror looked like a stranger wearing my skin.
Twenty-four hours. That’s all I had to survive before my flight to Virginia. One month in a remote cabin in the Blue Ridge Mountains, where hopefully nobody knew Dr. Brock Blaze and nobody cared that I’d been nominated for a Daytime Emmy three years running. One month of silence, solitude, and—
The door to my dressing room flew open with enough force to rattle the framed poster of last season’s promotional shoot.
“ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?”
Chandra stormed in like a Category 5 hurricane stuffed into a blood-red wrap dress and six-inch heels. Her dark hair—usually in the soft waves her character, Dr. Sienna Castellano, favored—was pulled back in a severe ponytail that screamed I will end you. She clutched her phone in one hand, her acrylic nails painted the same shade of crimson as her dress, and thrust it toward my face.
“Look at this shit! LOOK AT IT!”
I didn’t need to look. I’d already seen the headlines this morning while stress-eating a protein bar in my car.
SOAP OPERA’S HOTTEST BACHELOR FINALLY OFF THE MARKET?
SAMUEL BENNETT AND CHANDRA REYES: THE ROMANCE WE’VE BEEN WAITING FOR!
IS SAMUEL BENNETT SECRETLY STRAIGHT? SOURCES SAY YES!
The photos were everywhere: Chandra and me leaving Spago last night, her hand in mine because she’d been wearing those ridiculous stilettos and nearly face-planted on the sidewalk. We’d gone to dinner as friends—something we’d been doing for seven years, ever since she’d joined the cast and became the only person on set who didn’t treat me like a walking Ken doll. But the tabloids didn’t care about context. They cared about clicks.
“I know,” I said, slumping into my chair. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry? SORRY?” Chandra’s voice hit a pitch that could shatter the champagne flutes in my mini-fridge. “Samuel, you’re gay. Everyone knows you’re gay! You came out when you were twenty years old! You’ve been to Pride! You’ve given interviews about being a visible queer actor in daytime television! But somehow, somehow, these assholes keep trying to make you straight!”
She waved her phone like it had personally offended her ancestors. “And now Danny—my Danny, who has the IQ of a decorative gourd—actually believes this shit! He called me this morning screaming about how I’m cheating on him with you! With YOU! I told him, ‘Baby, Samuel is gayer than a pride parade on Rainbow Island,’ but does he listen? NO! Because he’s a fucking idiot who gets his news from TMZ!“
Despite everything, I felt a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “You’re dating Danny and Mario, though. Technically, you are cheating on Danny.”
Chandra pointed a lethal fingernail at me. “That is an entirely different conversation, and we are not having it right now. Danny doesn’t know about Mario. Mario doesn’t know about Danny. And that’s how I like it, thank you very much. But now Danny thinks I’m sneaking around with you, which is—” She threw her hands up. “My life is a goddamn telenovela, and I don’t even get residuals!”
I couldn’t help it. I laughed—a real, genuine laugh that felt foreign in my throat. Chandra’s whole life was a soap opera. She’d been engaged four times, dated two of our co-stars (simultaneously), and once punched a photographer who got too close to her niece at Disneyland. She was chaos incarnate, and I loved her for it.
“This isn’t funny, Sam.” But she was grinning now, the anger bleeding out of her as she collapsed onto my couch. “Okay, it’s a little funny. But seriously, why do they keep doing this to you? You’re not exactly subtle about being into men.”
“I don’t know.” I scrubbed my hands over my face, feeling the residue of stage makeup under my fingers. “Maybe I’m too masculine for their narrative, or they think a gay guy can’t be the romantic lead unless he’s secretly bi. Probably they’re just homophobic assholes with a publishing deadline.”
“It’s the last one,” Chandra said flatly. She kicked off her heels and tucked her feet under her. “God, I hate this town. Remember when we got into this business because we loved acting?”
“Vaguely.”
“Yeah, me neither.” She picked up one of the throw pillows and hugged it to her chest. “At least you’re getting out of here for a while. Where are you going again? Some cabin in the woods where you can pretend to be a lumberjack?”
