The Actor's Contract

Date = 26 November (a few days after the beach party, Book 1)

It started with a midnight call from a stranger.

Place = Los Angeles / Berlin

From Russia. With no love.

POV Aria

Life is about the choices we make.

Or so the people say.

They also say that there’s ALWAYS a choice.

(Like choosing ‘Accept’ or ‘Decline’ on the pop-up notification of the incoming Zoom call.)

But they are wrong.

Sometimes life chooses for you.

Those people call it fate. I call it ‘Aria’s unlucky lot’.

I don’t have choices … I have forced picks.

(Like having to accept this unexpected call when I so desperately want to decline it.)

“Don’t freak out,” I whisper to myself, taking one last look in the mirror on the opposite wall.

Crap. I look like shit.

I’m halfway through my usual skincare routine, wearing a T-shirt with a faded cartoon unicorn throwing up rainbows. A towel wrapped around my head like a stressed housewife in a telenovela, face slathered in thick black goo that makes me look like I’ve just crawled out of a volcanic ash pit.

So much for first impressions.

I definitely was not expecting his call. And I’m definitely not dressed to impress.

With a resigned sigh, I click ‘Accept’.

The screen flickers for a second before stabilizing.

I see a sleek hotel room bathed in dim gold light and accented in dark slate gray. Clean, modern lines. Floor-to-ceiling windows glistening with rain. Beyond them, the Berlin skyline blurs behind a cold November mist.

I stare.

Golden skin. Tousled hair. A casual white shirt that is criminally unbuttoned. He looks like a perfume ad that has come to life just to judge me.

Sexy.

He blinks. Then grins. Then he leans back onto the dark wood headrest of an unreasonable large bed, smirking like a boy who’s just discovered a new toy.

“Please tell me I haven’t interrupted a ritual sacrifice,” he says, very calmly.

“It’s skincare,” I snap, clutching the front of my tee, just to remember I’m actually braless. “It clears pores,” I over-explain.

“No judgment,” he says, “It’s sweet that you’re prepping for me. I just wasn’t expecting Batman’s sexier cousin.”

I narrow my eyes, which only makes the mask crinkle. “You’re lucky I signed that NDA.”

“I’m always lucky,” he chuckles. “Jackson is the jinxed one.” He smiles with boyish mischief. But it’s his eyes that make me stare. One is a sharp, icy blue. The other blue, swirling into a warm hazel-brown like melted chocolate in a summer sky. I get lost in them for a moment.

Perfect.

“Hey, Batnip, you’re drooling.”

Shit. “I’m not. You’re not even my type.” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. He sniggers softly — the sound warms my body and gives me goosebumps. Shit.

“I’m everybody’s type.”

I fold my arms. “Are you always this charming?”

“Only after midnight. Or whenever I’m freezing my balls off.” He’s annoyingly cocky.

Obnoxious.

I tilt the screen downward with dramatic botheration, then lean back. “Why did you call?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he sneers, glancing at the window. The rain taps faintly on the glass, soothing in a distant way.

“Berlin’s cold as hell. Gray skies, grayer coffee. I was hoping my girlfriend would warm me up.”

That word ‘girlfriend’ — even in jest — makes something sharp twist in me. It could be my gut. However, that part of my anatomy has never been very trustworthy.

Whatever it is, it tells me getting close to this man is going to be painful. But this is the only choice.

Doesn’t matter who chose it — me, life, or fate.

“Fake … girlfriend.” I exhale and remove the towel from my head, and my wet red curls fall over my shoulders. His eyes twitch. “However, I must warn you … I don’t do fake well. I have a terrible poker face.”

He cocks his head. “Good. Grew up in a family where a lie could get you killed,” he says lightly, though something shadows his expression for just a second. “Long story that includes a well, a whistle, and a stable.” He blinks twice as if I’m supposed to know what he means.

“Really,” I say just to say something.

“Yeah, so, we’re not faking to each other. Just the rest of the world.” I don’t want to dwell too deeply into the meaning of those words.

“And the more people know about a secret, the less secret it becomes and the more likely it is to leak out,” he adds as if he’s forced to recite a terrible poem. I shake my head slightly in agreement.

He’s right … the only way to keep a secret secret is not to tell anyone. So no telling.

The fresh peachy fruit flavor of my shampoo wafts into my nose. I take a deep breath.

And exhale — steadying myself, and pushing some wet curls from my face.

The contract. That is what we should discuss. My mood morphs from playfully annoyed to serious.

“Alright,” I start, moving to the middle of my bed, folding my legs, and pulling my laptop onto my lap. “Let’s talk about this. No flirting. No jokes. Just facts.” I need to focus, and his good looks and little comments are not helping.

