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Wardrobe Malfunction(9)

By´╝ÜSamantha Towle



“Ooh, I love her.” I clap my hands.

“Yeah, she’s super nice as well. I met her last week. She and Vaughn are gonna steam the screens up.”

“And I will be watching that scene with the utmost concentration.”

I grin, and Ava giggles, her brows rising in agreement.

“Right?”

“Those two would make beautiful babies,” I muse.

“Agreed. But Natasha’s married, and she already has a baby, remember?”

“Oh, yeah. She’s married to that hot NFL player…”

“Carter Williams.”

“Lucky bitch.”

We both sigh at the same time.

“So, what about you? You seeing anyone?”

“Nah.” I shake my head. “I’ve been busy a lot as of late, and after the disaster that was Michael, I decided to give dating a break.”

“Wasn’t that about two years ago? And I guess you are super picky.”

“I am not picky!” I squawk, affronted. “I work in the clothing industry. Most of the men I work with are gay.”

“I work in this industry, too, and I managed to meet someone.”

“An actor. I don’t want to date an actor.”

“Says Miss Not Picky. And what’s wrong with actors?” She flicks me a look.

Oops.

“Nothing. I just want to date a blue-collar guy.”

Honestly, I think it would be hard to date an actor, having to watch them get it on with other women on the big screen. Also, there’s a high probability that said actor would screw his costar and dump me. Plus, actors are high-maintenance. I might drool over hot actors—aka Vaughn West, Chris and Liam Hemsworth…God, two brothers. Anyway, I wouldn’t say no to a roll in the sack with any of them—and, yes, I know dreams don’t come true. But, in reality and for the long-term, I want a nice, normal blue-collar guy who works with his hands all day long and then comes home and ravages me with those rough, callous, hard-working hands.

“Wasn’t Michael a drug dealer?” Ava pipes up.

“Yes, he was a drug dealer, but I didn’t know that when I met him.” I frown. “He told me he worked construction. I dumped him as soon as I found out his real profession.”

Of course, dumbass that I am, it took me six months to figure it out. But it’s not like I could have had anything serious with Michael—or with anyone back then. And, still, not now—well, for a short time longer, that is.

“And, well, I can’t be that picky, considering I went out with Michael,” I add.

“Yeah, he was a dick. But a good-looking dick.” She grins.

She’s right. He was gorgeous.

“He had a good-looking dick, too…very big.” I size out with my hands. “That’s the only thing I miss about him.”

We both giggle.

Ava pulls off the highway, heading onto Sunset Boulevard. I watch out the window, taking in the sights.

“So, who else is on the team?” I ask her.

“It’s just me, you, and Logan.”

“Logan?”

“Logan Cheung.”

“I don’t think I know him,” I muse, tapping a finger to my chin.

“He’s an LA native. Wants to be an actor.”

“Who doesn’t in this town?” I quip.

“He’s lovely though. Told me he started working in wardrobe to try and get a foot in the industry. He’s real good, and he has a real natural flair for style. And, God, can the man sew.”

“And, without stereotyping, I’m guessing he’s gay?”

“Of course.” She smirks.

She pulls up in front of the hotel. I stare up at it. It looks okay. And I stayed in worse places back when I lived in Philly.

“You want me to come in with you? Then, we can go out and get some dinner,” Ava offers.

“Nah, I’m knackered. I’m just gonna get room service, if they do it, and crash. All this traveling has wiped me out.”

“Cool.”

“Thanks for the ride.” I reach over and give her a one-armed hug.

“I’ll see you in the morning. Show you around the wardrobe. Oh, you’ll need this to get into the studio.” She reaches over into the glove box, pulls out a pass on a lanyard, and hands it to me. “Your pass to get in the studio.”

“What time do you need me there?” I open the door, readying to get out.

“I’m getting in at eight thirty. Vaughn’s coming in for a fitting at ten. I’ve assigned him to you, as he was Millie’s, and I know how much you like him.”

She gives me a knowing smile, and I shake my head, getting out of the car.

I hook my bag on my shoulder and drop the lanyard in it. Leaning down, I say, “I’ll be there at eight thirty then. See you tomorrow.”

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