How To Wed A Billionaire (How To... Book 3)

by Layla Valentine

  My temper rises as I prowl the block for somewhere to park. There’s nothing. Nothing at all.

  I’ll never find parking. I’ll miss the audition, and it’ll all be that asshole’s fault. He knew the spot was mine. My flippin’ turn signal was on!

  Finally, at the point when I’m anxious enough that I might vomit, a spot appears two blocks away from the production studio. Parking so fast that it’s a wonder I don’t blow a tire on the curb, I grab my purse and jump from the car.

  My feet can’t carry me fast enough down the sidewalk. Frantic, I take off my heels and run barefoot, feet slapping the pavement. How late am I? Fifteen minutes? Twenty?

  What if I get denied an audition for showing up late? That happened to me once, three years ago. After that, I vowed to never be late again.

  Hah. Yeah, right.

  That failure bumped my average tardy time down from fifteen minutes to ten, but I still only make it somewhere on the dot maybe a third of the time.

  Changing my bad habit is a work in progress.

  After what seems like eons, I make it to the studio. Pausing outside the door, I take a second to put on my shoes, smooth my hair and catch my breath. Unfortunately, it’s all the opportunity I have to get myself together.

  It’s showtime.

  Whipping the door open, I enter a small room with a front counter. A few straight-backed chairs line the wall, but the only person around is a young man sporting neatly-combed hair and a crisp button-up.

  The rest of the girls auditioning must be in another room. I don’t know how reality typically works, but TV and film auditions are cattle calls. Producers and casting directors see dozens, if not hundreds, of people for one role. It’s an in-and-out system, where you basically stand in line for an interview and scene reading that could last two minutes.

  “Hi.” I run my palm over my loose hair one more time. “I’m checking in for an audition. Rachel Rios.”

  Usually, I would state the time of my appointment, but I’m too embarrassed by my tardiness to touch that.

  The guy behind the desk sits up straighter. “Yes. We’ve been expecting you.”

  Me?

  Did Molly talk me up or something?

  No. He probably means he’s been wondering where I’ve been these last twenty minutes.

  Standing, he comes around the desk. “Can I offer you anything to drink?”

  “Water would be great. Thanks.”

  I left my bottle in the car, and sprinting from there to the building has left me parched.

  He opens a mini fridge and extracts a plastic water bottle. “Right this way, please.”

  There are several doors leading off from a hallway, all closed. The man who stole my parking spot must be behind one of them.

  When the thievery happened, I didn’t pause to wonder who he was. Now, I assume he’s probably an executive at this company. He certainly treated the place like he owned it.

  It’s doubly good that I didn’t flip him off.

  The receptionist opens a door to an empty room, which takes me so off-guard I actually stumble in my heels.

  Where is everyone else?

  Am I really that late?

  Or are they spacing the interviews that far apart?

  It’s a little rude to ask, so all I say is, “Thanks.”

  “There are forms on the table, if you would please fill them out.”

  “No problem.”

  “Once you fill everything out, please bring the papers back to me,” the receptionist says, departing and leaving the door cracked.

  Taking a seat in one of the three chairs, I crack the water bottle and drink deeply. The room is bare except for the chairs and table, which isn’t that unusual. A lot of casting offices have rooms that they film auditions in that are kept minimally furnished.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to find a text from Molly:

  How’d it go?

  Haven’t been called in yet, I text back. Is it weird that no one else is waiting at the same time?

  She texts back right away.

  Maybe they’re doing lengthy interviews and spaced them out. Sometimes it’s like that in reality.

  True. What do I know on the matter?

  Because I’m already late and I could get called in at any minute, I put my phone away and glance over the forms in front of me.

  It’s a short stack of papers, one requesting basic information and another a general form of confidentiality. I fill out and sign those two, then flip to the third paper.

  This one takes me by surprise. It’s a personality quiz.

  A really long one.

  On a scale of one to ten, the first question asks, how positive of a person do you consider yourself to be?

  After thinking on it for a beat, I write down seven. I have my trying times—the last few days being one of the worst—but I’ve always worked hard to bounce back and keep a sunny attitude when things get rough.

  The questions seem to go on and on. A year ago, right before I ended up meeting JT through a friend, I joined a couple of dating sites. I thought the questions they asked were lengthy, but it turns out that was nothing compared to this interrogation.

  What’s your favorite room in your home? (Answer: living room).

  Do you prefer swimming pools or the ocean? (Answer: lakes).

  You go to a new coffee shop for the first time. Do you try a new drink or order what you get elsewhere? (Answer: my usual drink).

  At first, I take my time thinking on the answers, but the whole thing quickly gets tiring and I start writing down responses faster.

  What I don’t expect is for the questions to get so personal.

  In bed, do you prefer taking charge, for your partner to take charge, or for there to be a mix of the two?

  “Damn,” I murmur, before writing down that a mix of the two suits me best.

  At another time, I would have had serious qualms about answering such a question, but I’ve already jumped into this situation headfirst. If I turned back now, I would always wonder what could have been.

