Chapter 4

Joaquin Cortez’s insufferableness hadn’t diminished overnight. Not that Eliza had really expected it to. But it would have been a nice bonus to compensate for having been bamboozled into this gig catering to spoiled movie stars.

Working on a movie set had to be the height of ridiculousness. People literally stood around doing nothing for an hour while the camera people set up everything and then they stood around some more while the director argued with the lighting people. Meanwhile, Eliza’s job seemed to largely entail following Joaquin Cortez around with a can of hairspray—pump action bottles didn’t spray fast enough, as she’d been informed and not very nicely. No one seemed to care about what she preferred.

And she’d had to be on set at four a.m. Lunacy.

But the money…that painted everything in a whole different light. The number of zeros in the contract Ramona had plunked down in front of her had nearly caused Eliza to have a heart attack. It was more than she made in a year at the salon.

So she might give Joaquin some grief for fun and then bite her tongue because she could finally take a trip to Paris with that money. The potential of walking hand in hand with Quinoa along the Seine went a long way toward bolstering her tolerance level for Mr. Movie Star.

Joaquin was lounging against the exterior bricks that framed the courtyard where they were filming, managing to look both bored and polished, a feat that she had the distinct impression he’d practiced many times. Not that she’d ever admit it out loud, but he did have a pretty face with arresting features that drew the eye, and all of that perfection was framed by dark wavy hair that really didn’t need a whole lot of help to look flawless. But she’d take the credit anyway.

He caught her watching him and tipped his chin. “Having fun yet?”

“Sure.” She shrugged nonchalantly in hopes of detracting from the fact that she’d just fallen into the same category as every other woman in his orbit—because surely being gawked at was a standard occurrence. “Getting paid to stand around has always been high on my list of aspirations.”

His quick grin added warmth to his expression that she couldn’t look away from all at once. What was it about him that was so compelling? And why did it work on her, when she was trying so hard not to react to his gloss?

“What else is on your list of aspirations? Maybe I can grant a few of them while we wait.” He spread his hands magnanimously like she’d been waiting her whole life for him to offer up his services.

“What are you, like a genie in a bottle or something?”

He laughed, a waterfall of sound that had so much texture it was nearly visible. “That’s one I’ve never been called before. Maybe I am. If I said your wish is my command, what would you wish for?”

His brown eyes sucked her in as she contemplated the idea of blurting out the only thing she wanted—to meet Quinoa in the flesh and instantly know that he was the one. That everything he’d said to her online was true and she could let her heart tumble into his hands because they were meant to be.

But that wasn’t something anyone could give her, least of all Joaquin Cortez, who had almost assuredly expected her to respond with a request that he could throw money at. Because he had an obscene amount and in his world, it was a sure bet that dollar bills greased a lot of wheels, so why not throw them around indiscriminately?

“A Maserati,” she blurted out.

“Boring.” He snorted and waved that off. “Besides, you’re not a Maserati girl. Maybe a Porsche, but even that is a stretch.”

Her hands found her hips of their own volition as her eyebrows snapped together. “What’s that supposed to mean? I’m not good enough for a fancy sports car?”

“It means you don’t even know what you’re talking about. You rattled off the first exotic car name you could think of when you don’t even want one.”

The fact that he was right raked down her spine and bristled every last nerve ending in her skin. Painfully. “What kind of car would be acceptable for me to wish for, your majesty?”

His gaze traveled from her face down to her toes in a way that definitely should not have curled them. But her toes didn’t get the message. She wiggled them, but that just highlighted the fact that Joaquin had some sort of devilish ability to make her tingle with nothing more than a glance.

That was not okay.

“You obviously belong in a minivan,” he announced.

Any tingling vanished. Thank goodness. “That is the most sexist thing I’ve ever heard. Because I’m a woman, I can’t drive a stick shift? Is that what you’re implying? Or is this simply you showing your ignorance in your assumption that all women want babies?”

She did want babies and would most likely end up owning a minivan at some point way in the future. But still. It was an egregiously chauvinistic thing to say.

He just lifted a shoulder in a non-apology. “It means you have that domestic look about you, like you’d be most happy in a vehicle that doesn’t cost twelve thousand dollars for the brakes to be replaced.”

