“Great.”
“Good.” We exchange a moment of silence as he gazes into my eyes. It feels like he’s looking for something within me. His gaze is disarming. And loving. And heartbreaking.
“And the accessories?” he asks, bringing me back to reality.
“Oh yes, accessories. Well, I was thinking of a bracelet. I mean a leather cuff. Something a little punk rock. Bold.”
He follows me back inside the trailer, and I show him what I mean. He tries it on and loves it.
“Well, great then,” I say when there’s nothing else to say. “I guess that’s everything, then.”
“I’ll go run this by the director then,” he says slowly. As if he were reluctant to leave as much as I am reluctant to let him go. But that couldn’t be, right?
“I’ll see you on set?” he asks.
“Yes, of course. I’ll be there,” I nod.
Chapter 7 - Finn
The first scene goes as well as can be expected. Everyone is prepared with their lines and the director, Martha, is prepared and organized. There’s nothing I hate more than a disorganized director without a game plan. They all pretty much have one, but some just have no idea what they want or what they’re looking for. So they waste a ton of time on trying to figure it out with all the actors standing around and waiting. Not Martha. Even though she’s still really young (she can’t be more than thirty), and this is her first real movie, she is more professional than some successful fifty-year-olds that I’ve worked with.
I’m not going to name any names, but I’ve worked with some big time directors, and I can’t tell you how many of them are totally full of shit. Come to think of it, Martha is the only female director I’ve ever worked with. Wow. But there are so few of them. I read an article that said that less than 4% of directors are women. Martha really has her work cut out for her in this business. Just from shooting one scene, I can already tell that she’s going to go far. She’s courteous, professional and goal-oriented. Despite all that, she’s open to listening to input from the actors. I can’t tell you how rare that is!
Once we break for lunch, I head out to craft services to find Chloe. There’s something about her that’s pulling me in. I don’t know what it is, but I want to find out. She has this casual, easy going demeanor. And, of course, she’s quite easy on the eyes. Not in my usual model-type of way, but that’s good too. If she were an actress, she’d be a shoo-in for the “girl next door” character. Stunning in this completely off-the-cuff way.
I can’t help but smile thinking back to how uncomfortable she looked when I walked out without my shirt on earlier. I did it on purpose. I work hard on this body. I’d be lying if I had said that it’s not nice to see someone admire it – someone I like. Wait. Is this what’s going on? I actually like Chloe? Like, like her?
No, I shake my head. That’s not a good idea. I’m still messed up over the whole thing with Ariel. What I need now is not someone I like, but someone to fuck. The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, right?
My phone rings. When I see the name, I consider not picking it up.
“Yeah?” I answer.
“Finn! I’m glad I got you.” The cheery voice on the other end belongs to Stefania. I’m sure it was Stephanie at one point, but now that she’s a big-time Public Relations executive, it’s Stefania.
“I’m assuming that you’re no longer taking Ariel to the Governor’s Ball this weekend,” Stefania says.
Oh shit. I completely forgot about that.
“No.”
“Have you given any thought to someone else you might want to take?”
“No.”
“No problem. No problem at all.” Stefania always repeats phrases whenever something is clearly a problem.
“I was thinking that I would just go alone.”
There’s a pause on the other end.
“Um, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”
“Why?”
“It’s a charity event.”
I don’t know what it is about black-tie charity events that require dates, but that seems to be a standard operating procedure.
“Okay, fine, I’ll find someone,” I say. I can probably go through my phone and scrounge up one late night booty call who will be willing to go on an actual date with me.
But the silence on the other end tells me that it’s not a good idea.
“Ummmm,” Stefania says elongating the second part of the one-syllable word.
“What?” I ask. Don’t beat around the bush. Just come out and say it. My lunch hour is expiring as we speak, and I want to spend as much of it with Chloe. Damn it. Did I really think that?
“Finn, the Governor’s Ball is not an awards party, and it’s not a typical Hollywood event. There will be a lot of politicians and their wives.”
“And girlfriends,” I joke. She ignores me.
“The Governor is introducing you and honoring you for raising so much money for leukemia. You will be sitting at the head table. It’s very important that you have an event-appropriate date.”
‘Event-appropriate date’ is a euphemism for ‘she can’t be a bimbo.’
“Okay, I’ll find someone,” I mumble. Though I have serious doubts over my ability to actually find someone for the event who will fit that criteria.
“Actually, I had an idea. What do you think of leaving it to a professional?”
“There’s a professional who specializes in finding dates to events? Like a pimp?” I ask.
“No. A matchmaker. She’s very good. A number of my clients have used her and found love.”
“No, no, no. I’m not looking for love.”
“I understand. And I will tell her that. So, in that case, it’s even easier. She’ll find someone who you will have a good time with and who will be an excellent date for this event.”
I think about this for a second. The last thing I want to do this week is worry about getting a Governor’s Ball approved date for Saturday night. And apparently, I can’t go alone. Eh, why not? I send out my laundry and my agent books me auditions and jobs. Stefania does my PR. A thousand other people do a number of other things for me. Why not outsource getting a boring date as well?
