TV Series Creator and Author

Miranda craves exploring new places and tries hard to stay out of trouble in foreign countries. She once was “detained” at the British Parliament for traipsing into a restricted area.

Yes, there was that similar incident in Napoleon III’s apartments of the Louvre Museum. But at the Vatican, well, she was just looking for a restroom when she stumbled into some private living quarters. As for the Versailles Palace, she honestly did not mean to get caught there long after closing time — no, really, she didn’t.

When not getting stopped by security, Miranda resides in Southern California where she’s hard at work on her next project — or, shhh… procrastinating as @4MirandaKing on Twitter.


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    The Ongoing Adventures of Samantha As She Tries to Make It Big in Hollywood

    My Hollywood Prince

    by Miranda King

    Thanks to an anonymous benefactor, Samantha Alexander rises from overworked cleaning girl to successful college student. The hitch: Samantha’s not allowed to know the man who’s responsible for changing her life. Her benefactor—she’s nicknamed “Granddaddy Warbucks” —reluctantly agrees to communicate with her only through his advisor, Jackson Smith.

    Yet Jackson takes his role far too seriously. Soon Samantha finds this overprotective, broad-shouldered hunk working his way into her personal life. And the opinionated man butts into everything—from her Hollywood dreams to the search for her estranged mom.

    Samantha doesn’t need Jackson—though the brooding man thinks she does—nor his advice, especially about Mark Hunter, the new man in her life. Jackson stands firm: Stay away from Mark. Although there’s no reason for Jackson to interfere—Mark is everything she’s imagined in a Prince Charming… except the infuriating Jackson turns up everywhere, even in her dreams.

    But when Samantha discovers Jackson protects more than the true identity of Granddaddy Warbucks, she has to decide who is her real Prince Charming: Mark or Jackson?


    Chapter One: On the Way to the Globes

    Dear Granddaddy Warbucks—

                You’ve spoiled me once again! I’m all fancied up like some Cinderella tonight in a real couture gown. It’s all too much for a girl like me. But can I ask for only one thing that won’t cost you a penny: Let me meet you in person…

    -Letter to Granddaddy Warbucks from Samantha


    The red carpet of the Golden Globes stretched before me like Dorothy’s yellow brick road.

    Almost. Dorothy never had to contend with L.A. traffic.

    Twenty limos inched along Santa Monica Boulevard ahead of us—who knew how many more beyond the right turn ahead into the Beverly Hilton, home of the Globes.

    And no singing munchkins lined the way either. Better. A vivacious and entertaining crowd who rivaled all the glitz and glamour Hollywood’s elite had to offer.

    Take these passionate political picketers. Flanking the road, each tried to outdo the others—shouting and spearing signs into the air, seizing the sidewalks as their spotlight. The air crackled with such an excitement, an intensity—I wanted someone to pay attention to them. But their causes caught no cameras.

    And what about this exuberant fellow right out my window? Pot-bellied—and shirtless—gray-haired guy jiggling his stomach like Jell-O to the beat of Ozzie from a banged-up, had-to-be 1980s boombox. He didn’t care a lick about what people thought of him, and he was having the time of his life.  

    But his sidekick stole the show.

    A cute, mutt of a pup pranced along beside him, barking and wagging its tail. Until an older woman with reddish, bedraggled hair picked up the little dog. She cradled her fluffy babe and strolled through the crowd like a queen.

    Yeah, she had tattered clothes, but none of that mattered. She had something about her, a majestic air that captured my eyes. The proud bearing of her stride, the way she inclined her head to a few passersby—as if she’d bestowed them with the great privilege of her recognition. The exact way I remember walking down the street as a little girl with my—

    Have I finally found you?

    Every nerve in my body pulled to her like an addict who needed drugs. I craved her. No… more. I needed her. The sharp needles of pain inside me hurt so bad. Only she could fix me.

    Was it even her? Hope was bound to disappoint me again. But, like I said, I was an addict when it came to her.

    “Stop!” My lungs carried the grown voice of a 21-year old woman, but I swear that eight-year old girl in me came out.

    Come back to me. Please, don’t leave…

    The limo already at a standstill. I jerked the door handle, but no release. I jostled the electric window lever. The cool air slapped me, swelling my urgency into my voice. “Ma’am, please stop!”

    Her angled profile disappeared deeper into the motley chaos of the sidewalk.

    “Stop!” Please, don’t leave…

    I tipped my head out the window towards her. My nose darted high in the air and my face had followed, much like a dog does out a car window—minus my tongue wagging. I could escape the limo, make a run for her. But where did she go?

    Come back to me…

    My lips whispered into the wind.


