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Taylor whistles. “Hot damn, babe. Are you trying to give your new boss a heart attack?”
I glance at my reflection in the hallway mirror. I’ve dressed up today. I think a part of me is hoping to get a rise out of Hunter. All day yesterday, he looked like he wanted to eat me alive. The strangest thing?
I would have let him.
I’ve slipped into a miniskirt, some sheer black pantyhose, and a plain white blouse. After an hour in the bathroom and a near-death experience with Taylor’s curling iron, I’ve managed to style my hair into some fairly decent curls. I even popped on a bit of mascara and red lip tint, feeling bold and adventurous.
Now, I don’t exactly condone dressing up to impress a man. That’s not what this is. Not really. This cute ensemble I’ve thrown together is entirely for me. I feelgooddressing up like this, confident. And if I manage to turn Hunter’s head when I walk into Azure-Hale Casting, that’ll be a thrilling bonus.
Not that it’ll be very hard given how he can’t seem to keep his eyes off me.
“When do you think you’ll be back tonight?” Taylor asks.
“I’m not sure, but I’ll call first. I know the rules.”
She winks at me from her spot on the couch. “Thanks, babe. I don’t think my sessions will go that long, but my whale’s in a European time zone, so timing’s kind of wonky.”
“No worries. I’ve got my earplugs and noise-canceling headphones at the ready just in case.”
“You’re the best, you know that?”
I laugh as I grab Taylor’s car keys from the hallway bowl and head out the door. “Have fun.”
“You, too!”
I’m glad I have the foresight to leave when I do because it takes me over an hour to get to the Azure-Hale Casting offices downtown. I stop to grab coffee at a local café before high tailing it the rest of the way.
On the outside, the casting office doesn’t look like much. Just a big grey building with its windows covered. A repurposed warehouse, by the looks of things. By the time I get to the top floor, there’s already twenty women seated in the waiting room. I walk straight past them, ignoring how they all seem to size me up as I breeze by. They don’t realize that I’m not part of the competition.
I’m fairly familiar with the casting process. When I was a little girl, Mom would sometimes drag me along to her auditions when Dad was too busy on set and they couldn’t find a babysitter in time. Mom tried to get me into commercial acting when I was younger, but the acting bug never bit me. I wasn’t remotely interested in being on camera. I’d always been too shy, too nervous. Besides, becoming a star was Annabeth’s dream, not mine.
Hunter’s reaction when I walk into the casting room is even better than I could have hoped for. He was in the middle of talking to a group of folks when he stopped, mid-sentence, to gawk at me.
“Good morning, everyone,” I greet sweetly.
“Hello,” one of the men in the group says with a charming grin. He walks right over and helps me with the tray. “I’m Charlie Porter, cinematographer. Who might you be?”
“Eden Spencer, Mr. Stride’s personal assistant.”
Charlie chuckles. “Is that so? Boss must have been pretty confused to hire a supermodel.”
I chuckle. “Wow, that was the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Made you smile, though, so I’m clearly on the right track.”
Whoever this goofball is, I like him already.
Behind us, Hunter clears his throat, a moody frown on his face. “Eden, your seat is by me.”
I go to him, pulling out a notepad and pen from my purse. I pause before taking my seat, excitement passing through me as his eyes sweep over my skin. I dare to look up at him, pretending to be oblivious to his hungry stare and widened pupils.
Hunter pauses for two seconds. It feels like an eternity. He turns to the other people in the room and says, “Send the first girl in.”
He works with blistering efficiency. We get through the first ten girls in less than an hour. They come in, stand on their mark across from us, and state their names and the agencies that represent them straight to camera. Some of them are more nervous than others, fidgeting with their copy of the sides or shifting their weight uncomfortably back and forth.
I can sense Hunter’s disapproval without him uttering a single word.
“Mark her down,” he whispers in my ear when he likes a girl’s performance. If he isn’t pleased, he doesn’t bother asking for a second read. One poor girl doesn’t even get her second line out before Hunter says, “Thank you. That’ll be all.”