He arches a brow. “You’re going to be no fun at all, are you?” He sounds like Leyla when she doesn’t get her way.

I ignore him and pick up the contract I’ve printed out, eyes scanning the text with forced detachment. “So … point one — I pretend to be your girlfriend. Publicly starting mid-March,” I say. We have to wait for Leyla to finish her first batch of chemo.

“And in turn, I will pay for all Leyla’s medical expenses and whatever else you girls may need.” He eyes me, and I’m sure those strange eyes can read minds. I try to hide the guilt mixed with exhaustion I feel. Try not to make it too obvious that I don’t want to accept this deal. But I have to.

“How is she?” he asks softly, and at my surprised frown, he adds, “I know she started her chemo.” My frown increases. See … I knew he was clairvoyant.

“How do I know?” he goes on. “I’ve done some digging … there’s a file.” Now that’s not creepy at all.

I look down, so as not to let him see the pain in my eyes. “She threw up most of the night.”

Enrique doesn’t speak for a second. Then, gently — “I’m sorry” as if it’s his fault.

For some reason, that makes it worse. My jaw tightens. “You don’t need to say that. You just need to hold up your end of the contract.” I don’t need his pity. Don’t want it. It makes Leyla’s condition too real.

He lets the comment slide. “She’s nine, right?”

“And a half.” I smile. She never forgets the half.

“You said she likes lizards,” he states. Actually, she likes all animals. More so, the creepy ones.

I raise a brow. “Is that in the file?”

He chuckles. It’s sexy.

“That, and you mentioned that she’s obsessed with the chameleon in Tangled?”

“Pascal,” I sigh softly. Clairvoyant and observant, with the memory of an elephant. Great. The traits of a good serial killer. “Yeah.”

There is a pause. I force myself back on track.

“Can we make the money a loan? I’ll work and pay you back.” I don’t like taking money from anyone. “I don’t want your charity,” I snap.

His voice remains calm. “It’s not charity. It’s a job. An exchange. You help fix my image — I help save your sister’s life. That’s the deal.”

“Like a salary?” I pause for a beat, contemplating it over in my head.

“Okay, I will accept the medical expenses as my salary,” I agree, “But anything extra will be a loan.” He pouts and shrugs. I take it as an agreement.

The rain is tapping against his window like an impatient drummer. I look back down at the stack of pages in my lap. The paper is warm from my hands, creased at the edges from me gripping it too tightly, as if it might suddenly spring free and bite me. I clear my throat.

“Clause two …” My voice comes out sharper than I intend, the words slicing through the low hum of the storm in the background. I wet my lips, narrowing my eyes at him across the screen. “It says we can’t be SEEN hooking up with other people. I need that changed.”

His brows kick upward, a flicker of mischief tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leans back, stretching out like he owns the entire Berlin, one arm slung lazily across a pillow — like some smug lawyer waiting for me to incriminate myself.

“Changed how?” he asks, tone dangerously mild.

I inhale. The air smells faintly of citrus from the tea I abandoned on the coffee table, sharp enough to sting my tongue when I speak. “Since we’re going to act as a couple … we’re going to act all the way.”

That gets him. His lips twitch into a grin that is equal parts charm and menace. The kind of smile that says this-is-going-to-be-fun-for-me-but-disastrous-for-you.

“You’re not going to cheat and put me in an awkward position,” I continue before he can cut in. My heart is thrumming like it’s auditioning to be the percussion in a marching band, but my tone stays brisk, clipped, businesslike. “I am not going to be the girl who couldn’t keep her man in place. Understand?”

The grin blooms full now, and the storm rattles the window as if applauding him. He tilts his head, eyes narrowing in theatrical consideration.

“So …” he drawls, each syllable heavy with mischief. “No sex with other parties.”

He lets the words hang in the air, watching me squirm.

“Only with each other.”

The audacity.

A noise escapes me — something between a scoff and a dying walrus. Attractive. I glare harder, gripping the papers like they’re the only thing keeping me tethered to sanity.

“No sex, period,” I snap, the slam of my words sharper than my look.

He doesn’t even blink. Just smirks at me like a cat who’s found the cream and knows I won’t take the saucer away. That smile says he doesn’t believe me for a second. Which — fine. Whatever. Liar, liar, self-sabotaging pants on fire.

I barrel on before he can say it out loud. “Moving on. Clause Three …”

“… upon termination of this contract, there shall be a two-month grace period before either party may publicly date again.” Strange … but yeah … it’s not as if I have a line of suitors waiting for me to finish this ‘job’.

“Just so nobody gets suspicious,” he explains. I nod in confirmation.

“Great. Number Four … you may not engage in any sort of inappropriate conduct in public, no arguing, no fighting, no tantrums ― no humiliating behavior of any kind whatsoever.”

