I’m supposed to be on set soon, and it’s in Santa Monica, and I don’t want to be late…”
“Okay, Rach. Be good.”
“Bye, Mom. Love you.”
Hanging up, I take a deep breath. There. I told her a little bit about what’s going on.
Shouldn’t that loosen the tightness in my chest?
It doesn’t.
Stuffing my phone into my back pocket, I grab my suitcase. I don’t feel ready for what’s to come next at all, but there’s probably no getting more prepared than I am now.
Molly and I leave the apartment together, her for her office and me for the set. Everything seems brighter, more colorful. Even the hand towels hanging from our stove are redder and more alive.
Two weeks until I see this place again. I’ve never longed for this apartment when I’ve gone home for Christmas, or when Molly and I drove up to see a friend of hers in San Francisco last summer, but suddenly I don’t want to leave it at all. Curling up into a ball on the couch with the TV remote and enough corn chips to last me a decade seems like a great idea.
But that’s the fear talking, and I’m bigger than it.
It’s a struggle to get the heavy suitcase down the stairs, but once we’re on the ground I roll it past the little swimming pool in the apartment complex’s courtyard, through the front gate, and out to the sidewalk.
Molly stops in front of her car. She’s smiling big, but the tightness of her shoulders reveals tension.
“Good luck,” she says. “Not that you’ll need it, since you’ll totally slay.”
“Thanks.” I give her a side hug. “I’m gonna miss you.”
Her muscles relax, a bit of that tension melting away. “I’ll miss you, too.”
“It sucks that I won’t have my phone.”
“Maybe I’ll find a way to sneak you a note.” She elbows me in the side.
Because I want to ignore any negative feelings at all, I laugh. It helps me feel a bit better.
Molly gets into her car, and I continue down to mine. Setting the suitcase in the back seat, I get behind the steering wheel and turn on the GPS.
Fingers flexing on the wheel, I stare at the road in front of me. Here I go.
Traffic is much lighter than I predicted. I might even get to the Santa Monica Beach location early. Wouldn’t that be ironic? The one day where I’m nervous enough that I actually want to be late, I end up on time.
At least today should be the easiest of them all, and that’s great. One of the producers called me the other day to give me a brief breakdown. I’ll be meeting the other contestants, and then we’ll do a promotional shoot on the beach.
One of those other contestants will be my future husband.
Asking the producer who called about him did no good. The show is taking its premise of marrying two complete strangers very seriously.
As I pull onto the street of my destination, my palms start sweating. This is real. I’m about to meet the man I’ll marry and be stuck with for two weeks.
Will I be able to pick him out from the group of contestants? Will our match be so perfect and obvious that there’s no way I won’t notice him?
Or will he be twenty years older than me, balding, and with an insufferable personality?
I might throw up.
A piece of paper taped to an orange traffic cone reads, “Out Now TV parking.” I pull into the parking lot adjacent to the beach.
There are already about a dozen cars in the closed parking lot, plus a couple trailers and two white trucks with filming equipment near the end.
A girl with a walkie talkie clipped to her jeans waves at me and jogs over.
“Rachel,” she says when I roll down my window. “Hi. I’m Luzia. I’m the talent PA.”
It’s weird to have someone know who I am right off the bat. Showing up to set isn’t usually like this. Normally, there’s a lot of walking around, carrying a garment bag of clothes that the wardrobe department asked me to bring from home, looking for the table to check-in. That’s the morning of a working, non-famous actor.
“Hi.” Hands shaking, I unbuckle and get out of the car.
A quick look around the parking lot reveals only crew members putting together a lighting stand. There’s no sign of anyone else who might be a participant on the show.
“Right this way,” Luzia says, “and I’ll show you to your trailer.”
“My trailer?” My jaw drops.
Like, one all for myself?
That can’t be right. There are only two, from what I can see. One for the girls, and one for the boys?
“Do I need my suitcase?” I ask.
“No. That won’t be necessary. We have everything you need for today.”
“Okay.” My stomach doing flips, I lock up my car and pocket the keys.
Luzia leads me across the parking lot and to the closest trailer, where she opens the door for me.
“Thanks,” I say, my attention already on what’s inside the trailer.
It’s basic, but cozy and clean. There’s a long couch, and a small kitchen area with a mini fridge and a table.
“Am I late?” I ask in alarm.
Hell, what am I saying? I’m always late. Everyone else is probably on the beach already. The first morning of the show and I’m already making myself look bad.
Luzia shrugs. “Uh…I dunno. What time is it?”
I whip my phone from my pocket to check. No sooner is it in my hand, though, than Luzia takes it from me.
“Hey,” I protest, too shocked to say anything beyond that.
“I forgot. I’m supposed to take that right away.” She puts it in her back pocket, away where I can’t see it.
Panic sets in. “I really need to tell my friend I got here safe. Molly? She works for Out Now.”
Luzia looks like she couldn’t care less, despite the fact that I’m feeling a few good breaths away from having a breakdown right in front of her.
“Don’t know her,” she says.
“If I could only…” I make a move toward the girl, but she’s down the trailer’s steps in a heartbeat.
