Title: Cutie Pie

Author: J.C. Halverson

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: 10/13/2026

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 30800

Genre: Contemporary, Alpha males, enemies/rivals to lovers, ex-military/Marine, interracial/intercultural, office rivalry, power imbalance, obsession

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Description

Jacob Cohen has built his life on control. As the executive producer of a top-rated cable news program, he commands a newsroom, navigates demanding talent, and keeps chaos at bay. A Marine veteran with an Ivy League polish, he’s the man nothing can break.

Then Stefan Morris walks into his world.

Charming. Magnetic. Impossible to ignore. Stefan is everything Jacob didn’t know he was missing—and everything he should have known to avoid. Their connection is electric, immediate, and utterly consuming.

But Stefan runs on a different clock. He disappears without explanation. His stories don’t add up. And the closer Jacob gets, the more the carefully constructed life he’s built begins to unravel.

When Jacob discovers he’s not the only one caught in Stefan’s orbit, he faces an impossible choice: walk away with his dignity intact, or play a game where the rules are made to be broken—and winning might cost him everything.

Set against the high-stakes world of network news, Cutie Pie is about desire, deception, and the dangerous territory between love and obsession—where the only thing more destructive than the truth is the lies we tell ourselves.

Excerpt

Cutie Pie
JC Halverson © 2026
All Rights Reserved

My ass was still raw from the verbal beating I’d just taken from Jon Jon Holiday.

And not in the good way.

The newsroom had that postshow quiet—keyboards clicking, phones chirping, producers pretending they hadn’t heard every word through the glass. Jon Jon’s corner office was supposed to be soundproof. It wasn’t. Not when he wanted to make a point.

I could see him through the glass, pacing like a caged animal. He spotted me crossing the newsroom floor and waved frantically, that theatrical gesture he used when the cameras weren’t rolling but he still needed an audience.

I took my time. Finished the conversation with the graphics coordinator. Checked my phone. Let him stew. Managing talent was like training horses; you couldn’t let them think they were in charge.

By the time I reached his office, he’d worked himself into a proper state. Perfect.

The walk to his office was fifty feet of exposed territory. Every desk I passed, every monitor I caught in my peripheral—they all knew. Jacob’s getting his ass handed to him. Again. The new kids watched with barely concealed fascination. The veterans kept their heads down, grateful it wasn’t them.

Jon Jon stood behind his desk, still in full makeup from the show. At fifty-three, he had that ageless quality that made network executives wet. Not young, not old—just television. His suit probably cost more than most people’s rent. His watch definitely did.

“Close the door,” he said as I entered.

I did. The glass frosted instantly—his favorite privacy move.

“We need to talk about tonight.” He moved behind his desk, creating distance. Power positioning. Old habit from when he thought furniture arrangement meant authority.

“What about it?” I sat without being invited. Another small reminder of the hierarchy.

“You want to tell me what that was?” He didn’t specify. He didn’t need to.

“Technical difficulties with the prompter. Lighting preset got switched. And Marcus Chen bailed.”

“Chen.” He said it like profanity. “That prick promised us an exclusive.”

“His publicist swore—”

“His publicist lied. They all lie. That’s why we verify.” He loosened his tie with sharp, angry movements. “Twenty years in this business, and I looked like an amateur out there. Reading from paper like some local market rookie.”

He wasn’t wrong. The show had been rough. When the prompter died in segment three, Jon Jon fumbled the transition. His hands shook as he held the backup scripts. For a man who could interview warlords without blinking, paper defeated him.

“The lighting made me look like I have hepatitis.” He moved to the window, Atlanta’s skyline glittering behind him. “You know what they’re saying online?”

I knew. Twitter had been brutal. Something about him looking like a corpse that got reanimated midbroadcast.

“It won’t happen again,” I said.

“You’re right. It won’t.” He turned back to me. “Because if it does, we’re both gone. You understand that? The network isn’t patient anymore. They’re looking for reasons.”

I understood. Ratings were good—we owned the 9 p.m. slot—but good wasn’t bulletproof. Not in cable news. Not with streaming eating our lunch and podcasts stealing our thunder.

“We’ll fix it,” I said.

“We.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it. “There is no we, Jacob. There’s me on camera and you behind it. I take the bullets. You’re supposed to make sure they miss.”

Fair enough. That was the job.

Jon Jon dropped into his chair. The anger was fading, replaced by something heavier. “You know what’s exhausting? Pretending I don’t see them waiting for me to implode again.”

Two years ago, his ex-wife went nuclear. The View, Good Morning America, every platform that would have her. She brought receipts: text messages, Grindr screenshots, a Greatest Hits of Jon Jon’s secret life. The bathhouses. The apps. The carefully maintained heterosexual facade that cost three million a year in alimony to maintain.

He’d vanished for a year. Most thought he was done. Then he resurfaced here, primetime slot, openly gay, twice as sharp. The comeback story everyone loved to hate.

“They’re not waiting for you to implode,” I said. “They’re waiting for you to get boring. Different thing.”

He studied me. Jon Jon had a way of looking at you like he was deciding whether to trust you or destroy you. Sometimes both.

“You know what I hate most about you, Jacob?”

“My youth? My title? My ability to stay calm?”

“That you’re right. Usually.” He loosened another button. “I hate that I need you to fix these things. I hate that you’re good at it. I hate that the network trusts you more than me.”

“They don’t trust me more. They just trust me differently.”

“Bullshit. When contract time came, who did they call first?”

I didn’t answer. We both knew.

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NineStar Press | Books2Read

Meet the Author

J.C. Halverson is a Marine Corps Iraq War veteran and longtime journalist now living in Hawaiʻi. A cancer survivor, J.C. brings a grounded realism to his LGBTQ fiction. Drawing on experiences from war, newsrooms, and survival, he explores desire, control, and vulnerability. J.C. lives with his husband in Honolulu.