How To Wed A Billionaire (How To... Book 3) Read online

  How To Wed A Billionaire

  Layla Valentine

  Copyright 2020 by Layla Valentine

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author.

  All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Also by Layla Valentine

  Chapter 1

  The cameras click from nearly every direction, their corresponding flashes blinding. Men dressed in jeans and baseball caps push forward on the sidewalk, each of them using their viewfinders to guide their path.

  One paparazzo steps in front of another one, and the blocked guy in the red baseball cap stands up straighter.

  “Hey, man!” he yells. “Get the hell out of the way!”

  The offending paparazzo acts like he doesn’t hear. He clicks away, never even throwing a glance over his shoulder.

  Pedestrians gather along the sidewalk, eager to see what celebrity is stepping into Enchanté, the fancy little cafe that serves a plethora of famous people.

  Tucking my dark hair behind an ear, I lower my face and walk for the restaurant’s front door.

  “Hey!” a member of the paparazzi yells at me.

  My feet still. “Hm?”

  He lifts his camera, ready to take a picture, and looks at me expectantly.

  My lips part; my heart flutters.

  “Can you get out of the way, please?” he asks. “You’re blocking Crystal.”

  My stomach sinks. I don’t know why. Did I really think the man wanted to get a picture of me, a nobody?

  I don’t bother responding. The door to Enchanté is already opening as a couple is coming out.

  As I head inside, I hear Crystal Shea, the singer that has captivated everyone's attention, say, “Have a good night,” to the paparazzi.

  The mirror in the restaurant’s foyer shows her getting into her red sports car—illegally parked, of course—and speeding off into the night. The crowd disbands immediately, photographers and curious onlookers going in all directions.

  “Wow,” a female voice says.

  It’s the hostess, who can’t even be anywhere near my twenty-five years. Her eyes are big and doe-like, and she clutches a stack of menus.

  “Did you see that?” No one else is in the foyer, so she must be talking to me, even though her glassy gaze is still fixed on the window.

  “Yeah,” I answer.

  “Crystal Shea.” The girl sighs. “I wanna be just like her. Except more, you know?”

  My mouth is dry. “Yeah,” I rasp.

  “Like, I wanna be a singer, but also an actress. Oh, and I wanna have my own design label and makeup company. I just think you have such a better chance at success if you do it all. Table for one?”

  I blink, feeling like I’m in shock. “Yeah.”

  Looks like I’m going for the world record for how many times in a row someone can use the same word.

  “No,” I correct myself. “My friend is here already. Curly black hair. Glasses. Five-oneish.”

  “Oh, yes. Right this way.” She walks into the main dining room, talking over her shoulder as we go. “Everyone says it’s, like, super hard to make it in LA, but I’ve already been here for three months and I don’t believe that. I had a callback for a Lil’ Groove music video. He’s number three in the charts this week. Like, sure, maybe for people with no talent or looks it’s hard to make it. Ya know?”

  I start to say “yeah” again, but bite my tongue and nod instead. How did this unsolicited, one-way conversation start anyway?

  Oh, right. Crystal Shea.

  I hold back a long sigh. Thank God the sun has set and there’s nothing more I can do for the day. I won’t have to feel too guilty about the cocktail or two I’m about to chug.

  Molly is at a table for two along the wall, a pink concoction in a martini glass already in front of her.

  “There she is.” The hostess unceremoniously spins on her heel and heads back to her post.

  “You found me,” Molly says with a grin.

  I plop into the chair opposite her. “Hey.”

  She sits up straighter, hands laced and on the table. “So.”

  My eyebrow lifts. “What’s going on? You said you have big news.”

  My roommate’s suggestion that we dine at Enchanté was unexpected. It’s not a super high-end place, but it’s also not the kind of spot an actress/waitress/rideshare app driver—me—and a TV intern living off of a minuscule stipend from her parents while babysitting on sporadic weekends and evenings—Molly—can afford more than biannually.

  “I do.” She gives me a saucy look. “You know how I said Michelle was leaving for that job in New York?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Well, guess who’s replacing her?”

  “Oh, my God,” I say after an appropriately dramatic gasp. “You?”

  “Yep!”

  We both start squealing at the same time. An older woman in pearls at the next table frowns at us, but who cares?

  This is what Molly has been holding her breath and working her butt off for, for years. She started her internship at the TV production company several years ago, while still in college. Since she finished school a year ago, she’s been holding out, looking for employment elsewhere, banking on the possibility that Out Now TV would put her on the payroll.

  Now, it’s finally happened.