“Okay, fine,” I finally say. “Whatever will get me through that event with the least amount of trouble, the better.”
“Perfect. I’ll let Dolly know.”
“Dolly?” I ask.
“Dolly Monroe, the billionaire matchmaker,” Stefania says.
“That’s her name?” I ask.
“I know, it’s a little eccentric.”
“To say the least.”
I hang up the phone. Billionaire matchmaker. Seriously? That’s seriously how she makes money? This town is nuts. One thing’s for sure. She’s totally going to be slumming it with me. I only made $20 million dollars from my last big movie.
There are still close to forty-five minutes left of lunch, yet I can’t find Chloe anywhere. She must be back in her trailer. I make my way back there and see that she’s busy with a couple of actors. She has moved the mirror and one of the chairs outside, making a little outside dressing room. The actress is dressed in a long, blood red gown which moves in little waves as she spins in front of the mirror, but it’s Chloe I can’t keep my eyes off of. The way she puts one of her hands up over her mouth as she steps away from the actress and examines the look. The way her hair glistens in the sunlight and falls into her face. The way she pulls it up into a loose pony tail, but a few unruly strands refuse to be contained.
Chapter 8 - Chloe
I see Finn looking at us. Not, us, really. Tara. She’s the one in the gorgeous gown. She’s the one with pristine makeup and immaculate bronze skin. She’s the one who is six feet tall in those three-inch heels. Even standing here backstage, surrounded by trailers, she looks like some sort of cross between a princess and a goddess. I glance back at Finn. He gives us a wink, but Tara doesn’t notice it. I don’t know whether I should nod back
. The wink isn’t really for me, but Finn is persistent. This time he nods. I give him a slight nod back. His smiles. Just being polite, I’m sure.
I watch him as he moves gracefully around the craft table. A slice of watermelon. An orange. An apple. A few French fries and a green smoothie. He leans against his trailer, props himself up with one leg and eats a slice of watermelon. The juice runs down his lips and his chin. He wipes his mouth with the back of the hand. His perfect almond eyes are adorned with impossibly long eyelashes – the kind that women pay good money for. They make him look innocent and slightly feminine, but in a completely sexy masculine way. In other words, they make me (and many other women) swoon.
Finn continues to watch us, making it nearly impossible for me to concentrate. When Tara goes inside to try another outfit, I walk over to him.
“Hey,” he says, smiling at me with his eyes. Hmm, how can I put this?
“Hey. Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m having a little bit of a hard time concentrating with you staring at Tara like that. She has noticed as well.”
The last part is a total lie. If Tara knew that Finn Dalton was checking her out, she’d probably faint. At the very least, she would not be in any mood to keep trying on and discussing clothes.
“I wasn’t staring at Tara,” he says taking a bite of the apple and chewing with his mouth open.
“What?”
“I wasn’t staring at Tara,” Finn says. He swallows and doesn’t let his eyes off mine.
“Yes, you were!” I say. “I saw you!”
Now, I’m getting upset. It’s one thing to stare and wink and it’s a whole other thing to deny it.
“No, you saw me staring. I was staring. I’m not denying that.” Finn’s so cocky, I’d want to punch him if he were anyone else. But he’s not.
“I don’t understand.”
“I wasn’t staring at Tara. Is that her name?”
“So, who were you staring at?”
“You.”
The word just hangs there in between us as if it were suspended on a string. As if it were one of those cartoon bubbles in a comic book.
“You were staring at me? Why?” I finally ask.
“Because I wanted to. You’re very pretty.” Finn takes another bite of his apple. When his eyes return to my face, I look down at the floor. For a second, I don’t know what to say.
“Well, that’s very distracting,” I say when I’m able to gather my thoughts enough to produce an actual sentence.
“I know,” he says. His eyes twinkle in the sunlight.
“No. You. You’re distracting me.”
“Now you know how I feel.”
“Agh,” I say under my breath and walk away. There’s no way to get past this. Is this really happening? It’s unusual for me to be at a loss for words, but around Finn I find myself tongue-tied.
I return to my trailer. Tara is already standing in front of the mirror, admiring herself in a beautiful lavender Monique Lhullier wedding dress. This is what I found for the wedding scene. It’s stunning. I try to focus on my work, but I feel him staring at me. Finn. It’s as if he’s burning a hole in the back of my head with his gaze. As I move around the dress, pretending to be completely involved in my work, I glance over at him. Just as I thought. He’s peeling his orange, dropping the peels on the floor, now sitting on the ground, and staring at me! No apologies. No nothing. Wait, did he really say that I was distracting him? That thought makes shivers run down my spine.
* * *
I watch Finn the rest of the day. He says his lines so casually and effortlessly. It’s like they are actually coming out of his mouth. It’s like he means them. I know he’s an actor – and not just an actor, an Academy Award winning Best Supporting Actor – but still. The other actors are also quite good. Natural. But he mesmerizes me. I’ve heard actors and actresses talk about the process and how important it is to have someone who gives and takes and works well with others. Finn seems to embody that. Even though he comes off like this arrogant, cocky, self-involved movie star in real life, in the scene he’s nothing but generous and kind. His demeanor and his casual smiles put everyone at ease. After the afternoon scene is complete, I overhear as Martha, the director, takes him aside and praises him about his generosity in working with newer and less experienced actors.