“What do you know about how much it costs for brakes to be replaced? Don’t you have people who have people who do that kind of thing for you?”

“Sure.”

But he glanced away, and she had the impression she’d said something offensive, like maybe he didn’t like being reminded of his wealth. Which was just dumb. The internet was full of stories about how he’d grown up in the lap of luxury. Yeah, she’d googled him, just so she could be well informed about her adversary. Quinoa’s offer to beat up her new boss had sparked her to at least get a handle on Joaquin Cortez, so she could handle her own conflicts.

It was funny how she thought of him by his full name most often. Joaquin Cortez. Joaquin by itself was too…not enough or something. He was larger than life. The only person she’d ever met whose name was more like a logo that belonged front and center on the outside of the box with the sole intent of describing the contents.

The production assistant, a pretty twenty-something named Julie, darted over. “They’re almost ready for you Mr. Cortez.”

He nodded and cast his attention back to Eliza. “Time to hit my mark. Do your thing.”

“Which thing is that?” she said, half expecting him to inform her she should bow at his feet.

“Hair. Mine.” He pointed at his perfectly coiffed head that she’d already touched uptwiceat his insistence. “Can’t have me looking like I have a bird’s nest on film. That is your purpose here, right?”

She bit back a scathing rejoinder that would serve to put him firmly back in his place—at least it did in her head—and dutifully squirted hairspray in his direction, because it was her job whether she liked him reminding her of it or not. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic.” The warmth had returned to his brown eyes as he surveyed her. “Would it kill you to be a little more pleasant?”

“It would.” She bared her teeth in a semblance of a smile. “And then where would you be? A dead stylist can’t fix your bird’s nest.”

There came his laugh again, and dang did that sound do things to her insides she had definitely not granted permission to occur. Probably every woman in America reacted the same way.

Julie shooed them both toward the makeshift set near the south end of the courtyard, which happened to be right in front of the entrance to Relâcher.

Eliza missed her salon.

She should be inside cutting the hair of someone who appreciated her signature blend of artistry and skill with scissors. Why had she even agreed to plunk herself down in the middle of this madness?

Eliza stood at the outer edge of a ring of cameras pointed at Joaquin Cortez as he stood where the director instructed him to. Huh. It was a little bit of a smug thrill to watch him have to take orders from someone. But after a few minutes of back-and-forth discussion, Joaquin took a different spot that he’d successfully argued would work better.

Finally, the director called out some curt phrases to the assembly at large, and they started filming. The second the camera light lit up, Joaquin transformed into someone else. A guy named Mark, apparently.

Mark. Please. He was no more of a Mark than Eliza was a Mary. But he sold it. She couldn’t tear her gaze away from him as he repeated what must be memorized lines, but they poured out of his mouth as if he’d pieced them together from his deep-seated thoughts and dreams.

Before her stood a clean-cut, all-American guy who was telling his friend how he’d screwed up with the woman he’d been seeing so much that she wouldn’t talk to him. Mark’s utter devastation at having lost the woman he loved put a hitch in Eliza’s throat. What kind of sorcery was this? There was no Mark. There was no woman. Just an actor who apparently had some kind of savant ability to get under her skin.

The scene wound to a close before she’d fully reconciled how affected she’d been by Joaquin’s performance. No wonder people went to see his movies. He was brilliant. Not that she’d ever tell his highness that. Based on their interaction thus far, he didn’t need any help in the ego department.

“Okay everyone, take five while we do a costume change,” the director called and then jerked his head at Julie. “Where’s Alita? Her scene is next. She should already be here.”

“I called her,” Julie said, her eyes frantically scanning the clipboard in her hands. “Before we started this scene. Give me a sec.”

Julie darted away, which seemed to be her default speed. Since Joaquin had vanished, Eliza took a moment to send Lilith a text message telling her that she was a saint for doing an entire season of a reality show. This whole deal was not appealing in the least.

Lilith’s return text came immediately which meant she was between clients, a rarity.

Lilith: I was falling in love with Dane the whole time, which makes a difference.

