Page 4 of Ezra the Billionaire

LAUREN

So much for a low profile.

First, I douse Hearthstone Lodge’s handsome as sin manager and part-owner in my morning coffee—way to go, Lauren—then I agree to model for their marketing campaign.

What the actual hell?

I don’t do press. I don’t step out of the shadows in the background. The one fucking time I did is what landed me here in the first place! If I wanted to live in the spotlight, I’d sing my own songs instead of sticking with songwriting credits only.

“You. Stand over there.” Jean Marcelle points to one of the water fountains delineating the four corners of the atrium. His huff of exasperation is the fifth so far, and it’s only our first day of shooting.

After an awkward meeting with him, Kennedy, and Ezra, he’d reluctantly agreed to have me model. I say reluctantly because he couldn’t refuse his clients’ request outright, but judging by the unimpressed glare he shot my way, Jean Marcelle never deigned to photograph mere civilians. Supermodels only.

Like my companion, Jennifer Q.

No last name. Just Q.

Frankly, he doesn’t seem particularly excited to shoot Hearthstone Lodge either—too rustic for his taste if I had tohazard a guess—so they must be paying him a buttload to secure his services.

“Très magnifique, Jen, darling,” he coos, snapping pose after pose as Jennifer tilts her head or lifts a bony shoulder.

Très magnifique, Lauren, darling,I mimic in my head, mirroring Jennifer’s actions while partially obscured by the fountain spray. Maybe I should be happy Jean shoved me to the outskirts of every image, but if I’m participating in this photoshoot, I’d like to look pretty, at least—not a stiff, water-misted lump.

Is that too much to ask?

“You! Step back!” Jean yells at me.

Guess so.

***

After another day spent hustling around the lodge while Jean fawned over Jennifer and relegated me to the most unflattering of places—okay, so I don’t know how his photos will turn out, and I may be pleasantly surprised—ice cream was in order.

Cherry chocolate chip, to be exact.

Hiking the grocery basket already filled with a bag of Munchies and Dr. Pepper into the crook of my elbow, I peruse the frozen aisle, searching for my favorite ice cream flavor.

“Vanilla, Rocky Road, Neapolitan…”Where is it?“Bingo!”

A pint of the sugary goodness bounces in the basket when someone tries reaching around me through the open freezer door. The rude guy doesn’t acknowledge my presence except to push me aside to grab a gallon of vanilla.

“Excuse you,” I mutter under my breath, and he finally spares a side glance before doing a double take as recognition lights his eyes.

“You’re the fat chick from that show my girlfriend makes me watch every Wednesday. No wonder he hooked up with thatother girl. She’s fucking hot, and you’re stuffing your face with junk.”

A lot of words just spilled from this rude as hellhas no room to talk with his gallon of ice creamjerk, and I feel bad for his poor girlfriend. From insulting my body to praising Hunter’s decision to cheat on me, this guy deserves the lashing of the century, but my tongue refuses to work. A fierce rebuttal freezes in my throat.

Come on, Lauren! Stand up for yourself!

But nothing comes out.

Righteous anger swirls in my belly, but so does embarrassment and insecurity. This stranger pinpointed the best spots to launch an attack and landed each poisoned arrow with aplomb.

The bastard.

“What did you say to her?” A furious voice that decidedly doesnotbelong to me enters the fray. The blast of heat suddenly at my back sends a thrill down my spine as my brain registers the familiar pissed tone. The same one used once I was escorted to his office after dousing him in coffee.

Ezra Caldwell.

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