The Boy Toy - Nicola Marsh Page 0,18
Rory, only to find him a few feet away. Too close. Not close enough.
“You’re in luck. Pia can see you now. Just head back to reception and she’ll be waiting.”
“Great.”
Before she could say anything else, he swooped in for a kiss, an all-too-brief graze of his lips against hers that left her wanting so much more.
“What was that for?” she finally said when he kept staring at her mouth like he wanted to ravish it.
“A reminder to make that booty call.”
Feeling ridiculously happy and off-kilter, Samira watched his very hot booty all the way out the door.
Belatedly realizing she didn’t have his number.
Nine
Nice to meet you, Rory. I’m Pia. Please have a seat.”
He shook hands with the stunning Indian woman in the white coat he’d seen earlier and sat next to her desk. She looked nothing like the countless speech therapists he’d been dragged to as a kid. With her long black hair styled in glossy waves and perfect makeup, she looked like a lead from the Bollywood films he watched occasionally.
“Did Sam tell you that technically I’m not a dialect coach and it’s not my area of specialty?”
He nodded, increasingly intimidated he’d be seeing a speech therapist for his coaching. He should be relieved he wouldn’t be having to sit through torturous sessions with Samira when all he could think about was being inside her, but Pia would pick up on his stutter, and being Samira’s cousin, she’d tell her.
Stupid, because it shouldn’t bother him. But it did, and he didn’t want the polished, sexy Samira knowing he had a flaw.
“Are we bound by client-therapist confidentiality?”
She nodded, a glint of knowing in her eyes. “Absolutely.”
“Good, because I know Samira. We’re, uh, friends, and I know she’s your cousin, so I would prefer anything th-that happens in here s-stays between us.”
Great, just being in the presence of a speech therapist brought out his stutter. Fuck.
“You control your stutter well,” she said, homing in on it like the professional she was. “It’s difficult to detect unless you’re an expert.”
“I put in enough hours trying to master it growing up,” he muttered, hating talking about his stammer as much as hearing himself trip up when the letters ran into one another.
“Good for you.” Her gaze glowed with admiration. “So tell me why you need dialect coaching.”
“The short version is, I’m up for an audition to host a new reality show on TV. It’s the kind of part I would never consider, but I need the money.”
“Okay,” she said, steepling her fingers on her desk like some Freudian analyst. “Have you done many speaking roles before?”
“None,” he begrudgingly admitted, feeling totally out of his depth and sounding like it. “I’m a stuntman that eschews speaking roles for obvious reasons.”
“Learning lines can be like singing; you won’t stutter.”
“It’s a risk I haven’t been willing to take.”
She pinned him with a curious stare. “Then why now?”
His gaze skittered away to fix on the framed diploma above her desk. “Already told you, I need the money.”
Before she could probe further, he said, “So can you help me?”
After a long pause, she nodded. “Of course. Do you know much about dialect coaching?”
“Not really.”
“Technically, the coach helps actors with voice and speech in relation to a specific role. I’ll give you training exercises, instruct you in problem areas, and work on lines with you. But most importantly, I focus on your consistency, clarity, and ensuring you’re credible with the part you’re auditioning for.”
Rory nodded while his head spun. Did he actually think he could do this?
As if sensing his wavering confidence, she added, “Basically, it’s about getting your vocal character and delivery right for the role.”
“Uh-huh,” he managed, feeling his throat tightening already with familiar fear.
It had been like this every time he started with a new therapist. The fear of appearing a fool, the fear of being incompetent, the fear of trying his hardest to conquer his stutter yet failing regardless.
As Pia studied him without judgment, he almost balked.
He could walk out of here and not look back.
He could ask his father for the money.
Easier than making an ass of himself in the biggest audition of his life. Or worse, in front of the camera if he actually landed the role.
But asking his father for money came with a price, which was why he’d avoided it for years. He’d rather eat bland ramen noodles and take any stunt role no matter how dangerous than be indebted to a man who never let him forget his failures.
“It can