Auctioned to Him Book 8

by Charlotte Byrd

  “I took it off at your house. I remember that precisely,” she hollered into the phone.

  I look around the bedroom and the bathroom. I check the dresser and the closet. It’s nowhere to be found.

  “I don’t know what you want from me,” I said. “I don’t see it.”

  “C’mon look harder! It costs over fifty grand.”

  “Well, I hope you had it insured. ‘Cause it’s not here.”

  “Fuck you!” she yelled.

  “Maybe you should call Chateau Marmont and check if maybe you left it there,” I said and hung up.

  This was not the way I wanted to start the day. As much as I try to put her out of my mind, I’m still fuming over the whole thing when I arrive in North Hollywood, and my mood does not improve when I see the set. The bungalow is fine enough, but the crafts table is rather small, and there are clearly not enough trailers to accommodate the entire crew.

  Tim shows me to my trailer.

  “Thank you so much again for joining our production,” he says over and over, nervously, cracking his knuckles. What an annoying habit!

  “Yeah, sure. I love the script,” I say. At least that part is true.

  I don’t bother to go into the trailer and instead head straight to the crafts table. I need some coffee and maybe a Greek yogurt in my system if I have any hope of getting a fresh start on the day.

  Bam! Splash!

  Before I realize what’s going on, some girl’s orange juice is all over my brand new Calvin Klein shirt and my grey Marc Jacobs slacks. Perfect. Just perfect.

  Her phone falls to the floor, and I’m sure that she was walking and texting.

  She starts to apologize profusely, but that just pisses me off more. I put on these clothes precisely so that I didn’t have to be fitted by wardrobe for some cheaper clothes that won’t work as well. I’m supposed to be a drunk asshole celebrity and, given the look of this place, I’m not really certain that they have it in their budget for $1000 pants and a $500 shirt. That’s probably how much the director’s getting paid.

  After she disappears, I debate whether I should go to my trailer and freshen up or just head straight to wardrobe and get them to find me something to wear.

  “Hello? Excuse me? Is this wardrobe?” I ask, knocking on the door of the trailer on the very end. Who’s bright idea it was to put wardrobe so far away from the rest of the set is beyond me, but whatever.

  “Yes, it is,” I hear a girl’s willowy voice coming from inside. “Come in, come in.”

  When I open the door and step inside, I see a girl looking away and wiping her eyes as much as she can to hide the fact that she was crying, but her eyes are bloodshot and her mouth is red around her lips. Sure signs of tears.

  Oh shit. It hits me. That’s her! That’s the girl who spilled the orange juice on me!

  “I’m sorry, I can come back later, if you want,” I say, hoping that she will just let me go.

  “No, no, I’m sorry. Please come in.”

  “Is the main wardrobe person here?” I ask, trying to change the subject. I’m pretending that I don’t know that she has been crying, but both of us know that I’m not doing a very good job of it.

  She looks straight at me with her piercing hazel eyes.

  “I am the wardrobe stylist,” she says furrowing her brow. Oh crap! I’m just making this worse and worse. She puts her hands on her hips. Her eyes are dry now and she does not look happy.

  “I’m so sorry,” I finally say. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.”

  “Yes, I think so too,” she says. Neither of us says anything for a moment. I take the pause to admire how stunning she actually is. She’s dressed in a tight black skirt and ruffled blouse with polka dots (not what she was wearing earlier) and her light brown hair sparkles in the sunlight. She doesn’t look older than twenty-two, though she could be thirty or more. This is LA, who the hell ever knows? She’s about five foot five and average weight. Not too tall or skinny, like Ariel and other girls that I’m used to. When she tucks hair behind her ear, I see that she’s wearing dangling Tree of Life earrings. They glisten and catch my eye, bringing me back to reality.

  “Let’s start again, okay? Hi, my name is Finn Dalton, and I’m a total jerk for getting so upset with you for absolutely no reason.” I extend my hand to her.

  She smiles and her whole face lights up.

  “Hi,” she says, taking my hand. “My name’s Chloe Nichols, and I should not walk, text and carry open containers of orange juice with me because I’m a total klutz. And I’m really sorry that I spilled it all over your gorgeous Marc Jacobs slacks.”

  “So you do know clothes,” I say.

  She shrugs. “I work in wardrobe, don’t I?”

  “Well, yes, you do. But you’d be surprised,” I say.

  “I’m really sorry again about the orange juice. And I’m actually even more sorry now, because we don’t have anything nearly as nice for you to wear to replace those pants.”

  “Oh, that’s okay.”

  “Let me take them to the dry cleaner’s to make this up for you, at least.”

