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A warm rush spreads across my cheeks. “I have.” My voice is an octave higher from nerves, so I clear my throat. “Just not one like this.”
She shrugs. “It’s the same as any other show, honey. You need to be fitted for costumes, do a screen test, deal with the dieticians, see the doctor, sign waivers…”
She drones on, and I zone out, dizziness overtaking me.
“Okay,” I agree quickly, realizing she has finally completed her to-do list.
“Start with wardrobe. Lucy will size you up, and we’ll go from there.”
“Go where?” I press.
“To the real set, to start filming—assuming you’re a proper fit for the show.”
I exhale.Okay. So I don’t even know if I have the job yet. Great.
Jessie turns and leaves, and Lucy gestures for me to stand on a platform, overlooking the mob flying through the studio as if the place was on fire.
“So, you’re the new Heartbreaker, huh?” Lucy sets down the pins in her mouth to size me up with skilled eyes.
“Wh—pardon?” I sputter. “Heartbreaker?”
“That’s what they call you—the star of the program. Haven’t you ever watched it?”
In my head, I can’t help but scoff at the thought of reality TV. To me, it’s nothing but a parade of artificial drama and scripted ‘real-life’ moments, a far cry from any genuine truth. But I need the job desperately, and if this is what the position is, I’m going to take it—particularly for what I’m being paid.
“Uh, this one’s kind of new, isn’t it?” I reply diplomatically, not wanting to admit that I haven’t watched a single episode. They had asked me the same question during my initial screen test, and I had lied my ass off.
Lucy snorts. “They’re all the same. The difference is, in this season, all the men are billionaires. And this show always has a real A-list actor in every season. You’ll be surrounded by real money here.”
I gape at her, wondering what that means, my gut in full knots now.
She winks at me confidentially. “Can you imagine?”
Suppressing the urge to roll my eyes requires a monumental amount of self-control. There were rumors of a “real” star joining the cast this season, but I got swept into the whirlwind so swiftly that I never got around to checking who it might be. Not that it mattered much to me. After all, how “A-list” could someone be if they’re signing up for a romance reality show? And I still didn’t understand why billionaires would want tobe on a show like this. I’m sure none of them had a problem meeting women.
But even if it was a big name, nothing about this was real, despite the name. Everything was fully scripted. It wasn’t like I was going to walk out at the end, hand-in-hand with some famous actor or billionaire.
Lucy leans in to measure the inseam of my jeans, her gums still moving. She clearly likes to chat, and she’s not doing any harm to me with her chatter, so I don’t shut her down. She’s actually telling me more than anyone else has so far.
“It’s Forrest Marlowe,” she continues, and I jerk around, shocked by the revelation. The abrupt movement makes me lose my balance, and I tumble off the pedestal in a moment of disarray.
Strong hands catch me under my arms, setting me right before I can land sideways on my ankles, my heart shooting into my throat.
“Thanks,” I choke, turning to address my rescuer properly, and I find myself staring into the most brilliant blue eyes I’ve ever seen in my life.
My breath catches in my throat, and a fluttering nervousness rises in my core from his intent stare. My skin tingles under his touch, and I’m acutely aware of his strong grip keeping me upright after my fall. He holds me a moment longer than necessary, his gaze lingering on my face.
I cringe internally that he had a front-row seat to my epic display of clumsiness.
Then he releases his grip.
“You all right?” His voice is molten gold, like his thick head of hair.
I would recognize that chiseled face anywhere. He’s been in all of my mom’s favorite rom-com movies as well as half a dozen regular comedies, his demand unprecedented, not onlyin Hollywood but internationally. According to Forbes, he’s a billionaire as of this year, thanks to his agent’s ingenious royalty and merchandising contracts.
Lucy snickers from behind me. “Told you,” the costume designer jeers.
“You’re Forrest Marlowe!” I rasp.