  Finally, I’m on the last page, which requests any and all of my social media handles. It’s another thing I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable with giving away, but then again, it’s not like there’s anything scandalous on my profiles.

  Since I’ve always banked on being successful, I’ve made sure that I don’t post anything that could be seen as offensive or salacious, or that could be misconstrued.

  Stacking the papers neatly, I leave the room. The murmur of a male voice floats down the hall, where a door at the very end has been left open.

  Swallowing against the dryness still in my throat, I take the papers to the receptionist. He doesn’t look at them and instead asks me to wait back in the room he initially put me in.

  This time, with no assigned task to keep my hands busy, I fidget in the chair. Giving up sitting, I stand and pace the room.

  It seems like a really, really long time goes by. Do reality show auditions always take this long? And why couldn’t I have filled out the papers at the front desk? Were they trying to hide me from someone? Or keep something hidden from me?

  There’s a soft rap on the door. I quit pacing.

  The receptionist pokes his head in. He smiles gently. “Right this way, please, Ms. Rios.”

  He takes me to the room at the end of the hall, the one I heard talking coming from, and pushes it open.

  Three men and a woman sit behind a long desk. One of the men is dressed in a suit, but the other two are casual, in dark jeans and shirts.

  “Rachel Rios,” the assistant announces. He turns on his heel, letting the door fall shut behind him.

  The person nearest, who’s probably in his thirties, stands. “Hello, Rachel. I’m Dan Martin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Tracey Armisen,” the woman says. “I’m the casting director.”

  Dan introduces the other two men, but their names are in one ear and out the othe
r. I’m too busy praying my palms aren’t sweaty when they offer theirs for shakes.

  “Please, have a seat.” The man in the suit gestures at the chair across from them.

  Everything about this room is familiar. There are lights set up and a small camera on a tripod. In that way, it’s the typical audition scenario. What’s different is that I haven’t felt this nervous at an audition in years.

  Before I take a seat, I draw my headshot and resume out from my purse and hand them over to Tracey. No one asked, but I’m glad I brought copies.

  She looks at the documents in interest for a moment, then slides them down the table to the others. The man who initially greeted me glances at the photo but doesn’t bother reading the credits on the resume.

  “How did you find the questionnaire?” the man in the middle asks. He’s tall, with glasses. It’s the first time he’s spoken to me.

  “Long.” Because that sounds slightly rude, I add, “Thorough.”

  The man who stole my parking spot isn’t here, I realize. I don’t think I was necessarily afraid he would be, but not seeing his face helps me breathe easier.

  “We liked your answers,” Mr. Suit says.

  “Thank you.”

  Which ones, exactly? Some of them were so intimate—like whether I would ever consider an open relationship or if I’m strictly monogamous—that I almost can’t believe I handed that information over to total strangers.

  “And your look,” he adds.

  “Thank you.”

  So, are these guys reality show business veterans, or from the app company? If I had to guess, Mr. Suit is the TV producer. Maybe the other two are app guys.

  “You signed the waiver and non-disclosure agreement,” Mr. Glasses says. “We want to make sure you understand what’s underlined there.”

  I nod to show I’m listening.

  “If selected for the show,” he says, “you’ll marry the man the app matches you with on the spot. For two weeks, the two of you will live together and be filmed interacting. At the end of the two weeks, the two of you have the choice of continuing with or ending the marriage.”

  My folded hands tighten. It’s all as Molly outlined it, but hearing someone else put it out there makes it real on a new level.

  “As for the NDA part,” Mr. Glasses says, “not only can you not post about this on social media, but you can’t tell anyone about it, either. It’s extremely important that this project remains absolutely secret.”

  “I understand,” I say with another nod.

  I already told Annie about this, but she won’t repeat a word about it if I ask her not to.

  “Good,” Tracey says with satisfaction. “Now for the screen test portion.”

  My heart flutters. Screen test? Shoot. Was I supposed to have something prepared?

  Usually, at film and TV auditions, you perform the scene they give you. I haven’t had to do a memorized monologue since I last auditioned for a play, which was back in high school.

  I struggle to remember the dramatic monologue I did senior year for a showcase. Bits and pieces come back. I won’t get it all right, but if I wing it with enough confidence, maybe it will be sellable.

  My anxiety must show.

  “Don’t worry,” Dan Martin says. “It won’t require any acting. What we really want to do is get a sense of the real you.”

  Too bad I can’t tell him that’s exactly what I’m afraid of. The real Rachel Rios is a girl from the Texas countryside who’s never done anything that’s worth much mentioning, and who lives to lose herself in fantasy worlds.

  Nope, I can’t tell him that, so I say, “All right.”

  “And it’ll be easy to do,” Tracey says, “since you’ll have a scene partner.”

  That makes me gulp. The only thing harder than being put on the spot is being put on the spot alongside a stranger. Cold reads with other actors I vaguely recognize are hard enough. What’s chatting with a stranger going to be like?

  I’m afraid they’re looking for an extroverted person, and that’s just not me.

  My body gets heavy with defeat. This was a silly idea. I never should have agreed to let Molly get me an audition.

