The Boy Toy - Nicola Marsh Page 0,7

should bolt for the safety of her apartment fifty floors above and let him do his own damn laundry.

When she continued to dither, he pointed at his stained T-shirt. “Once this dries, it’ll be hard to get out.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Flustered and hot and more than a tad drunk, Samira slid off the barstool and teetered for a moment, before lifting her chin. “Follow me.”

Three

When Rory’s casting agent had called him earlier for an urgent meeting, he never would’ve guessed it would land him in an elevator going up to a stunning woman’s apartment two hours later.

In fact, Rory usually kept his expectations low when Chris called. “Urgent” could mean anything from filling in for a soap opera stuntman who’d broken his leg to signing on with a low-budget movie.

But thirty minutes ago, Chris had stridden up to the bar and slapped him on the back before sliding onto the stool next to him. “Rory, thanks for meeting me on such short notice. Beer?”

“No.” Rory took a deep breath and let it out slowly, determined not to stumble over the “th” sound. “Thanks.”

He’d learned to manage his stutter most of the time, but the last thing he needed was his casting agent figuring out why he eschewed speaking roles in favor of the physical demands of a stuntman.

“I’ll get straight to the point.” Chris placed his laptop on the bar, lifted the screen, and tapped at a few keys. “There’s a role coming up I think you’ll be perfect for.”

An outback snapshot with a big, bold renegades across the middle filled the screen. “This is going to be the next big thing in reality shows. Huge.”

Chris bristled with excitement as he jabbed at the screen. Rory had never seen him this enthused. “They need a down-to-earth, rugged host who looks like he wrestles crocs in his spare time.”

Chris radiated smugness as he stared at him. “You fit the requirements perfectly.”

A dull roar filled Rory’s ears as he focused on one word: “host.”

A TV host fronted the entire thing. He spoke. A lot.

Mistaking his silence for surprise, Chris continued. “I know you’re not big on speaking roles, but don’t worry. I’m hiring you a dialect coach. They’ll work closely with you in the lead-up to the audition so you’ll kick ass.”

“Right,” Rory managed, at a loss for words and not because he couldn’t articulate them clearly.

The thought of having to read lines made his gut churn. His palms grew clammy, and he surreptitiously swiped them down the sides of his jeans. He may have learned to mask his stutter from countless speech therapy sessions over the years, but that meant jack when he got riled up or overly excited. Then no amount of pausing, mentally rehearsing, and breathing could stop the Ts, the Ds, the Gs, and all of the other problematic letters from running into one another as they spilled from his lips.

He’d never forget the embarrassment of kids at school discovering he couldn’t speak clearly and the resultant teasing. Worse, enduring countless classes where sadistic teachers who knew of his condition called his name repeatedly to answer questions out loud.

So why the hell would he deliberately set himself up for a fall by speaking in front of the cameras?

“You’re overwhelmed. I get it.” Chris grinned, his glance flicking between the screen and him. “But this is it. Your big break.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Not to mention the money.”

Rory managed to nod, desperate to come up with a reason as to why he couldn’t do this but coming up blank. In a way, his awful childhood had ensured he put in the hours with speech therapy as a teen, determined to master control of his wayward mouth. It had helped, and these days only those closest to him knew he stuttered, but he’d be damned if he slipped up and let the world know.

He may need money desperately, but at what cost?

Oblivious to his discomfort, Chris brought up his calendar. “The audition is in four weeks, so I’ll tee up a dialect coach ASAP and forward the details to you.”

Again, all Rory could muster was a lame “Right,” but if Chris registered his monosyllabic responses, he didn’t show it.

“Ever had a dialect coach before?”

“No.”

But he’d had a shitload of speech therapists hired by his father to “rid his son of his affliction.” While his father had never come out and said it, Rory knew he embarrassed the great Garth Radcliffe.

For as long as he could remember, his