“I’m only an assistant,” she says. “I do what I’m told. No one really tells me what’s going on. Wait here. The director will be over in a bit.”
The door clicks closed behind her.
My ears buzz. I start pacing the trailer, but there’s not much of it to pace. My shins keep bumping into the little coffee table.
It’s shameful, but I’m freaking out over not having my phone. It’s not like I’m addicted to social media or anything, but I’m on a set full of strangers. I already felt incredibly alone driving in, and now there’s no chance at all of getting a text from Molly or Annie to cheer me up.
The minutes stretch on. I peek out the trailer’s window, but there’s not much to see. A few people play frisbee on the beach, and next to them there’s a roped-off area with more orange cones.
That must be where the photo shoot will take place.
The sound of the door opening makes me jump. Whirling around from the window, I find an Asian woman in jeans and a blouse entering.
She smiles at me and offers her hand. “Rachel, I’m Tina. I’ll be your director for the next two weeks.”
Director? Luzia mentioned a director, but it still seems weird to have one for reality television. Then again, what do I know?
“Nice to meet you.” I shake her hand, painfully aware of how clammy mine must feel.
Tina takes a seat on the ottoman pushed against the trailer’s wall. “It’s good to have you here. This is going to be a really exciting shoot.”
“Yeah. I hope so.” Taking my own seat on the couch across from her, I work to not twist my hands from anxiety. “Do you mind if I ask what a director for reality television does, exactly?”
“Certainly. I’ll be there with you and your match on outings, helping to guide the conversation when it lags.” Her smile is quick. “Not that we’re expecting you two to need that much help. Your
personality won over the casting director, and the tech’s match is supposed to be flawless.”
“Right.” Butterflies flit around in my chest like I’m already staring down this man who’s supposedly perfect for me.
“I’ll also be choosing the outings,” Tina says. “Basically, like with a director of narrative television or film, I’ll be guiding the tone.”
I nod. I’m too nervous to say much, and I’m not sure what I would answer if my tongue wasn’t tied.
“I understand you’re an actress,” Tina says. “We like that. It means you should be right at home on this project.”
“I hope so,” I squeak out. “I’ve never done anything like this.”
“Even though the cameras and the pacing of filming will be familiar to you, I don’t want you thinking of this as an acting job. The world wants to see your personality, how you, the real Rachel Rios, reacts to situations—and, most importantly, your match.”
“Okay.”
Past her shoulder, someone moves through the window. Another person joins them. It looks like they’re standing out there, waiting for something.
“I’m really excited.” Tina claps her hands. “Okay, so you understand what you’re in for, right? No contact with the outside world for two weeks. That means no internet, no phone.”
“What about snail mail?” I give her a small smile. It’s only a half-joke.
“Not allowed. We want you to be completely invested in your new relationship.”
“I understand.”
Tina stands. “Excellent.”
“Oh, I almost forgot.” I stand as well. “Where is everyone else? The publicity photo shoot is today, right?”
Her lips twitch into a frown. “Didn’t anyone tell you?”
Dread fills me. “Tell me what?”
“There’s been a change to the schedule. The photoshoot isn’t today, after all.”
That dread in my belly twists up tight. Surprises are dangerous. Especially when they involve switching up a schedule that I assumed was locked down.
“The schedule…” Sawdust coats my throat. I cough to clear it out. “It changed? Why?”
“It’s the way it goes sometimes. Unexpected events get in the way. There are so many people involved in a shoot it can get hairy figuring it all out.”
I know all of that. What I’m asking for is a specific reason, but it doesn’t look like I’ll get it.
“What is happening today, then?” I ask.
Tina’s smile is too bright, almost fake.
“You’re getting married,” she says.
The trailer’s walls close in on me. A shaky laugh leaves my chest. “Did you just say I’m getting married? I thought that wasn’t going to happen until tomorrow.”
“Like I said, schedules.”
My head spins. The panic I felt earlier is nothing compared to the terror currently coursing through my veins.
“I can’t get married today,” I say.
Tina’s frown deepens. “I’m sorry, Rachel, but there’s no wiggle room on this.”
“Yeah, I know, I know.” Squeezing my eyes shut, I regulate my breathing. “It took me by surprise, is all.”
There was supposed to be a gap between meeting the guy I’m marrying and actually getting married. Not much of a gap, but twelve hours is better than nothing.
“The hair and makeup team is waiting for you in the other trailer,” Tina says. “Your dress is on its way.”
I don’t get to pick my own wedding dress.
That’s something I didn’t consider when signing onto this. Wearing a gown of my choosing never seemed like a big deal…until now.
It’s the first wedding dress I’ll wear. For all I know, the only one.
Whatever hesitations I have on the matter need to be stowed. I’m here because I chose to be. This is the kind of opportunity you can’t let pass you by.
Tina cocks her head. “You ready?”
Sucking in a breath, I nod. “Ready.”
Chapter 8
Turns out, I had almost everything wrong. There isn’t one trailer for the girls on the show and one for the guys. It’s one just for me, and the other for hair and makeup.