My face transforms into this weird expression all by itself.

He smirks. “Do you want to add something?”

“Yes, the same goes for you — you may not humiliate me for any reason … privately or publicly.” I look him straight in the eye, my gaze unwavering.

“Why do you assume I would?” He looks rather nostalgic.

“You come out as a rather callous type,” I say.

A Robot.

Still challenging him with that relentless look. He sulks, as if my words made a dent in his ego. Which it didn’t.

“You don’t have to worry about Clause Five. I always dress presentably.” My voice is firm, cause it’s the truth. “I’m professional.”

He smirks. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I lift my chin. “I don’t show up to work looking like I just escaped a cult … or a strip club,” I add, since the contract states I should dress sexy, but not slutty.

He grins even wider, clearly enjoying himself. I don’t get the joke. “So just to be clear … your version of ‘presentable’ includes a jet-black face mask, wet hair, and a T-shirt with a rainbow vomiting unicorn?”

I blink, then look down.

Crap.

It’s my bedtime T-shirt. The unicorn’s eyes are crossed. The rainbow looks radioactive.

His voice drops, teasing but shameless. “Not that I’m complaining, Cupcake. It’s a very … expressive look. It screams cult with a hint of stripper.” Can he see my nipples? I’m sure he can. The T is white, material thin from old age and repeated wear and tear.

I grab the nearest throw blanket and yank it across my chest. “Are you —?! You absolute —!” I stutter. Then my voice breaks. “I was not expecting a call.”

He holds up both hands in mock surrender, grinning like the devil. “Hey, you said you were presentable. I’m just … observing the facts.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I’m a man, Batnip.” He says, looking smug. “Men tend to notice tits and sexy body parts. It’s in our DNA.”

I glare at him through the screen, cheeks pink. “This is strictly business.”

He rests his chin on his hand. “If this is business, it’s the best meeting I’ve ever had.”

I inhale deeply, chewing my bottom lip to calm myself. The fires in his eyes change to a feeling I’m not eager to dissect. He’s either hungry, angry, or horny. Feeling a little uneasy under his stare, I start playing with the frilly edge of the blanket.

“I’m done with the contract … it’s boring. Is there any clause you have a serious problem with? Any major changes you want done?” he asks.

“Not really. A little here and there.”

“Okay, mail it to me. We can sign it when you move in,” he says casually as if it’s the most natural thing to do … leave my whole life behind to move into a house I’ve never even seen, in a city I’ve never been to — for a lie.

“Hey, it’s not a lie. It’s … an arrangement. Plus, you get to live in a beach house with a hot guy. And free Wi-Fi.” His telepathic abilities scare me a little. I’m pretty sure only vampires, demons, and devils can read minds. And I don’t want to share a house with any of them.

“Why me?” I ask all seriously. “You don’t even know me.”

“I don’t need to. Your file has everything.”

I stare at him.

He shrugs. “Aria Thompson. Born, 25 July. You’re 21. You’re a Leo. Took guardianship of your sister when you finished high school so Noah could study. You’ve been working three jobs while enrolled in night classes at the cosmetology school, which you dropped when Leyla got sick. You have your own makeup and fashion blog. You like pink and you suffer from claustrophobia.”

My throat closes up. He leans forward again, elbows resting on his knees. “You think I picked you because you’re pretty?”

“I think you picked me because no one else would be desperate enough to say yes.” Although I can’t think of any girl who would say no.

He doesn’t argue. Instead, he says, “Actually, fate picked you.” I fucking knew it. “I was desperate. I wanted someone real. Someone with something to lose. And your brother literally fell into my lap at our beach party. If that’s not a sign from the universe, I don’t know what is.”

I meet his gaze. My stomach turns. I’m not sure what Noah, fate, or the universe has to do with this, but I understand we both are desperate.

“What’s your end of the story?” I ask, changing the subject.

“I’ve had seventeen orgies, four-hundred-and-thirty-four girlfriends, ninety-two relationships, six pregnancies, fifty-five harassment calls, seven stalkers, of which three got violent. And that’s only in the last year. Some I’ve met, some not.” Wow. Just fucking wow.

“You’re a player.”

Toyboy.

“I’m a pretty-boy with issues,” he corrects. “But I’m also the face of several multi-billion-dollar brands that want me to stop being a headline for sex and start being a headline for stability. A.k.a. they want me to change my image to hot-as-hell-but-unavailable. Apparently, unavailability sells.”

“Enter me.” I wonder what sex with him would be like. It can’t be worse than my previous experiences. I’m sure that last jock broke my orgasm with his pathetic thumping.

“Exactly, they want me to have a girlfriend,” he says, “I want a sweet, grounded girl. Real. Not Hollywood. Not another slutty famous face.”