“Virginia. Blue Ridge Mountains.” I turned back to the mirror, starting to wipe away the makeup with cold cream. Dr. Brock Blaze’s face slowly disappeared, revealing the real me underneath—or whatever was left of the real me after seven years of this. “A place called Ashford Gap. Population four hundred, no paparazzi, no scripts, no—”
“No fun,” Chandra interrupted. “Sam, you’re going to lose your mind in the woods by yourself.”
“That’s kind of the point.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but the door opened again—this time without the dramatic flair. My agent Sabrina Winstead glided in. She was fifty-something, blonde, and terrifying in the way that only women who’d clawed their way to the top of Hollywood could be. She wore a cream-colored pantsuit that probably cost more than my first car and carried a leather portfolio that I knew contained nothing good.
“Chandra, darling,” Sabrina said without looking at her. “Out.”
“Excuse me?” Chandra sat up straighter. “I’m having a conversation with—”
“Out. Now.” Sabrina’s smile was all teeth, no warmth. “This is business.”
Chandra looked at me, and I gave her a helpless shrug. Picking a fight with Sabrina was like arguing with a shark—technically possible, but ultimately pointless. Chandra grabbed her shoes and phone, shooting Sabrina a look that could have melted steel.
“Call me when you’re back,” she said to me. “And Sam? Don’t let her talk you into anything you don’t want.”
The door closed behind her with a soft click that felt louder than Chandra’s earlier explosion.
Sabrina set her portfolio on the glass coffee table and settled into the chair across from my vanity, crossing her legs with practiced elegance. “We need to talk about your contract.”
“No.” I kept wiping away my makeup. “I told you, Sabrina. I’m not discussing this until after my vacation.”
“Samuel.” Her voice hardened, losing the honey coating. “You’re being offered three more years at double your current rate. Do you have any idea how rare that is? The network loves you. The viewers love you. You’re the face of Midnight At Magnolia General. You’d be a fool to walk away from this.”
“Maybe I’m a fool, then.”
She stood, her heels clicking against the floor as she moved closer. In the mirror, I watched her come to stand behind me, her reflection sharp and unyielding.
“You want to be a ‘serious actor,'” she said, making air quotes that I felt more than saw. “You want prestige. Film. Broadway. I get it, sweetheart, I really do. But you know what those things require? Leverage. And you know what gives you leverage? Money. Security. A fanbase that will follow you anywhere.” She leaned down, her hands on the back of my chair. “You can’t afford to be an artist if you’re broke and irrelevant.”
Something ugly twisted in my chest. “I’m not irrelevant.”
“Not yet. But walk away from this show, and you will be.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, almost kind. “Daytime TV isn’t a stepping stone anymore, Sam. It’s a career. And it’s a damn good one. You’re making half a million a year to memorize ridiculous lines and look pretty. Why are you so desperate to throw that away?”
“Because I’m miserable!” The words exploded out of me, louder than I’d intended. I spun in my chair to face her. “Because I spend eight hours a day pretending to be Dr. Brock Blaze, and I don’t know who Samuel Bennett is anymore! Because I’m thirty-one years old, and I’ve never done real theater, never auditioned for anything that mattered, never—”
“Never what?” Sabrina’s eyes were cold. “Never struggled? Never waited tables while going to auditions? Never slept on a friend’s couch because you couldn’t make rent? You skipped all that, Samuel. You got lucky. And now you want to throw your luck away because you’re having some kind of artistic crisis?”
The air felt thin, like all the oxygen had been sucked out of the room.
“Why are you pushing this so hard?” I asked slowly. “You’re supposed to work for me. I tell you what I want, and you make it happen. That’s how this is supposed to work.”
Something flickered across her face—so fast I almost missed it. Guilt, maybe. Or calculation.
“I’m your agent,” she said carefully. “I’m supposed to guide your career in the right direction. And right now, that direction is signing this contract.”