  Tracey goes to the door.

  “Aaron,” she calls down the hall. “Are you ready?”

  She steps back, a smile on for the man headed her way. With the sound of each of his footsteps, my insides twist tighter.

  Aaron appears in the doorway, and I swear I practically implode.

  It’s the guy who stole my goddamn parking spot.

  Chapter 4

  My mouth goes dry. My hands shake.

  Aaron’s eyes widen slightly when he sees me, but the look of surprise is only there for a moment before it’s replaced with a smug calm.

  It’s the same look he wore when he stole my parking spot. That look that says, “I’m taking whatever I please, and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

  The most infuriating part is that he probably gets away with this attitude more often than not, on account of how attractive he is.

  “Rachel,” Dan says, “this is Aaron. He’ll be sitting down and chatting with you so we can get a sense of your personality.”

  “It’s a pleasure.” Aaron comes right up to me and offers his hand.

  I stare at his palm, hating the idea of giving him what he’s asking for, even if it is only a handshake.

  But I also have to consider what I want, and that’s a job. So, I shake his hand.

  His touch is firm but not too much. As he withdraws his palm from mine, the slightest longing ache goes through me.

  Unfortunately.

  Dan gets a chair from the corner and sets it next to me. Aaron makes himself comfortable in it, setting one ankle across his knee and resting his laced hands on his leg. The show of confidence gets under my skin. I don’t care whether it’s real or forced; I simply don’t like it.

  Dan’s at the camera, fiddling with the focus. The red light signals that it’s on and filming. That knowledge makes me sit up a little straighter. Hopefully, I haven’t been scowling since Aaron came into the room.

  At the table, Tracey is going through some papers. “Let’s see…Rachel, I hope you don’t mind us starting with your weaknesses first. We might as well jump right into it, hm?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but only a cracked noise comes out. She has the questionnaire I filled out in-hand.

  And she’s going to read it out loud? In front of the creep next to me?

  My face heats. What am I supposed to do?

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Okay.” She points at something on one of the papers. “You said time management is something you struggle with.”

  My shoulders edge together. I can feel Aaron looking at me, but I stay facing straight ahead, making eye contact with Tracey.

  “I’m working on changing that,” I say. “I, uh, usually don’t like talking about it, because I figure that’s helping to keep the habit alive. Then again, I couldn’t not check that box after I was late to this appointment.”

  “Hm,” Aaron comments.

  I grind my teeth. Not looking at him becomes a matter of safety for everyone in this room. There’s no telling what might happen if I lose my shit on this guy.

  Tracey smiles. “Everyone has things to work on.”

  “Could you not find the address?” Aaron asks.

  Slowly, I turn my head to him. Okay. Guess we’re doing this. Dan did say I’m supposed to show my personality by chatting with Aaron.

  “I found it just fine.” My smile’s tight. “Actually, I would have been early if it wasn’t for someone stealing my parking spot.”

  Telling white lies to make myself look better might also be one of my weaknesses. I was running late long before I pulled into the parking spot.

  Aaron’s thick eyebrows jump up. His whole demeanor changes, going from cocky to defensive. Arms folded, he shoots daggers my way.

  “I highly doubt that one parking spot would
have mattered,” he says, “if you’d managed your time better and accounted for setbacks.”

  “How do you know I didn’t?” I bite back.

  “Because you were late.”

  “Well, maybe there was traffic.”

  “Was there?” he asks.

  “Of course. There’s always traffic. It’s LA.”

  A grin slithers across his face. “Oh, really? And you didn’t plan for that?”

  He’s got me.

  Fighting the urge to cross my own arms, I look back to the casting director.

  “I’m sorry I was late, by the way,” I tell her.

  She doesn’t seem to hear me. She’s too busy browsing my questionnaire. If she reads my answers to sexual preferences out loud, I will flat-out die.

  “Did you find a parking spot?” Aaron asks me.

  “What do you think?” I snap.

  Deep breath in. Breathe out. I need to get my temper under control. “Quick to anger” was another thing I put under weaknesses.

  “Yes,” I say, trying again. “Down the street. Really far away.”

  “That’s a shame.”

  “And where have you been all this time?” I ask, both wanting and not wanting to know.

  I’m mostly talking in order to give the four people across from us what they want, but I’m also interested in Aaron. It doesn’t matter that I don’t want to be.

  There’s something about the way his hazel eyes seem to appraise me. It feels like he’s working to see me, to understand me, even if it is only so he can judge me.

  But at least he’s not looking right through me, the way most people do.

  “I’ve been around,” Aaron answers.

  I scoff. Of course.

  He tilts his head, eyes narrowing quizzically. “Are you still angry about the parking spot?”

  “Why would I not be? You didn’t even apologize about taking it.”

  “Should I? It was open.”

  “My blinker was on!” My voice echoes in the room.

  I swallow hard, heart beating in the base of my throat. Losing my temper will get me nowhere. The only thing it will accomplish is making me look like the immature one.

  “Was it?” Aaron smiles wide.

  I swear that steam comes out of my ears.