The F List - Alessandra Torre Page 0,36

Camera Operator, House of Fame

40

#quietontheset

CASH

Ninety percent of every reality show is scripted. Complete fabrication. Not the lines, they let us ad lib those, but the scenarios and drama are contrived. The remaining ten percent of the show is natural interaction, chemistry and fireworks—which is why the cameras ran on us all the time, hoping for something.

"Okay, this is simple, so don't screw it up." Dana stood in the middle of the living room, her clipboard in hand. "Cash answers Emma's phone, takes a message for her, doesn't give her the message and she freaks out at him."

She looks from me to Emma. “Got it?”

“What am I doing when he answers my phone?”

“Pool or shower, it’s up to you.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and mentally voted for the shower. Not because I needed to see her in a towel, but—okay, whatever. I'm a guy. I wanted to see her as close to naked as possible.

Her gaze drifted to mine, and I adopted the best bored look I could muster. “Pool.”

I shrugged as if I didn’t care.

“Okay, let’s get Emma in a bathing suit and Cash in the living room. Emma, where’s your phone?”

She glanced off set, and a thin guy with a pencil mustache emerged from the group. “This is the phone we’re using. I can be the person at the other end, if you need someone.”

“Sure, whatever.” Dana took the phone and turned it over in her hand. “This is the same case as Emma’s?”

“Same case and cover pic,” the guy said smoothly. “Ringtone also.”

I stole a look at the phone, which was a Nokia—a guaranteed product placement because iPhone never paid. Still, I was surprised she couldn't have swung a Samsung or LG sponsor. Nokia was the bottom of the barrel of influencer packaging, but maybe that’s what you got at twenty million followers.

We walked through the setup during the fifteen minutes it took Emma to change, and I almost missed the moment she walked back through the living room and out the French doors.

Almost. I’d have to be a blind man to miss the view of her in a string bikini, her hair loose and down around her shoulders. I stopped mid-sentence and watched as she eased out the door and stepped into the sun.

I called her white trash once, but it wasn’t true. Emma had always had an air of class about her. A smooth fragility. At the party, it had been hidden behind a baggy sweatshirt and defensive posture, and now it was cased in wit and confidence—but the vulnerability was still there, softening her rough edges.

She dropped her towel on a chair and eased into the pool, and I fought back a growl as three cameras captured the action, the men circling her like lions moving in for a kill.

“Got it?” Dana snapped her fingers in front of my face.

“Yeah,” I snapped. “I got it. I’ve answered a phone before.”

"Great," she said tartly. "Then, maybe we can knock this out before lunchtime." She looked past me and into the sitting area, which was crammed with crew and equipment. “Glorya, you ready to make the call?"

“Yep.”

“Is Emma in the pool?”

“Emma’s in the pool,” someone called out.

Everyone fell silent, and Dana nodded at me. I opened the fridge and pulled out the milk, glancing over when Emma's fake cell phone, which was on the counter next to her purse, rang.

The fake call ended, and I was at the counter eating a ham and cheese. She came in, her cheeks flushed, skin glistening, a white towel wrapped around her body and tucked into her cleavage. I kept my gaze on the sandwich before me and listened as she circled the end of the counter and opened the fridge.

"Our drink selections suck," she complained, pulling an orange Fanta from the door and pushing it shut with her hip. I tried not to notice her bare legs or the cling of the towel against her ass.

“Where’d you get the sandwich?” She paused beside me, close enough that I could smell her sunscreen.

I looked up and made, for the first time that day, eye contact with her. “I made it.”

“Wow, Cash Mitchell makes his own food.” She cracked open the can. “Shocking. I would have thought you had people for that.” She grinned at me, then took a sip.

I looked back down at the sandwich and prayed for this to just be over already.

“THIS IS BORING,” Dana said loudly. “Either start jacking him off or check your damn phone.