McKenna: Is that the title of a new Rom-Com you’re casting? Because it sounds like the premise of one.
Sutton: If only. I have to produce a fiancé by Friday night if I want to score this job on the new Pinkerton movie.
McKenna: omg! Are you casting Entangled Lives? Escorted Lives? Which was the first book? It doesn’t matter. You have to work on it, and you have to tell me who’s going to be in it.
Sutton: The answer to all those questions is I DON’T KNOW. Because I have to have a fiancé, but I DON’T have a fiancé, and the queue to take my place goes around the block. This movie is the hottest thing going on in the casting world right now. Everyone wants in on it. Especially every good-looking young actor in—well, on either coast. And some on other continents.
McKenna: It seems like you have your ANSWER right there. This is what you DO, WOMAN. You are the Duchess of Beefcake. You are the Ace of Eye-candy. How many hot firemen have you cast?
Sutton: A lot.
McKenna: Tattooed Bad Boys, All-American athletes . . . Stop me when I get to one that appeals to you.
Sutton: You’re saying I should cast the role of my fiancé?
McKenna: Well, the closest thing you have to a man in your life is your dog. You could hire an escort service, but that might be a little meta for the East Coast.
Sutton: I don’t know. Mrs. Pinkerton is eagle-eyed. I’d say she’s paranoid about her husband’s wandering eye. For me to pull off this farce of a fiancé, I need a man who is truly my type. Someone I can realistically be in a relationship with.
McKenna: Tell me again how many hard-bodied, 8-pack packing men you auditioned for It’s Raining Men?
Sutton: Yes, it’s a tough job I have. But in all seriousness, that movie called for stripper types, beefcake, and bravado. I had never gone for those kinds of guys. This job needs less swagger. More finesse.
McKenna: Then you can guess my next question. What IS your type?
Sutton: You have to swear not to laugh.
McKenna: This is a text message. You can’t tell if I’m laughing.
Sutton: I beg to differ. I will absolutely be able to tell. So . . . you have been warned. Truth be told, I’d always had a thing for hipsters. A little bit of stubble, a little bit of attitude, a tattoo on the arm, slim but not too skinny jeans that show off his assets. Sexy, but with a touch of innocence to him.
McKenna: Mmm . . . That’s a tall order. Everyone underrates vulnerability in a guy. Someone still willing to believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny. I mean, metaphorically. Not like Will Farrell in Elf type belief.
Sutton: But that was endearing, right? Only it was played for broad comedy because of course being vulnerable, being fresh, would wring all the masculinity from a man like a tea towel. But picture the wide-eyed wonder a superhero has when he first learns he has special powers. Oh!
McKenna: Was that a good ‘Oh’ or a bad one?
Sutton: I just thought of someone. I’m sending you his headshot.
McKenna: Whoa. Also, you just have his picture lying around?
Sutton: Of course not. The only picture on my desk is of The Artful Dodger’s adorable brown sweet silky face. But I have a folder with the vital info on everyone who’s ever auditioned for me.
McKenna: Nice work if you can get it.
Sutton: If you think I’m going to disagree with you, you’re wrong. But I’ve never regretted calling this fellow in for any audition. He was witty, clever, and frankly, irresistible. A bit of the boy toy about him. Every, ahem, slightly older woman’s dream.
McKenna: ohmygod, Sutton. Twenty-eight is too young to be a cougar.
Sutton: Did I say cougar? I believe YOU did, love
McKenna: So cheeky. And yes, I did. Owning it! Tell me about your boy toy.
Sutton: He’s adorable, but he has that chased-with-danger look in his eyes.
McKenna: That look is perfect for you. Just one thing—I thought you never dated actors.
Sutton: And I still won’t have dated one.
McKenna: Right. Just have been fake-engaged to one.
Sutton: But that’s why this is such a great idea! There’s no chance that I could truly fall for him because I have less than no romantic interest in an actor. I’d have a built-in safety net. We’d both simply be trying to get a job.
McKenna: You know . . . if you went out for more than walks with The Artful Dodger, you might meet someone who could be a real boyfriend. Crazy idea, right?
Sutton: Absolutely barking mad, that idea. And on that note, it’s noon on Monday, and I have to be engaged by Friday, so I’d better get cracking.
3
Reeve
That was a beleaguered sigh if I ever heard one.
The sigher in question put some money down to cover his tab and picked up his phone and his ballcap from the bar I’d been tending. “Thanks for the beer, man, and for listening.”
“Anytime,” I said. “Good luck.”
After the heave-ho from Dave, I’d called around to friends and acquaintances, putting out the word that I was hoping to pick up some shifts bartending. I wasn’t one to sit on my ass waiting for another toothpaste commercial to drop in my lap. And I was good at it—bartending, not ass-sitting—as an actor, I had plenty of practice.
I’d nabbed a shift at the Lucky Spot for Sunday evening, a Midtown joint owned by my friends Spencer and Charlotte.
“Thanks for helping out in a pinch,” Spencer said, clapping me on the back.
“Thank you for throwing some work my way.”