  “Can you believe it?” Molly gushes in between sips of her cocktail. “Because I can’t believe it. I mean, it’s crazy. Totally crazy.”

  “What are you talking about? No, it’s not. You’ve more than proven yourself with all the times you’ve stayed late and gone in on Sundays.”

  “Yes.” She draws a deep breath and nods. “That’s true.”

  A waitress shows up. Before she has a chance to even say hello, I point at Molly’s drink.

  “I’ll take one of those,” I say. “And whatever appetizer is the least healthy.”

  “Wow.” Molly’s eyes widen behind her glasses.

  “I assume the least healthy option will be the tastiest.”

  “I admire your decision to commit to celebrating with me,” she says.

  “Absolutely. A job like this doesn’t come along every day.”

  Ain’t that the truth.

  A lump forms in my throat. Avoiding her eyes, I unfold my cloth napkin onto my lap. Since that simple action doesn’t take nearly long enough, I refold it, then unfold it again.

  “Isn’t it funny?” Molly asks. “Both of our careers, taking off at the same time. Looks like I’m catching up with you.”

  I make a noise of agreement. The lump thickens.

  The waitress returns with my cocktail, and I take a sip
. Grapefruit.

  I hate grapefruit.

  It’s the straw to break the camel’s back, more than I can handle. Tears fill my eyes. My hands shake.

  “Rachel?” Molly’s voice is cautious.

  “Uh-huh?” I move my attention to the silverware and fiddle with the fork.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I say way, way too quickly.

  Molly’s eyes narrow. “No, something’s happened. I can tell. You’re doing that thing where you won’t look straight at me.”

  “Okay,” I sigh. “I didn’t want to tell you since you’re so happy about the new job.”

  “Bull. Forget about that.” She reaches across the table and touches my arm. “Is everything—is your family okay?”

  “What? Yeah. Totally. I talked to my sister yesterday.”

  Yesterday. God. It seems like eons ago. Everything was different, then.

  “What’s up, then? You’re scaring me.”

  “The post-production funding for Record Time has been pulled.”

  Heavy silence meets my words. Around us, people chat and laugh, but Molly and I are in our own little bubble where time stands still and sound is nothing but a rumor.

  Finally, she asks, “Why?”

  I turn my palms upward. “Something about another racing movie coming out next year. One that has bigger-name actors in it. The investors think they can’t compete.”

  “That could change, you know. There are other investors.”

  There’s no faith in her words. Yeah, there are other movie investors. They’re also hard to hook on independent film projects by first-time directors.

  Record Time is the indie feature film that I started shooting six months ago. It’s a cute and heartwarming script, and after four years in LA with nothing but a few commercials and some live promotional events under my belt, I was thrilled to have it.

  Granted, the supporting role wasn’t a dream part. I played the girlfriend who showed up to cheer the hero on.

  But it was something. A real acting role.

  My first of the kind outside of school plays in small-town Texas.

  And now, it’s gone forever.

  Those things the hostess said about LA not being that hard to make it in? Yeah. Let’s hear what she has to say in a few years after this town has chewed her up and spit her out fifty times.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “Let’s change the subject. I don’t want to bring the mood down.”

  “Stop it. It’s okay. We can talk about this. It’s not the end of the world.”

  “It might never be released,” I whisper painfully, my voice—and my heart—cracking.

  Filming wrapped up only a few days ago. I left that set feeling on top of the world, along with Dave, the director, and all the other people who put their souls, sweat, and tears into the project.

  Months of work and dedication…and now it could all mean nothing.

  I’m back to square one, to being another unemployed actress in a city with thousands of others who have my look, and where there’s always someone a step ahead of me. I want to stamp my foot and pout, to say it’s not fair.

  I know that it’s ridiculous to believe that something should belong to me merely because I want it to, but if that’s not the case, then why is this burning desire inside of me? How come, no matter what I do, it never goes away? Is it really possible that every person who tries acting feels this way? Is my longing a sign that one day everything will work out?

  Or am I crazy?

  Scraping by working random jobs and essentially going to job interviews every week just so I can have the chance to say a few lines in a TV movie or smile and eat chips in a commercial isn’t my idea of the dream life.

  Acting chose me. That sounds cheesy, but it’s true.

  “Why do I even bother?” I mutter.

  “Because you love it,” Molly says.

  Despite my dislike of grapefruit, I take a long drink of my cocktail. No sense in wasting good alcohol. Plus, the drink probably costs twenty dollars. That’s money I can’t waste.

  “It’s one film,” Molly says.

  “The only film,” I point out. “The only one that’s cast me in four years. And now it will probably never be released.”