    I’d given up on competing against Ozzie on blast, and I already knew: If it was even her, she was gone. Again.

    I prompted the tinted window. The outside world faded to black.

    On a sigh built up from 13 years of missing her, I let my back sag against the leather seat. I wasn’t ready to face her, yet, anyway. I was that Lion traveling a yellow brick road. If only I had: Courage. I’d show her I was something special. That she should’ve never abandoned me. Someday she’ll see she’d missed out. She’ll come find me herself because someday: I’ll be a somebody.

    But right now, I was a nobody. A mere assistant.

    But a damn good one. I’d snagged this internship with Harry Howard, a young Hollywood heavyweight producer, and beat out a 1,000 other applicants. He was my ticket tonight into the Globes, and someday I’d be my own ticket.

    And Mom will see me on TV and she’ll come find me and she’ll say…


    My boss’ concerned voice cut in. Harry continued, “Don’t pay attention to those idiots outside.” He tucked a strand of hair back behind my ear. “They only wish they could be sitting here like us.” His arm clunked across the back of my seat.

    He started to ruffle up my hair, the way adults do to kids, but stopped. All the hairspray on my updo wouldn’t budge to a bulldozer anyway.

    “You should’ve worn your hair down.” He pulled out his 1000-watt smile, the kind he flashed in front of the cameras. “You’re not the type to be held back, even if it’s just hair.”

    “Whatever you say.” I replied absently to his compliment or whatever that was. He wasted his charisma on me. My mind was still rewinding the image of that woman and her dog. That couldn’t be Mom, a TV star—a teenage sensation back in her day. Mom would never end up looking like that woman, like someone living in the streets, would she?

    No, not my Mom. She wouldn’t be caught dead outside the house without a full dose of make-up. Still, the not knowing what happened to her… my stomach clenched even tighter than my dress was doing all on its own.  

    The dress came courtesy of the man who’d supported me through college, my anonymous benefactor I affectionately named Granddaddy Warbucks. For a man I’d never met, he knew my dress size to a “T.” Okay, he couldn’t know I’d been splurging on ice cream lately, hence it was a little snug at the waist.

    Everywhere else fit like a Cinderella dream. Shimmery satin white, form-fitting, bow-tied sleeves that matched the ruched, low neckline held in place by a thin, stringed bow. The effect elegant yet simple, provocative yet modest at the same time. This dress made me feel as if Granddaddy Warbucks took a personal interest in me, but the reality was his assistant Betty probably picked out the dress. Yet sometimes I wondered… just who was Granddaddy Warbucks?

    I eyed my boss. Here was a man motivated by seeing his name flash against the big screen. But maybe he didn’t do everything for the credit. Could he be…?

    He caught me staring, so I pulled out my phone and focused on the screen. “Directly after the awards dinner, you have an interview with—”

    He made a grab for my phone, but I wiggled it from reach. No one takes a phone away from an assistant. That would be as cruel as taking a camera from a director, a fire hose from a firefighter, a gun from a marine, or a cowboy hat from a country singer. I clung to that phone like Moses must have to the Ten Commandments.    

    He laughed at my instincts to protect the phone. “Turn that off for once. You have only one job tonight.” He touched the tip of my nose with his finger. “Pitch your story to my dad at the HBO party.”

    “Right,” I drew in a long breath. I’d waited all year to meet his dad, an Academy Award winning director—and Golden Globe winner—to return from Europe, where he’d soaked up some post-divorce sunshine along the Riviera and squeezed in two films. Both nominated tonight.

    All I had to do was convince him that my script would bring him here again next year.

    “Relax.” Harry squeezed and released my hand with all the spirit a coach would give to smacking a player on the butt who’s headed out to the field during a playoff game.

    “Don’t get her hopes up, Harry,” Shamire, his girlfriend, examined her red polished nails with an I’m-bored-with-this-conversation tone. “She’s just an”—she paused and drew back like she was about to sling something in my face—“assistant.”

    Shamire crossed her legs with scissor precision. The slit of her red dress exposed her golden skin all the way up to the top of her thigh. She perched across the opposite seat with all the glam of a Victoria’s Secret model. Probably why they hired her.

    “Thanks for stating the obvious, Shamire,” I returned and deliberately focused my attention on my phone.

    But whenever Shamire didn’t get enough attention, her lips swiveled up like a raisin does from a grape.

    “Pour me some wine,” she snapped at me with that pucker to her lips. Yep, she wasn’t asking for wine… she was whining for attention.

    I quirked up an eyebrow. We’d been down this road before. I turned to Harry and sighed like a weary traveler getting stuck on the same worn-out, dirt road again and again. “Do you want to handle this?” I asked him. “Or I certainly can.” Sometimes I had to prod him into action.  

