Pizza My Heart(A Billionaire Romance, Part 2)(16)

“Excuse me?”

“I didn’t stutter.” Chaz tapped on his phone, texting someone. “You’re going to have to look good. Didn't I tell you that was the most important thing? And even I know that’s not a good length for you. It does your face a disservice.”

Was he saying that my face was pretty or my hair was wretched? Had the man ever given a compliment in his life?

“You’ll have hair and makeup done prior to the interview, of course,” he said, not bothering to look up from his phone. “But you can’t go in there expecting a miracle. You have to arrive looking good or it will find its way out that you came to the interview a hot mess. We also have to go shopping. Ugh. I’ll just have a personal shopper bring some selections over in your size. That’s the better plan. I’ll just bring all of this to you. You shouldn’t be seen in public until you have your new look.”

It was a relief to me that I didn’t have to be seen in public with Chaz. I honestly had no idea why Devon tolerated his presence. Chaz hadn’t grown on me one bit, and he hadn’t done anything to build my confidence about the interview.

An army of beauty and appearance professionals arrived at the house shortly after we finished our beverages, going over possible questions Kelly might ask.

“Smile!” Chaz kept barking. “Who’s going to be sure of you if you look unsure of yourself?”

He continued to coach me even as a stylist had me leaning back over a sink, scrubbing my scalp raw.

“What do you think of LA?” he asked, still fiddling with his phone.

“I think it’s very new and exciting,” I said, mimicking the exact tone of the answer he’d fed me earlier.

“That’s not very believable,” he said, frowning at his phone before flicking his finger over the display several times. “Aren’t Texans supposed to have an accent?”

“Some do,” I said. “I don’t. I lived in Dallas.”

“Can’t you just talk with an accent?” he asked. “Come on. We need them to pity you. If they pity you, they have less room for hatred.”

“Why would they pity me over an accent?” I asked.

“Because people go to classes here to get rid of things like Texas accents,” Chaz intoned.

“I’m not faking an accent,” I said. “What if someone found out I was faking it?”

“True. Fine. You win that one. No accent.”

I tried to watch my appearance’s progress in the reflection of the cabinets in the kitchen, where we were all working, but my view was blocked most of the time by a beautician or Chaz. I could only track what was going on by the hanks of hair dropping to the floor at my feet. I hadn’t had a professional haircut in my entire life. Nana had always trimmed it up for me until her hands had become too unsteady, and then I’d just gone to budget places to keep it out of my face.

As soon as my hair was cut and styled, a couple of tall, silent women made a move to strip off my clothes.

“Whoa, wait a second,” I protested. “What the hell is going on?”

“Personal stylists,” Chaz said. “They want to see what clothes will work for you.”

“I can undress myself,” I said. “Can’t we do this somewhere other than the kitchen?”

“What, are you shy now?” he asked, raising his eyebrows. “I’ve seen your everything, June. What else do you have that’s going to surprise me? A tail?”

I huffed a sigh and began trying on clothes, shivering in the cool air of the kitchen, at the clinical disinterest of the stylists. We finally settled on an outfit that Chaz loathed the least—a pair of skinny jeans, ankle boots, a slouchy tank top and a leather jacket—and it was on to the makeup.

“You need to do this makeup as close to what they’re doing now every single day,” Chaz said. “You’re prone to dark circles, and in Hollywood, that means you party too much.”

“I don’t party too much,” I said. “I party hardly at all.”

“That’s neither here nor there,” he said. “Ask questions. Learn this routine. Or I’m sure we could have a stylist come every day and help you get ready. Plenty of actresses do it. I just thought you’d enjoy your privacy.”

I tried to keep track of the steps and the brushes and the pots of powder and tubes of liquids as the makeup artist kept a running commentary of what she was doing, but it got hopeless as soon as she broke the airbrush out. There was no way I was going to learn how to airbrush my own face.

When I was finally primed and powdered and as perfect as they were going to get me, I got to stare at myself in the mirror.