Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 114337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114337 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 572(@200wpm)___ 457(@250wpm)___ 381(@300wpm)
The first one through the doorway had to be Scott. He was in his mid-thirties, with dark blond hair that was long on the top and short on the sides. He threw a friendly smile my way, and then a look to his wife that seemed to say, I approve. My mouth was bone dry as he moved aside, and my scene partner stepped into the room.
I sucked in a sharp breath, and everything went utterly still.
No, a panicked voice screamed inside my head. Not him.
He jolted to a stop when our gazes locked, and something dark flared in his eyes. It was as if shock, outrage, and heat all rolled into one and created a brand-new, unnamed emotion.
As I stared at the irritatingly hot frat boy, it took every ounce of strength in me not to explode.
What the fuck was Colin doing here?
FIVE
Colin
If it was embarrassing to get starstruck, did that mean it was extra embarrassing to be starstruck over meeting Scott Westwood? The guy was a fucking legend—like, literally. He’d been in the business a long time and must have performed with over two hundred people.
“Married,” I repeated in disbelief.
“Yeah, man,” he said. “Two years now.”
My gaze went to his hand on the steering wheel of his BMW M3 to confirm, and sure enough. There was a black wedding ring.
“She doesn’t get jealous?” I asked. “Like, she knows what you do, right?”
He laughed. “I met Nina at a casting call nine years ago, so yeah. She knows what I do.” The turn signal clicked quietly as we waited to turn left, and he lobbed a smile in my direction. “You never know with these auditions. Same thing could happen to you tonight.”
Because he’d told me over drinks that the girl I’d be auditioning with was just as fresh as I was.
“I better not meet my future wife at a casting call,” I said.
The smile evaporated from his face and his tone turned dark. “Yeah? Because it’s okay for you to shoot porn but not her?”
“No, no, it’s not that at all.” I rubbed my fingertips against my forehead. “I meant the wife part. I’ll sound like a dick, but I’m not really into the long-term stuff.”
Or commitment in general, but I kept the comment to myself.
He said it in a patronizing way, like he didn’t believe a word of it. “Oh. I gotcha.”
The car made the turn and prowled down the street, and as our conversation lapsed, I started to feel the pressure again.
Earlier, I’d walked into my meeting with him full of confidence. I was good-looking, with a good-looking dick to match, and I’d had sex in public places a few times before, so I felt comfortable I’d be able perform when the camera started rolling.
Shit, I’d never been shy.
But as Scott and I talked, the gravity of the situation hit me like a sledgehammer. If tonight didn’t go well, I’d have no choice but to tell my parents I’d been kicked out, which meant I’d have to beg them to let me come home.
And it was likely they wouldn’t.
They already knew about the mud fight, thanks to the media, but thankfully they didn’t know the whole story. Just my participation in the fight was enough to earn me a threatening phone call from my father.
Fuck, I could not blow this audition.
When Scott turned right at the familiar brick sign, I sat up straighter in my seat. “You live in this neighborhood?”
“Yeah.” Suspicion crept into his voice. “Why?”
“I have a friend who lives here, too.” Was that true? “Not all the time,” I revised. “Just when he’s home for the summer from Vanderbilt.” I pointed to the road as we passed by it. “His dad’s house is down that street.”
“Small world.”
It both was and wasn’t. This was the wealthiest neighborhood in our Nashville suburb, so it wasn’t that surprising. But it kind of blew my mind that Preston lived so close to Scott Westwood’s home, and we had no idea. Although in our defense, my friend wasn’t home much during the school year, and we hung out at his place even less these days. Plus, Scott’s real last name was Woodson.
I wanted to keep the conversation going so Scott would think I was easy to hang with. “So, you met your wife at a casting call. How’d that go? You did the scene and then asked for her number?”
He turned, driving the car up the steep driveway that led toward an enormous house up ahead. “Not exactly. I wanted to ask her out after we finished filming, but I also didn’t want to come off as a creep, and I was so busy thinking how I was going to do it, I almost missed my opportunity.”
Once we were parked in the garage beside a Porsche Cayenne, I followed his lead and got out of the car, all while he continued his story.