Yeah, and the reminder wasn’t all that welcome. Eliza made a face at her phone. And then guilt poked her in the stomach. It wasn’t Lilith’s fault she’d found her soul mate and Eliza had to make do with her virtual romance.

Really, Quinoa was perfect. Except for the fact that she couldn’t touch him or find out what it felt like to kiss him. Or go on a date, breathless with anticipation as she changed clothes fourteen times before finally deciding on the perfect outfit. Whisper to him in the dark as they watched the stars wheel across the sky together.

None of that had ever happened in real life with a flesh and blood man, so probably that kind of romance wasn’t in the cards for her anyway, and being jealous of Lilith was petty and ridiculous.

Julie returned from the trailer that had been set up in the parking garage to accommodate the actors, her expression troubled. “We have a problem.”

The director shook his head. “No problems. Only solutions.”

Julie’s lips flattened. “I don’t have a magic wand for this one. Alita has food poisoning. She’s doubled over in her trailer. Unless you have her twin tucked away somewhere, we’re not shooting the wedding scene today.”

Curiosity got the better of Eliza and she drifted closer. The director glanced over at her, his gaze narrowing. “Her. She looks like Alita. Stick her in a dress.”

“What?” Eliza squawked and glanced over her shoulder since there was no way he’d meant her. Right?

Then Julie iced the crazy cake by nodding. “The important thing is that her height is the same. We could cover her face with a veil, and no one would know the difference. If we angle the cameras right, she’ll pass.”

Shaking her head furiously, Eliza threw up a palm like a traffic cop. “What are y’all talking about? I’m not an actress. I can’t fill in for Alita.”

“You can.” The director circled his finger at Julie. “Find Ramona. Get our sub under contract and make this happen. Time is money.”

“I’m already under contract,” Eliza protested hotly before Julie could dart off again in pursuit of this mad request. “As a stylist. There was nothing in the job description about filling in for a sick actress.”

“Honey, Hollywood is all about improvisation,” the director advised her. “And if you’re already under contract, great. Get her to costume.”

Somehow Ramona figured out Eliza was a flight risk and materialized to explain patiently that her contract required her to perform additional duties as determined by the director. Fine print. It was a killer. Then Julie jumped into the mix explaining that it would be fun, and she wouldn’t even have to say any lines because her face would be covered by a veil. They just needed to block out the scene, whatever that meant, and before Eliza could blink, the ladies had hustled her to the trailer where the actors got into costume.

Also known as the place where Joaquin had vanished to, obviously so he could do his own costume change. If you could call it that. The tuxedo he’d donned fit him as if he’d been born in it and it wasn’t just the cut of the material that worked. It was the whole package—Joaquin Cortez in a tux was an experience akin to seeing the sun rise over the mountain or Versailles for the first time. Nearly spiritual.

Not that Eliza was planning to worship at the altar of Joaquin anytime soon. The point was that it was less of a costume and more of a transformation. He was standing next to the trailer with a bound set of pages in his hand that must be a script, his dark eyes tracking across the page as he absorbed whatever was printed there, not even doing anything particularly memorable or interesting.

She closed her mouth and did some mental housekeeping designed to keep her insides from feeling like a nuclear bomb had gone off every time she so much as glanced in His Highness’s direction. It was totally unfair that her brain automatically cataloged a person’s attributes—strictly due to her esthetic training in cosmetology school—and thus had a hyper awareness that Joaquin might well be the most perfectly crafted man on the planet. He practically dripped masculinity and his mouth might as well have been chiseled from the finest materials using precision tools to create flawless lips designed solely to be used for kissing.

Why had she thought about that?

Hot all at once, she fanned her face with a hand, ducking as Ramona and Julie broke off their conversation with the costume assistant to glance in her direction.

“Bee,” she exclaimed brightly. “Or maybe a wasp. It’s gone now.”

Her voice attracted Joaquin’s attention. He dropped the bound pages onto a lawn chair near the trailer and strolled over to jump right in the middle of this lane-switch. “What’s she doing here?”

“Putting on a wedding dress,” Julie advised him blithely. “Alita is out.”

And that was when Eliza realized Joaquin had on a tux because of course he was playing the part of the groom.