Wardrobe Malfunction
Page 5“Millie Reed?”
“I know you don’t like her—”
“She screwed Michael.”
“After you dumped him.”
“I know, but that’s not the point. She was supposed to be a friend. You know, girl code and all that.”
“You two were never friends; you just worked together.” She laughs. “I remember what you said the first day after you worked with her. You said she was useless.”
“She is useless. She’s a crap seamstress. She sewed all the buttons on a shirt the wrong way—rookie mistake.”
“Well, she was available—”
“She always is.”
“And you weren’t,” Ava continues seamlessly. “I would have asked you first; you know that. But, with the timing, I knew you wouldn’t be able to do it, so I asked Millie, and…”
“What happened?”
“I’m not sure. I just got a call this morning from Vaughn’s manager, telling me to fire her. Apparently, she was incompetent.”
“She probably tried to screw him, too,” I mutter. “Hang on, Vaughn? As in—”
“Oh my God,” I breathe.
Vaughn West.
Vaughn. West.
I can’t say I’m not excited at hearing that name. I’ve worked with a lot of celebrities, but Vaughn West is a whole different caliber of celebrity. Aside from being off-the-charts hot—dark blond hair, hazel-brown eyes, and a body made for sex…let’s just say that Vaughn has starred in a lot of my late-night fantasies. I might have a teeny-tiny crush on him.
But not only is he gorgeous, he’s also a great actor. To be able to see him in action would be amazing.
“What’s he like?” I have to ask.
“Gorgeous, of course. I’ve only met him twice, and each time was brief, but he seems like a nice guy.”
I knew he’d be nice! He always comes across as nice in his interviews.
Not that I stalk him or anything.
“Where’s the job?” I ask her.
“LA, for studio. Vegas, for location.”
“How long?”
“Wow,” I say.
Brandon Evans is Hollywood’s current golden boy. Every film he touches is gold. He and Vaughn together will be magic.
“It’s a gangster film. Lots of designer dresses, shoes, bags. And I’m sure we’ll be able to keep some items at the end.”
My ears perk up at that. Girl knows how to get me; I’ll give her that.
I love designer clothes. Only my bank account doesn’t love them as much as I do.
Not that she didn’t already have me at Vaughn West, but I’m not going to let her know just how easily I’m won over. Especially not when I’m coming in at second.
“Okay…I’ll do it.”
“Yay!” I hear her hands clap in the background. “You’re the best, Charly! I’ll get the office to book your ticket for tomorrow, and I’ll have them email it to you tonight along with the details of your hotel.”
“Maybe I should just sleep at the airport tonight.”
I’m half-joking. Still, she laughs.
“It’s going to be so much fun, working together again. I can’t wait! We’re gonna have a blast. Get yourself home, and get some sleep, crazy girl. I’ll see you tomorrow!” she sings.
“See you,” I say with way less enthusiasm at the thought of having to fly all the way across the country tomorrow when I’ve only just gotten back home.
I can treat myself to those Manolos I’ve been drooling over…and, of course, Vaughn West. Gorgeous, sexy Vaughn West.
Le sigh.
I drop my phone in my bag and head out to grab a cab. On the way, I call the agency that gets me jobs, and I let them know that I can’t do the Broadway gig anymore.
Thirty minutes later, I’m walking up the steps of the brownstone that I call home.
Nick and I live in a small two-bedroom apartment on 95th Street on the Upper West Side. Well, calling it small is probably over-egging it a bit. It’s tiny. I could lie down on the floor of our living room/kitchen, and my head and feet would nearly touch the opposite walls. At five-eight, I’m not exactly short, but still, it’s not big for an apartment. But the rent is good for a two-bed. And it’s ours, and I love it even if I don’t get to see it often at the moment.
I unlock the main door, letting myself into our building, and I take the first flight up to our apartment.
“Honey, I’m home,” I call out. Shutting the door behind me, I drop my bags near it.
Nick appears out of his bedroom, a smile on his face. “Hey, gorgeous.”
He’s a sight for sore eyes. It’s been well over a month since I last saw him. He saunters over, all six foot of him, and slaps a kiss on my cheek.
“Your hair looks cool,” he says.
“You think?” I finger a strand of my hair. I had lilac and pink highlights put in a week ago. It’s the first time I’ve ever dyed my hair. I just really fancied a change, and cutting my waist-length honey-blonde hair was not an option. I have great hair. Thick with a natural wave.
“Yeah, it looks good on you. You hungry?” he asks, heading to the kitchen. “I was just about to make some soup.”