“Not a problem.” He eyed the door, nodding to the customer who’d just left. “Keeping your life-coach skills sharp too, I see.”
I shrugged it off. “Comes with the territory, right?”
He laughed. “If I had a nickel for all the relationship advice I’ve given . . .”
“You’d need a bigger piggybank.”
“See? More excellent advice.” He chuckled and left me to finish my shift.
The key, really, to customers thinking I was Dear Abby was to listen and nod while they talked their way around to their own answers. Fortunately, I was a people person.
Once I finished my shift, I cleaned up, locked up, and headed home. On the way, I checked my email for any notes from my agent.
There were none.
But there was always tomorrow.
And boom. Optimism paid off by lunchtime on Monday with an audition.
I punched a fist in the air when I hung up with my agent, who’d gotten a call from a casting director I’d worked with before. I’d tried out for It’s Raining Men, and had returned for a second and third callback, but ultimately the bigger roles had gone to bigger names. That stung, getting that far but losing out on even a supporting role. I had snagged a day role, though, as a bartender at the strip club. Even that, in a blockbuster, was a big fucking deal.
That was then.
Now the casting director wanted to see me, and my agent had sounded so enthusiastic I couldn’t help but be fired up. Sutton Brenner, very British and very sexy, wanted me in her office in two hours.
I popped up from the couch in my cardboard-box–size apartment, dropped my phone onto the beat-up wooden coffee table, and changed into one of my favorite T-shirts, reviewing all the things I knew about Sutton Brenner as I brushed my teeth—the movies she’d cast, the shows she’d worked on . . . Then there were the personal details. She had a dog who was the center of her world, and I was pretty sure the dog had a strange name. As I capped the toothpaste, I remembered it.
So very British, indeed.
I grinned. Clever too.
I checked myself out in the cracked mirror on the closet door. Yep. I looked the way casting directors wanted me to look—young and dreamy, but with a bit of an edge. That was my type, and I had to lean into it. The kind of guy you could clean up with a short haircut, button-down shirt, and pants to bring home to mom and dad, but the same guy a girl would gladly slide in behind on a motorcycle for a ride to a
secluded make-out spot. Those were the roles I knew I could win.
I left and headed for Sutton Brenner’s Madison Avenue office, where the receptionist showed me in immediately. At the end of a long hallway, Sutton stood in the doorway, one hand on the door, the other on her waist, one long, tall drink of woman.
Holy hell, she was a smoke show.
If I’d met her under different circumstances, say, a bar or a club, I’d have walked straight up to her, asked her name, bought her a drink, and then charmed her. I imagined she could hold her own, giving as good as she got with witty banter that sounded even smarter and savvier in her oh-so-proper British accent. She’d have done that hair flip thing, all the more alluring with her thick brown tresses, then she’d have hooked me with those cool blue eyes. After I’d hailed a cab for her and given her a long, slow, lingering kiss by the curb, she’d have said, “Come home with me.” I’d have done just that, and discovered whether she wore thigh-high stockings, as I always suspected. I’d have peeled them off her long, lean legs—peeled them off with my teeth.
What could I say? I knew what I liked, and oh hell, did I like her look. And did I lust for her accent.
But I wasn’t here for ye olde libido.
I needed to focus on business, on work, on playing whatever part she required of me. I was sure none of those things involved removing her stockings, so I cleared her curves from my thoughts.
“Come in, Reeve,” she said, and closed the door behind us, gesturing to her couch. I sat, doing my best to project coolness and confidence. Whatever Sutton was casting, I was sure those were vital character traits.
She sat in the chair opposite. Just for a moment, her short, black skirt rode up, and I glimpsed—accidentally, I swear—the lace tops of her thigh-high stockings, peeking out from below the hemline.
Oh, sweet mother of pearl.
Then she smoothed down her skirt in a natural, automatic movement that said short skirts were something she wore a lot. She also wore a white blouse with a few buttons undone, just enough for a peek of collarbone, which was somehow as hot as cleavage would be on someone else. Her hair was pinned up and her sexy glasses made me think “hot-for-teacher.”
Settle down, libido.
“Good to see you again, Ms. Brenner,” I said, going for the professional approach. Obviously.
She laughed lightly. “Call me Sutton, please.”
I flashed a crooked smile. “Sutton it is, then. How’s your dog? The Artful Dodger, right?” Good thing I’d remembered.
Sutton grinned brightly. “You remember.”
“I think I do. Let’s see . . . He’s a little Chihuahua/Min Pin?”
“Yes!” It was as if I’d performed a magic trick at her birthday party, the way she smiled at me. “He is absolutely the love of my life. He’s such a darling.”
She didn’t seem in a rush to get to business. Casting directors sometimes liked to get a read on an actor’s own personality before they took on a character’s. I considered it a good sign that whatever she had in mind meant spending time on set.
“And what does he do when you’re at work?” I asked.
“Why, he goes to doggy daycare, of course. As if I would leave my darling alone all day.” She sounded playful, which was something I couldn’t say was common—not among casting directors or people in general. At least, it couldn’t be common for someone to look so good while talking about her dog, and I selfishly kept her on the subject.
