Auctioned to Him Book 8

by Charlotte Byrd

  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.

  “Is this a Bentley?” I ask, buckling in.

  “Yep.”

  “Really? Wow. I’ve never been in a Bentley before. Actually, I’ve never even been in a BMW or a Mercedes.”

  “It’s a really good car,” she smiles at me. “So where to?”

  I give her my address.

  “So, Chloe. What do you do?”

  “I’m a wardrobe stylist. Today was actually my first day on the job. I’m doing a small independent film with really promising filmmakers.”

  “Wow, tell me about it,” Dolly says.

  I tell her as much as I can, while at the same time trying not to gush. Something about her demeanor puts me at ease. I find her very easy to talk to, and that’s coming from someone who has a lot of experience talking to people who listen for a living. After my brother died when I was 13, my parents sent me to a number of counselors to help me deal with the process, but none of them even came close to having Dolly’s demeanor and disposition.

  “That sounds wonderful. You have quite a promising start to your career,” Dolly says. “I can tell that you are very passionate about this.”

  “Yes, I am. When I was in college, I worried that I wouldn’t be able to make a living at this. I mean, I grew up in Pennsylvania. People there have regular jobs. So, after college I moved to New York and got a job in finance. I thought that I could be one of those people who did something for a living and did something else as a hobby, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t stand that job. I had something of a mental breakdown after that. My sister lived in LA. She’s an actress. She invited me to live with her, so I’m here.”

  “Doing something you love,” Dolly finished my sentence for me. I nod.

  “So what about your boyfriend? He must be very proud,” Dolly says. I take a deep breath. Boyfriend. Ah, that word.

  “Oh don’t tell me he isn’t supportive,” Dolly says, reading my facial expression.

  “No. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “A beautiful girl like you?” Dolly says. My cheeks get flushed. “Or are you one of those modern girls who don’t go for relationships?”

  “No, that’s my sister, Lila,” I smile. “I’m just unlucky, I guess. I had a boyfriend in college, but we broke up when we moved to New York. There hasn’t really been anyone else. I think I was going through a little too much for anyone to deal with.”

  I have no idea why I’m telling this perfect stranger every intimate and personal thing about me. Shut up, Chloe, I say to myself.

  “But frankly, I wasn’t too keen on dating anyone for a while. It just seemed like too much trouble, and I don’t get this high from it like my sister does. She absolutely loves meeting new guys. And then, of course, she grows bored of them.”

  “And you’re not like that?” she asks.

  “No, not really,” I shrug. “I’m more of a long-term relationship girl. I had a boyfriend for two years in high school. Then three years in college.”

  “But you know, without dating and putting yourself out there, you’ll never find the love of your life.”

  “Yeah I know,” I nod. Neither of us says anything for a moment.

  “Chloe, you don’t know what I do.”

  “Oh, I’m so, so sorry. That was very rude of me. Just babbling on and on about my life to you,” I say quickly. I talk a little too fast when I get nervous or embarrassed. In this situation, I find myself feeling a lot of both.

  “No, that’s perfectly fine. I was the one who was prying. I just wanted to tell you that I might be able to do something for you,” Dolly says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m a matchmaker. I help people find love.”

  “A matchmaker?” I ask. “I didn’t know that was a real thing anymore. I mean, isn’t there the internet and all those online dating sites?”

  “Yes, there are, but nothing beats someone who actually knows both people setting them up on a date. There’s no algorithm that can replace that.”

  “Really?” I ask. I hate how skeptical I sound. I need to get myself a filter, ASAP.

  “It’s like your job. People can easily pick out their own clothes, can’t they? But you’re there to think about each particular scene and put together a number of outfits that evoke a particular mood and setting. You’re there to match the clothes to the characters and the story. Well, that’s what I do with people.”

  “That makes sense, I guess. And you make a living at this?”

  “A very good one. This Bentley and these diamonds didn’t buy themselves, that’s for sure.”

  I look around the car. And at the diamond necklace and giant diamond ring on her left hand. I was certain that she was one of those Beverly Hills women who had married very well. I’m embarrassed by how old-fashioned my thinking was.

  “What I’m trying to get at, Chloe, is that I would like to set you up.”

  “I don’t think I can afford you,” I say. “No, I’m certain that I can’t.”

  Dolly throws her head back and laughs. “Is that what you’re worried about? There’s no need. It’s free of charge.”

  “No, I couldn’t let you do that,” I shake my head.

  “I don’t usually charge women. Well, unless they are the richer party. Basically, I only charge the party that’s hiring me, and that’s the one who is the wealthier one. Unfortunately, it’s almost always men who have the money, but not always.”

  “So, do you only set up wealthy men?”

  “The men who come to me do tend to be very well-off, but I’m not an escort service, if that’s what you are thinking.”

  She must’ve read the expression on my face.

  “My clients have money, and many of them have had unfortunate experiences of having women date them just for their money. So they come to me looking for women who aren’t in it for that.”

  “Oh, I see,” I nod.

  We pull up to my apartment building. It’s a small two-story yellow building, with eight apartments. The walls are covered in ivy and little pink flowers. Every half a year, the landlord hires someone to take the ivy down, which always makes me sad. I love seeing plants crawl their way from the ground toward the sun. There’s something
optimistic and beautiful in that.

  Dolly parks the car and turns to face me.

  “So, what do you think?” she asks, raising her eyebrows in anticipation.

  “I don’t know,” I hesitate. I don’t really know why I’m hesitating. I’m just afraid, I guess.

  “Just one date? What do you have to lose?”

  “Nothing, I guess.”

  “Perfect,” she gives me a warm hug in the car. “I have your number. And don’t forget to call your insurance about this whole thing.”

  “I won’t,” I say, getting out of the car. We wave good-bye and I head upstairs.

  Before I even have a chance to get through the door, my sister asks me, “Did I just see you get out of a Bentley?”

  Chapter 10 - Chloe

  The following morning, I head downstairs to look for my sister’s car. Our apartment building doesn’t have any parking spots – it was built before they required that sort of thing – so there’s only street parking. In the morning and afternoons, there’s usually an ample amount of parking, but it starts to dwindle as people get home after work. Because Lila gets home around three or four in the morning, she’s forced to park three or four streets away. But because she almost always gets home a little tipsy and/or tired, she almost never remembers where she parked the car. Usually, this is her problem, but today, since she’s kind enough to let me borrow her car for work, it’s my problem. I leave the apartment half an hour early, just in case it takes me much longer to find the car that I think, and I finally find it forty-five minutes later, five blocks away.