“But I’m miserable,” I repeated, softer this time. “You know that. I’ve told you that. So why—”
“Because it’s good for you!” She cut me off, voice rising. “Because you don’t know what’s good for you right now! You’re burned out, you’re tired, you need this vacation. But when you come back, you’ll see things clearly. You’ll realize that walking away from this show is career suicide, and—”
“And what?” I stood up, facing her fully. “You’ll have convinced me to stay on a show that’s killing me inside? Great plan, Sabrina.”
She stared at me for a long moment, and I watched her decide something. I’d known Sabrina for eight years, and I’d seen that look before—the one that meant she was about to do something she’d regret.
“Fine,” she said, her voice dropping. “You want the truth? I’m the one who’s been leaking the stories.”
The words didn’t make sense at first. “What stories?”
“The tabloid bullshit. The ‘Samuel Bennett might be straight’ rumors. The photos of you and Chandra, the speculation, all of it.” She lifted her chin, defiant. “I’ve been feeding stories to the gossip sites for six months.”
The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet. “You… what?”
“You’re more popular than ever, Sam! Your social media following has doubled! The show’s ratings are up fifteen percent! People are talking about you, and in this business, that’s all that matters!” She spread her hands like she was presenting me with a gift. “Controversy sells. Mystery sells. And a gay actor who might be straight? That’s catnip for the tabloids.”
I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. My mind was a blank white screen of rage and disbelief.
“I did this for you,” Sabrina continued, and she actually sounded like she believed it. “To keep you relevant. To make you valuable. To ensure that when contract negotiations came around, the network would be desperate to keep you. And it worked, Sam! They’re offering you double! You should be thanking me!”
“Thanking you?” My voice came out strangled. “You’ve been spreading lies about my sexuality. You’ve been—” I had to stop, had to take a breath before I said something I couldn’t take back. “Get out.”
“Samuel—”
“GET OUT!” I pointed at the door, my hand shaking. “Get out of my dressing room, and don’t contact me until I’m back from Virginia. Actually, you know what? Don’t contact me at all. I’ll call you when I’ve decided if you’re still my agent.”
Sabrina’s face went pale, then red. “You’re making a mistake.”
“The only mistake I made was trusting you.”
For a moment, I thought she was going to argue. But something in my expression must have convinced her I was serious. She grabbed her portfolio, tucked it under her arm, and walked to the door.
“You’ll change your mind,” she said from the doorway. “When you’ve calmed down, you’ll realize I was right.”
The door closed behind her, and I was alone.
I sank back into my chair, my reflection staring back at me—half Dr. Brock Blaze, half Samuel Bennett, and I wasn’t sure which half was real anymore.
My fucking agent had been sabotaging my personal life to boost my career, which coincidentally boosted her pay since she got 15% off my earnings. The tabloids thought I was a closeted straight guy. My co-star Chandra was having two secret affairs. And tomorrow, I was getting on a plane to hide in the mountains of Virginia like some kind of emotional fugitive.
I grabbed my phone and pulled up my email, finding the confirmation for the cabin rental. Ashford Gap, Virginia.
One month. Complete privacy.
The listing had promised a “luxurious mountain retreat with stunning views, modern amenities, and the perfect escape from the pressures of everyday life.” The photos had shown a sprawling deck overlooking misty peaks, a stone fireplace, and windows that seemed to bring the forest inside. It looked like paradise—the kind of place where a person could find themselves again.
One month to figure out who the hell I was when I wasn’t Dr. Brock Blaze.
One month to decide if I was brave enough to walk away from everything I’d built.
One month to find something real in a life that had become nothing but performance.
I stared at my reflection one more time, at the tired eyes and the fake smile and the face that belonged to someone else.
“What if I get there and realize I don’t know who I am without all of this?” I muttered aloud, glancing around my dressing room.
The question hung in the air, unanswered, as I reached for my jacket and prepared to leave the studio for the last time in thirty days.
What if the person I found in those mountains was someone I didn’t recognize at all?
The Naughty List goes live on the day after Christmas! Preorder your copy today for only 3.99. The price goes up to 4.99 on release day, so lock in your savings now. The Naughty List is available exclusively on Amazon.
Ian O. Lewis and Luke Jameson 