Hollywood Hearts (Steamy Standalone Instalove)

“You’re just saying that,” I try to tell them, but they mean it.

“Seriously, I wish I had skin like yours.”

“That hair, all-natural? Girl, you’ve got it going on.”

“And those nails? I wish mine could grow like that.”

I’ve never had so many genuine compliments, and within a half-hour of pampering, I feel like every word might just be true.

Jack’s far from bored and makes sure he’s right next to me the whole time, getting himself a trim and some north of the border manscaping done himself.

Seeing him get his brows and nose plucked makes me feel less intimidated by my own treatments, which are mainly just hair, nails, and some light makeup which I never really wear.

They make it look easy, but I’ve never played with makeup much because it’s so easy to get it wrong. Plus no one ever looked at me twice with or without it, so it’s a cost saver for me to just give it a miss.

But now I’m not so sure.

With my hair styled professionally and in a way I’ve never worn it before, plus my face looking like something out of a magazine for a change, I feel-

“Beautiful,” Jack says, looking at me intently in the mirror. “Not that you weren’t to start with,” he reminds me, and there’s a chorus of ‘aww’ from the ladies who take a step back to admire their own handy work.

There are a few pictures and my own phone gets hijacked early for the before and after’s but I don’t mind this time.

It’s nothing like my bungled entrance this morning.

“All we need now is some new clothes,” Jack announces, and hamming it up, he claps his hands as though he’s a sultan in charge of a harem, cocking his brow with delight as everyone agrees, scurrying to another part of the maze-like building I know has the word wardrobe on it.

“We’re gonna steal her for a minute, Jack.” Somebody warns him and although he’s playing along I can tell he really doesn’t want me out of his sight.

“You don’t want to see me getting fitted and changed,” I murmur to him as I get up to follow, doing as I’m told.

But one glance at Jack tells me that’s not true.

“I’m not far behind,” he says loud enough for everyone to hear, and the hundred fingers that helped me look better than I could have imagined pass me over to the hundred more who are eagerly waiting to measure me up.

Anywhere else, I’d probably be scared to death. But just like the people helping with hair and makeup, there’s no judgment. Hell, half the women are way older and not bothered by how they look, so I don’t feel like it’s a beauty contest.

“You can keep your panties, but we’re gonna try and do away with this.” One of the ladies announces, making me gasp when she unhooks my bra and tosses it onto a chair like it’s already trash.

A fresh, fluffy robe covers me in seconds and I’m invited to sit and wait while a few outfits are chosen for me to try on.

They’re all beautiful, but the red low cut piece leaps out at me, but I’m the first to admit aloud that there’s no way I’d fit into it.

“That’s what we’re here for honey,” somebody chimes in, telling me I’m right though.

“It’ll need to be let out a whole cup size or two up top,” she adds, and there’s a murmur of agreement.

No laughing or name calling. No pointing.

Nothing I’d ever associate with Olivia Fanning trying on new clothes in front of other people.

Especially in a Hollywood studio of all places.

I try it on, and to my surprise, it fits pretty well, but there are chalk lines and fingers under elastic in seconds, then I’m ordered to take it off and wait.

I don’t feel like trying anything else on. Somehow the red dress is just right, but I do wonder how I’ll keep warm enough in it.

I miss my sweater and jeans already.

It feels like minutes before the dress is back again and trying it on, I’m convinced it must be a different dress in the same style they went and found.

But the same chalk lines tell me it’s not.

“That was pretty quick,” I remark, wondering how they even did that.

“It’s our job,” someone cheerfully reminds me, handing me matching shoes I know will fit but they’re no less pleased than I am once I slip into the whole outfit.

“Perfect.”

“Beautiful.”

“I think red is your color,” somebody else says approvingly.

I feel a tightness in my chest, and it’s not because the dress doesn’t fit.

My lip trembles and as much as I try to stop them, there are tears.

“I’ve never had anyone say so many nice things before,” I finally manage.

Expert hands dab my tears away and rub my back, telling me I look beautiful and there’s no need to cry about it.