“Do they have a rigid agenda at doggy daycare? Peanut butter Kongs at ten, playtime and belly rubs at two?”
“Don’t be silly. Belly rubs just before he has his tea, then playtime after.”
“So, Mary Poppins works at this daycare?”
Now her laugh was rich and deep, less artful and more natural, like I’d taken her off guard. That laugh took me the same way.
“I’m so very glad I called you,” she said, and that seemed as unplanned as her laugh.
“I am too.” Then I scraped my hand over my jaw, feeling sheepish. “Though, I suppose that’s stating the obvious.”
“Is it?” she asked. Then she seemed to catch herself. “Ah yes. The job.”
As much as I needed work, I hadn’t meant it the way it had sounded, like I’d wanted to steer her back to business. So, I softened it up with a cheeky smile and a, “That too.”
She flashed a quick smile, but seemed a bit more direct as she brushed her hands down her skirt. “Yes. As you say, obviously I didn’t ask you here to talk about my dog.”
I shrugged. “It’s nice to remember that people like you aren’t actually fire-breathing dragons who feast nightly on flame-roasted actor for dinner.”
“Not at all,” she said, humor coming back into her voice. “Roast actor is really just for Sunday supper.”
“And it’s only Monday. So, lucky me.”
How weird was it that I was trying to put the casting director at ease? I was anxious about work, but not about this meeting. It seemed like she knew what I brought to the table as an actor, and I’d either be right for the part or not.
With a decisive nod, she leaned forward, elbows on her knee, hands clasped loosely, classic “let’s make a deal” pose.
“Reeve, I have a proposition for you.”
My eyebrows climbed, and I knew my smile turned flirty in spite of myself. “I can’t wait to hear it.”
Lucky me, indeed.
4
Sutton
This might work out better than I planned. Reeve was my type physically—strong and muscular, his jeans the best kind of tight. He worked out, but he didn’t work out too much, and that was vital. Plus, he was quick with a quip and he liked four-legged friends. He was the ideal pretend boyfriend.
Perfect—I was attracted enough to pull this off. But I’d keep up my barriers, keep it all business. I was hiring him to play a part, after all. “This job is a bit unconventional. It’s sort of a live theater type of role.”
“Can’t wait to hear about it,” he said. He had a lovely voice—silky and melodic, the kind of voice that could sell you anything.
“It’s also a part that’s . . . how shall we say . . . off the books? Sort of a secret deal.”
“Secrets make everything better,” he said, with a playful wink. He waited for me to go on, but I was having an uncharacteristically hard time getting to the point of the meeting.
“Reeve, you know I’ve always found you incredibly attractive.”
“Oh, yeah?” He took the compliment but seemed unsure where to put it.
I wasn’t one to dance around when it came to offers, so I bit the bullet. “That’s why I want you to pretend to be my boyfriend for a week.”
He laughed, sounding shocked. “Why?”
“I have an opportunity to land a job I want badly, and it seems the producers were under the mistaken impression that I recently got engaged. Because, you know, Sutton Kenmore . . .” I said and made a rolling gesture, letting him fill in the rest. Reeve surely knew the other Sutton, or knew of her. She was one of the few theater actors with enough star wattage to open a Broadway show on her own.
He nodded. “Ah, Sutton Kenmore. She was in that Oklahoma revival last year, and she recently got hitched to her manager, I heard.”
“Right. Exactly. Well, engaged, actually, and that’s the thing—the Pinkertons made a point of emphasizing their family atmosphere. Janelle Pinkerton was rather pointed about it—how they’re so looking forward to meeting my fiancé. So, well, I decided I should just go along with it.”
Reeve smiled and shook his head in an admiring sort of way. “Clever.”
“Only if I can pull it off. And that’s why I called you. I want you to take on the role of my fiancé for a week.”
He blinked, furrowed his brow. “So, that’s the acting job you called me in for?”
“I’ll pay you of course.” I feared he might be disappointed that it wasn’t an on-camera acting job, but the check would cash just the same.
&
nbsp; He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, like he was taking his time, absorbing all this intel. “What’s the job you’re trying to get?”
“It’s for the film Escorted Lives,” I said. Then I watched and waited as Reeve’s delicious brown eyes lit up. His lips curved into a grin like he was anticipating a large haul of birthday presents this year.
No surprise. Every actor wanted in on this movie. Of course Reeve would too. I hadn’t considered that it might sound as if I were suggesting some quid pro quo, and I hastened to clarify what I meant by payment.
“I’m prepared to offer you five thousand dollars,” I said. “And of course, this is just for appearing in public as a couple. Not for any . . . funny business.”
But he was already shaking his head. “I don’t want money.”
The way he captured my gaze didn’t say: “I’m out.” It said: “I want something else,” and I held my breath waiting for his counteroffer.
5
The Pretending Plot (Caught Up In Love: The Swoony New Reboot of the Contemporary Romance Series Book 1) Page 3