“You make me sound like a nun,” I laugh.

“You make me sound like an idiot.”

“You don’t need me for that. You’re an idiot all by yourself.”

He snorts, a short, amused sound that curls at the edges of his lips. I can’t help but smile — just a flicker — before I rein it back. “So what’s our story? How did we meet?”

“Bookstore?” he suggests, too quickly, like he just grabbed the first innocent thing off the shelf.

I let my gaze travel over him, slow and assessing. The perfect hair. The casual sprawl of his body on the bed, as if gravity obeys him. The glint of someone who thrives on being seen, not tucked away in silence, losing himself between the pages of a good book.

“Have you ever been in one? You look like the type who doesn’t even read your own scripts.”

“Ouch.” But I know I’m not wrong. This man doesn’t read.

He props his chin on his knuckles, pretending to be wounded. “Fine. What’s your suggestion?”

I sit straighter, spine clicking into place, shoulders forward like I’m giving a lecture. “Something believable. Organic. Respectable.”

He tilts his head at me, eyes gleaming with amusement. “So … a farmer’s market?” I roll my eyes as a groan rips out of me.

“I said believable.”

He chuckles low in his chest, the sound warm, velvety, and annoyingly contagious. I fight a smile and press on.

“Function … at a gallery in LA. I was a waitress, you were supposed to be on a date.”

That makes him laugh outright, the kind that spreads through the room like the flare of a struck match. For a second, it actually softens the hard edges of his face.

And damn it, the sound is dangerously easy to like.

“I don’t date,” he interrupts. “But I was there for the show … you carried wine. I bumped you. You spilled it on me.”

I smile and crack the charcoal mask even more. “That’s kind of cute.”

“You thought I was rude. I thought you were dramatic. You told me off. I asked for your number. You said no.” Sounds about right. I would have thought he was an obnoxious ass … a sexy, perfect, attractive one … with a robotic manner … a toyboy with a cap T … but still an annoying ass.

And I never give out my number. Not after the incident. Noah knows this.

“But then,” I smile, more genuinely this time. He’s not that bad … I think. “You waited for me outside, handing me your very expensive Italian shirt to wash. The next day we met for brunch so I could give your stupid shirt back,” I sneer.

“See? You’re catching on.”

“But why are we moving in together so soon?” Noah will know I would never move in with a guy … especially after just 4 months.

“You got evicted. Rent went up. You had nowhere to go, and I offered.”

“Pity move?” I chuckle.

“No. I was begging you. Because I missed you when you weren’t there.” Nope, not good enough. I need a reason that fits me for this to look legit.

“Leyla … we moved in so Leyla could start her next round of chemo with the new doctor.” Now that’s something even I would believe I would do. He nods.

We sit in silence for a moment, the soft ping of rain echoing faintly on his side of the screen.

“What do we tell Noah?” I ask eventually.

“Don’t tell him.” He doesn’t have any sign of worry on his face. Well, I’m not comfortable with this take-it-as-you-go attitude. I need to know.

I hesitate. “What are you going to tell your family?” I try again.

“Nothing. They’ll find out eventually.”

“When? The day I move in?” He shrugs.

“Probably. Although Jackson might know everything by tomorrow,” he hoots a roar. “I swear he has top secret NSA clearance.” He’s way too comfortable with everything. I’m not.

I frown. “I hate this already.” I’m not gonna lie. This is way out of my comfort zone.

“You’ll get used to it.” Still calm as a cucumber.

“I won’t.”

“You might even start to like me.” This hits too close to home. I think I’m already starting to like him.

I laugh. “Unlikely.”

“Fine, I’ll talk to Noah. Tell him our story. Charm him. Be polite and not my usual self.” I believe he’ll charm my brother. I’m sure he can charm the devil.

“He’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. Don’t worry so much,” he ends.

I’m tired. And I need to think. I need to end this call.

I sigh. “Is there anything else?”

“Just one thing.” His voice drops into that slow, teasing register that makes it sound like he is about to propose or promote cologne. “I can’t wait for you to move in.”

“Please don’t flirt with me while I look like this.”

“On the contrary,” he says, smirking, “I think this version of you is the most honest. Raw. Real. Covered in volcanic tar.”

“It’s CHARCOAL.” I really need to end this call. He’s creeping into my mind.

“I’m into it.” Into the tar or into my mind? And I’ve never met anyone this cocky.

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Looking forward to meeting in person, Batnip.” What’s with the fucking Batnip?

Click. I slam the laptop shut and scream into the air.

My neighbor shouts from next door, “Did you just fall in love or explode?” Thin walls. Tiny, lousy, shitty apartments. Affordable.

“Neither!”

But my heart is doing weird, traitorous things. Which is not in the contract.