  “Oh no, that’s not necessary,” I say.

  “Please, I’d like to.”

  “You really don’t have to,” I say. She looks disappointed, so I cave and let her do it.

  Chapter 6 - Chloe

  I smile and nod and smile again and act like everything is normal. I act like I’m totally cool with just standing here chatting with Finn Dalton. As if he were just any other guy walking down the street. But the thing is that he isn’t. He’s Finn Dalton! The Finn Dalton. He’s the guy who was nominated for an Oscar when he was 18 – a boy actor genius – who played a ninth grade paraplegic who taught us all to live every moment of life to the fullest. He’s also the star of Monday Night Football, the show that made him a star. He played the fast talking, smooth as hell quarterback who loved the ladies a little bit more than he loved football. That’s the role that got him all the magazine covers. That’s the role that got him the starring role in To Live and to Die in the West, the record-breaking action flick about a guy who goes back in time and starts a gang robbing trains.

  “So what should I change into?” Finn asks me. Luckily, I organized all the actors’ outfits this morning and labeled them appropriately. I grab the first outfit and hand it to him. It’s a tight-fitting black t-shirt and slim fit jeans.

  “There’s a little space back there where you can change,” I say pointing to the back of the trailer.

  He nods, flashes me a smile. The space in the trailer is pretty tight and he squeezes me a little as he moves past me.

  “Sorry,” he whispers. I inhale a little bit of his breath. Mint and ginger. It sends shivers down my spine.

  “I’m sorry,” I say awkwardly and move out of the way.

  A minute later, he emerges behind the curtain. Shirtless.

  Every muscle of his body is toned and bronzed. Even though he isn’t flexing, there’s a definite six pack. It takes all of my strength not to reach out and run my fingers along each indentation.

  “Did…um, did I not give you a shirt?” I ask, stumbling over my words. I look down at the ground and then back up to him. He smiles again, clearly enjoying this moment. I bet he’s had experiences with hundreds, if not thousands of girls, each month and from the look on his face it’s not getting old.

  “Yes, you did,” he says holding up the shirt. Finn puts his head down a bit, when my eyes meet his, a few loose strands of hair fall into his face. Damn. He’s hot.

  “I was just wondering what you thought of the jeans.” He spins around and gives me a good look at his butt. The jeans aren’t designer, but the fit is magnificent. To the T. They squeeze his thighs in just the right way, accentuating the firmness and plumpness of his perfect ass.

  “They are…perfect.” I say, licking my lips.

  “Did you just lick your lips?” he asks.

  “What? No, of course not!” I say a little bit too quickly. He
smiles again, his teeth are so white they’re almost blinding.

  “Okay,” he says, pulling the shirt over his head. Once again, a perfect fit. It’s a little tight, but he’s pulling it off nicely. The character is a douche bag, but not one incapable of redemption. The shirt, which hugs his pecs and six-pack, doesn’t make him look entirely slimy. Just a little slimy. But in a good way, if that makes any sense. Oh no, this is all too much for me. I’m starting to feel faint.

  “Are you okay?” Finn walks over to me. His hand is around my shoulder. Finn Dalton is actually touching me! I’m not really a fangirl, I never swoon over celebrities. It’s Lila who always has her head buried in all the celebrity magazines. But something about him, here, touching my shoulder is making me even fainter.

  “I just feel a little sick,” I whisper. “I need some air.”

  Finn helps me outside. The set is swarming with activity and, luckily, no one notices me. In case anyone asks, just remember not to tell them that you feel sick. Not the truth. Anything but the truth. I mean, what is this? Middle school? Or the nineteenth century? Am I really about to pass out because some guy touched my shoulder? But then again, he’s not just some guy. He’s our generation’s Tom Cruise, Brad Pitt and Paul McCartney all rolled into one.

  Finn’s hand remains on the small of my back the whole time that I’m doubled over with my head in my thighs. When I finally start to feel a little better, I lift my head up and look up at him. His face is that of concern and uncertainty.

  “I’m okay, really,” I assure him.

  “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure. I didn’t really have anything to eat this morning, and it has been a little stressful around here.”

  Finn smiles again. Is this his go-to response? A beautiful smile that sweeps me off my feet?

  I try to change the topic.

  “So, what do you think of your wardrobe? How do you feel in it? Does it feel right?”

  He looks down at his stomach and feels his thighs with his fingertips.

  “Yes, I think so,” he nods.

  “And as for shoes and accessories. I was actually thinking that those Kenneth Cole’s you have on are quite good. They’ll be perfect for this scene, if that’s okay with you.”

  “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 eve
n 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.