  “There are other opportunities.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like this,” she says, taking me by surprise. “Out Now is partnering with a new production company to make a reality show. I’m sure I could get you an audition.”

  My face crumples. “Reality?”

  Molly knows I would never do reality TV. Not only would I never watch it, either, but it doesn’t seem like a professional move to me. I want to be taken seriously as an actor.

  “I know, I know,” she says. “Listen first, though. It could really provide you with some exposure. Out Now has had huge success with reality TV. Being in the show would put you in front of a huge audience and increase your profile to no end. And it’s not like you would have to make a career in reality TV. Do the show, and be done with it. Then on to bigger and better.”

  The weight of the day pushes on my shoulders. Sitting up straight becomes difficult.

  I’m so far from the life I’ve dreamed of for myself that I can’t even fathom how to get back on my chosen path.

  The appetizer arrives, which turns out to be a fancy loaded fries dish.

  I jab a potato with my fork. “You’ve never suggested reality before.”

  “That’s because I think this show will be different.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s a short-term commitment,” Molly says. “Only two weeks.”

  “O-kay,” I say around a mouthful of food. “Why is it so short?”

  “Because it’s kind of, well…let me just give you the premise.”

  Shrugging, I go for another fry.

  “There’s a new dating app,” Molly says, “that matches people based solely on their answers to questions.”

  “Isn’t that every dating app?” I point out.

  “This is different. The app uses state-of-the-art technology to match participants. The creators are so confident it works that they’re betting any couple they match up will either get married or enter some kind of long-term relationship.”

  Chewed potato almost spews from my mouth. “That’s ballsy.”

  “Yeah. It should make for good TV, though.”

  “How?”

  Molly hesitates. “Okay, here it is. For the show, they’re going to match up couples who then get married.”

  “Oh my God,” I groan. “And you want me to be a part of that?”

  Has she lost her mind?

  “No offense, Molly, but come on. Why would you think—”

  “Hold on,” she interrupts. “You would only have to be married for two weeks.”

  My mouth clamps shut.

  “They film the wedding,” she says, “and then the couples move into houses where they have filmed dates for the next two weeks. At the end of the two weeks, they get the choice to stay married or get a divorce.”

  “And there’s a shit ton of money involved, right? That’s why you’re suggesting I do this?”

  Honestly, money is something I could really use right now. I was already planning on reinstalling my ride-share app tonight and getting back to driving tomorrow.

  But to marry a complete stranger for some dough? Even for two weeks?

  The thought makes my stomach twist and my cheeks burn.

  “It’s not a lot,” Molly says. “You’d be compensated for your time. Enough that you wouldn’t have to work during the shooting weeks.”

  Great. My best friend really believes I’ve hit rock bottom. It’s my worst fear confirmed. The thought makes me swallow the rest of my cocktail. That grapefruit might taste like pee, but the warmth from the alcohol tastes of sedation.

  “Who else is doing this?” I ask.

  “I dunno. That part is pretty secretive. I don’t know if anyone in my off
ice even knows. I get the impression this is their way of testing out the app’s validity, and they don’t want to get any buzz going before they’re certain it works.”

  “You said they’re positive it works,” I remind her. “And that confidence makes them want to do the marriage thing.”

  “Yeah, but you know.”

  “Hm.” I nod and look down. It’s all for show. Fake it till you make it. The Hollywood way.

  “I’ll let it go,” she says. “I can tell you don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  The tone of her voice makes me wince. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. I do appreciate you thinking of me for this.”

  Molly smiles. “What you’re going through is normal, okay? This business is up and down.”

  “I know,” I murmur, but knowing doesn’t ease the pain much.

  The conversation moves on to other topics—what her new work hours might be like, what areas of town I’ll rideshare drive in and which ones I’ll avoid. We order a nice dinner and another round of drinks, and I try not to think about how I should really be saving my money and not blowing it on nights out. I just received my last paycheck for the film, and it’s not much. My rent will be covered for next month, but that’s about it.

  “I got this,” Molly says when the check comes.

  “No.” I make my grab for the little black wallet.

  “Girl, I have a new job. Let me take my significant other out.”

  That makes me laugh. We’ve been jokingly referring to each other as our “significant other” for months now, and it feels truer all the time.

  Especially considering we understand each other’s lifestyles more than most people ever could. There’s a certain amount of sacrifice that comes along with pursuing a career in entertainment. Not everyone is willing to go along with it.

  Dinner done with and paid for by Molly, we step out into the dry night. The warm air sinks into my skin.