    He exhaled sharply. “Here, Sham, she’s not a slave”—Harry began to pour her a glass of wine from the limo’s mini-bar—“she’s my over-worked assistant.”

    “Not to mention underpaid,” I taunted. I would do this job for free—well, almost for free.

    He offered Shamire a glass of liquid, brick-red hued, and tossed back at me, “Not to mention a really great writer with excellent connections due to her boss.” He gave me a friendly wink, reinforcement from his earlier pep talk.

    And then I heard it… the sniffles. Shamire waved her sans-wine hand rapidly to fan her eyes—Lord knows she wouldn’t smear the mascara on her fake lashes with her impending, and completely coerced, crocodile tears.

    “You always talk about Samantha this, Samantha that,” she whimpered to Harry. “What about me?”

    I didn’t bother to listen to the rest. Every time, here’s the gist: He’s fish bait to her crocodile tears.

    Score, Shamire.

    The limo door swung opened. The red carpet and flashing lights called to us, and the incident forgotten, along with Shamire’s sham. Or so I’d thought.

    Right before Shamire poised to make her exit, she turned and gushed out, “Oop-sy.”

    Rivulets of red wine dripped down my once-shimmery, once-white, satin dress.

    Game, Shamire.

    The shock paralyzed my veins. I couldn’t move. Harry—clueless to everything—and Shamire had made their exit, and I’d yet to follow. Either I stayed in the car a coward, never knowing what it was like to walk the red carpet, or…


    Chapter Two: The Red Carpet


    My feet touched-down. The red carpet so buoyant, I walked on the clouds of heaven. The flashing camera lights sparkled and when I blinked, I saw falling stars behind my eyes.

    The chattering Hollywood stars commingling could have been a church choir scat, creating a vibrato buzz so ethereal, so elusive, so electrifying that it needed the honeycombed towers of the Beverly Hilton to trap the sweet sounds close to earth.

    And then a cacophonic clang came from behind. The door of my old world had closed shut. No turning back. I wobbled my first steps like I was toddler—a wet toddler, thanks to Shamire. That’s when I fully registered, I had on a dirty… dress.  

    I stood stained on the red carpet. The wine-soaked sections of satin stuck like static cling. Now what? I should’ve never stepped out of that car looking like a wet dog compared to the pedigrees out here. Typical, I didn’t think, I just did.

    I closed my eyes to let my nerves regroup. Oh, Dear Lord, help me get out of this sticky mess. I exhaled a deep breath and opened my eyes. 

    A shadow had descended over me. The devil didn’t answer prayers, did he? Cause he’d sent a fallen angel decked out in a tux. The setting sun framed him, outshining all the Hollywood superstars, giving him this halo effect.

    Too damn perfect.

    Oh, I knew who he was. Yet every time I saw him, he reminded me of one of those air-brushed models on the cover of what Aunt Clara calls “sin” magazines, the tabloids. Except in flesh-and-blood he was, well, the real deal: Flawless.

    My world couldn’t afford such perfection. So to me, he was like one of those gossip magazines—with those male covers all sleek, polished, and inked with an untouchable sex appeal—at the check-out counter with a price I just can’t justify. They don’t make coupons for something like him.

    But, oh, how I wanted… and hated that guys like him don’t fall for girls like me. No, not true. For Aunt Clara’s sake, amend that: Don’t marry girls like us.

    He stepped closer. My heart beat around him like a radar detector—punctuated pulses about to burst through my chest. He had a way of making my heart exceed its speed limit, tempting me to break all my rules when it came to men like him, sinking my thoughts to the depths of sin.

    His sin-dipped voice didn’t help. “What the hell happened to your dress?” His robust baritone slid down my body like decadent wine. Thanks to Shamire, I knew a little something about how that felt.

    I also knew a thing or two about him. Blue-eyed, broad-shouldered, and… bossy.

    “Come with me.” Not a question, not a statement, not a request. Pure command.

    “Why”—I crossed my arms—“are you here?” I wasn’t budging. “So you can tell on me to Granddaddy Warbucks?”

    “I don’t have to,” he said and angled his head towards a hundred photographers—thankfully preoccupied with some A-lister—lined up not too far from us. “They will.”

    I saw those falling stars behind my eyes again, but this time they came off as impending explosions headed my way. I’d be shot as a walking disaster in front of those cameras.

    This was not how Mom had arrived at the Golden Globes when she was exactly my same age. What if my mom was here… what if she saw me like this after all these years?

    “Now come.” Jackson beckoned me to follow him.

    But would I?

    To Be Continued…