How To Wed A Billionaire: How To Wed A Billionaire, #1

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