It’s the closest to the movie-star treatment that I’ve ever received. It’s too bad that I’m too nervous to properly enjoy it.
A hairstylist wearing bright blue pants and an even brighter yellow shirt curls my hair in no time—which is impressive, since it usually takes me an hour with how thick my hair is.
“This your first reality show, right?” she asks. The gum she’s chewing pops.
“Yeah,” I say around a gulp. “Do people, uh, do more than one?”
“Oh, yeah.” She studies my reflection in the mirror and fluffs my hair. “You know, if they’re successful on one show, that can lead to another. Hopefully, that’ll be you.”
“Oh, I don’t want to do another reality show,” I answer quickly.
Her head tilts in question.
“I’m fine with this one,” I say. “I just want it for exposure. I’m an actress.”
Predictably, that doesn’t get a response. Every other person in this city is an actor.
With a handful of pins, she puts up my hair. I can feel the metal digging into my scalp, the locks so firm that I could probably run a marathon and keep the hairstyle. It’s a job well done. I inspect it in the mirror from every angle I can, but can’t see even one bobby pin.
Next comes makeup, a fresh look that makes my skin glow and my eyes seem twice as big as they really are. Like with my hair, it’s a look that I wouldn’t be able to emulate even after watching a hundred hours of online tutorials.
The makeup artist is putting on a second coat of mascara when there’s a knock at the door.
“Dress is here,” an assistant announces. He unceremoniously hangs a garment bag on the rack and leaves.
“Look up,” the makeup artist tells me.
I obey, though all I can think about is the dress. I’m praying it’s not something hideous or skimpy. Who knows what the production might have picked for the sake of audience ratings.
The second my makeup is done, I’m up and opening the garment bag. The dress that I pull out is a simple sheath cut, the skirt falling straight to the ground. Its half-sleeves are made of lace, and the color is more ivory than white.
If nothing else, at least I’ll look beautiful today.
I’m taken back to my trailer to change, where there’s also a pair of lacey ivory heels waiting for me. Not exactly practical for beachwear, but okay. My calves should get quite the workout.
Everything on, I inspect myself in the full-length mirror on the wall. I look…
Like a real bride.
Smoothing my hands over the dress, I swallow the lump in my throat. It doesn’t matter that I’m about to marry a stranger on a TV show; it would feel right to have my friends and family here.
As far as I know, I don’t even have a bridesmaid!
“Rachel?” A knock on the door pulls me from my reverie.
“Come in,” I call.
Tina opens the door. At the sight of me, she smiles in what seems to be real pleasure.
“Wow. Look at you. You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s time. Your husband-to-be is already waiting at the altar.”
My hands start shaking. “Where did he get ready?” I ask.
“Oh, he came ready. Come on.” She checks her phone and gestures at the door.
Hint taken: I’m holding up the show.
“I’m coming.” My dress barely brushes the ground, but I hold it up to give my hands something to do and follow Tina out the trailer and for the beach.
A small crowd has gathered behind a roped-off section in the sand. People look on in interest. My cheeks flush. I don’t mind being put on the spot while acting, but being the center of attention otherwise has never suited me well.
“Where’s the wedding happening?” The words have ba
rely left my lips when I see the answer for myself.
A white wedding arch is jammed into the sand close to the water. Two men in suits stand underneath it, their backs to me. Near them, the camera crew fusses with three different cameras, one which is on a tripod in the sand, and the other two are held on shoulders.
“Who are they?” I ask Tina, with a nod at the two men facing the ocean.
She pats my shoulder. “One of them is performing the ceremony.”
It’s hilarious that she calls it a ceremony. Other than the crew and the bystanders on the other side of the rope, there’s no one around. Certainly no one who could pass as wedding guests.
“And the other one?” I ask.
“He’s your future husband.” She waves at one of the camera operators. “We rolling?”
“Rolling,” he responds.
Tina turns to me. “Okay, Rachel. Stand right here until I tell you ‘action’, then walk straight for the wedding arch. We’ll do the ceremony, and after that, the cake cutting and dance.”
My eyes must be bugging out of my head. “O—okay.”
“Don’t worry. You’ll be great. You look beautiful.”
I try to smile, but it’s a weak one. Someone approaches and hands me a bouquet of flowers. The makeup artist appears and reapplies my lipstick. From the street, someone yells at us. There’s the clicking of cameras. People probably don’t even know what we’re filming, and yet they’re all over it.
This kind of hubbub isn’t at all what I thought it would be like. When I saw Crystal Shea being hounded by paparazzi the other week, I was jealous. Now, I’m getting a real taste of that level of attention. Two minutes into it, and I’m already exhausted.
A dozen excuses for getting out of this flash through my head. I left the stove on at home and need to get back there before the apartment building burns down. I just remembered that I’m actually a lesbian and this marriage definitely won’t work out. I’m not Rachel at all; I’m her evil twin.
I don’t use any of those excuses, because not even the most logical one could change what’s about to happen. I’m here because I want to be, despite the fear coursing through my veins.
“Excellent,” Tina says. She fiddles with my hair, then steps back.
How To Wed A Billionaire (How To... Book 3) Page 6