“Hey, I know how tough it can be. I was there,” he says nonchalantly.
Today is a short day. I’m off by five p.m. Even though I want to hang around and possibly have another interaction with Finn, I force myself to head to my car. Nothing good can come of flirting with that guy. Don’t you know who his girlfriend is? Ariel Chantal! No, I can’t compete with her. Not in this life.
I drive back home in a daze. I still find it difficult to believe that I just had my first day at my first job as a wardrobe stylist. I’m actually getting paid to do this for a living. This! Picking out clothes and accessories for scenes. Many people think that clothes are shallow. I’m the first one to admit that I don’t dress that stylishly in my everyday life. But ever since I worked on my ninth grade production of Romeo and Juliet, I believed that clothes were everything in the theater (and in movies). They are the perfect complement to the actors. They create scenes and establish mood. The right outfit can make or break any scene. Every play and movie has many moving parts, and wardrobe is as important as any other. And now, I actually get to do this for a living. Really? The ninth-grade girl who still lives deep inside of me can’t quite believe it.
Screeeeech!
Bam!
I hit my head on something hard. My ears buzz. The world turns black for a moment, then comes back into focus.
I look around. I don’t know what just happened. Slowly, I realize that I was just in a car accident. Smoke is billowing out from the hood of my car. I just hit the driver’s side of the car stopped in front of me. My head is pounding. With great difficulty, I open the door and walk out. Some sort of green liquid is seeping out of my car. The smell of smoke and exhaust wraps around me. Everything is moving in slow motion.
Chapter 9 - Chloe
Suddenly, I realize that there’s someone in the other car. I run over and try to pull the door open. It sticks. I can’t open it at first, but then it gives and opens.
“Oh my God! Are you okay?” I ask the stunned woman inside. Her airbag just exploded in her face.
“I think so,” she answers in a thick accent. I can’t quite place it.
She gets out of the car, and we both stand outside looking at the damage. My Dodge Neon is completely wrecked. The front is smashed in to bits. Her car is also damaged, but not as badly. Not nearly as badly. The driver’s side has a substantial dent in it, but other than that, it’s fine.
I look over at the woman. She looks as stunned as I feel. She looks like she’s in her fifties, but has the body of a fit thirty-year-old. She’s dressed in a tight white suit, which accentuates her substantial bosom, her minuscule waist and her round hips. She’s perched high on five-inch stilettos and wavers a little in the wind. For a second, I think she’s going to fall over, but she takes a step to the side and catches herself.
“Are you okay? Would you like to sit down?” I ask.
“Oh no, I’m fine, honey,” she says. “Oh I’m terribly sorry, where are my manners?”
I stare at her dumbfounded. I have no idea what she’s referring to.
Her huge platinum blonde hair forms a halo around her head and not a strand moves out of place as she pushes up on it a little with her long manicured nails.
“My name’s Dolly Monroe,” she extends her hand to me. We shake hands, and I introduce myself.
“I guess we should call the police?” I ask. Just as I pick up my phone to place the call, a police car pulls over. Luckily, we are in the middle of a residential street, and there’s not too much traffic.
“Is everyone okay here?” the cop asks. We both nod. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“I don’t really know what happened,�
�� I say with a shrug. “I was just driving along and then everything went blank.”
“I’m so, so sorry, officer,” Dolly says shaking her head. “I must’ve ran the stop sign.”
The cop and I stare at her as if she had fallen off the moon. Did she really just admit fault?
“I wasn’t texting or anything like that. I just didn’t see it,” she shrugs. “I’m really sorry, Chloe. I’m going to take care of your car. You don’t need to worry about that.”
The cop takes her aside to get her statement. She’s out of earshot, but I can still hear her say a few words here and there. I try to place the accent. It sounds Southern, but not really. Then it hits me, she really sounds like Dr. Phil. Exactly like him. That must be it. She must be from Texas.
When the cop comes back to me, he asks me for my license, registration and insurance. I hand him all the documents.
“Why don’t you two exchange insurance information so that they can take care of this?” he says. I put her information into my phone and give her mine.
After we are all done with the formalities, the cop issues Dolly a ticket and tells me that my car will need to be towed.
I nod. “I guess I’ll look up a towing company,” I say. “And call a cab while I’m at it.”
“Oh no, that’s nonsense,” Dolly says.
“What?”
“You don’t have to call a cab. I’ll drive you home. It’s the least I can do.”
“Oh no, that’s okay,” I say. “I’m not sure how long it will be with the tow.”
“I have nowhere to be,” she says. I finally give in. This woman doesn’t seem real. I’m not particularly cynical or pessimistic, but I know that there aren’t many people who would do what she’s doing in her position.
The tow guy arrives in record time and, within half an hour, we’re on our way to my place. As I walk around to get into the passenger side, I notice the emblem in the front of her car – a decorative B.
Auctioned to Him 7: The Contract Page 66