No Interest in Love

  No Interest in Love is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Loveswept eBook Original

  Copyright © 2015 by Cassie Mae

  Excerpt from When We Fall by Marquita Valentine copyright © 2015 by Marquita Valentine

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark and the LOVESWEPT colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book When We Fall by Marquita Valentine. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

  eBook ISBN 9781101885796

  Cover design: Regina Wamba

  Cover photograph: Wavebreakmedia/Shutterstock

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Sunday

  Monday

  Tuesday

  Wednesday

  Thursday

  Friday

  Saturday

  Monday

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  By Cassie Mae

  About the Author

  The Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from When We Fall

  Sunday

  8:30 P.M.

  I was fifteen years old when I told myself I wanted to become an actor. I’d just gotten my ass kicked by Sonya Lopez’s older brother because I’d stood her up. And, yeah, I probably deserved it. I fawned over that girl, took two years to get the courage to ask her out, did all that girly shit by writing her name anywhere I could (Well, practicing writing her name. Took me a few months to get all the letters in the right place). I used to find excuses to talk to her, a lot of times relying on her help to read something in the daily reading assignment in English. I had a specialist in the room, but I wanted Sonya’s help. (Dyslexia’s a bitch.)

  I daresay that I was in love at fifteen, or whatever the version of “in love at fifteen” is. Then I overheard her in a conversation with her friends the day of the date, and to this day I remember it perfectly.

  “You want to hang tonight?” her friend asked. (Yeah, it’s been ten years, so I don’t remember her name, just that she had really big front teeth.)

  Sonya shook her head. “I’m hanging out with Jace Carver.” And I was about to do the most confident thing I’ve ever done and wrap my arms around her waist in front of everybody, but the next words out of her mouth stopped my feet. “Not really hanging out, though. I mean, he probably just wants me to help him read something again.” And they all laughed and giggled and my fifteen-year-old heart snapped in half and fell in an embarrassed pile on the floor. I left it there in the hallway; I bet the high school kids now can still see it lying there.

  So I stood her up, her brother pummeled my face in (I wasn’t as bulked up as I am now, poor fifteen-year-old me), and I ended up camping out in my basement, avoiding Grandma as much as I could because no way in hell could she see me for at least a week. I turned on to How I Met Your Mother, and the particular episode playing, “The Playbook,” became the foundation to my life’s goals.

  See, I was a scrawny teenager who couldn’t read and so I was an asshole to everyone because they couldn’t possibly understand. After seeing that episode, I started jotting down my own Playbook—a list of “characters” I can choose to be whenever the hell I want. I was the smart nerd one day, a football player the next, the mysterious artistic dude or the obnoxious clown. My life became a movie, and everyone in it became actors in a script with constant plot twists. Instead of Mr. Scrawny Extra, I became Mr. Kickass Lead. I even have a bio for myself.

  Character bio: Jace Carver (aka: Mr. Kickass Lead)

  Talented, witty, and most important, hilarious guy who doesn’t get suckered into that silly little thing called love. After testing out his many personalities, he’s settled on the Goofball Player. Good in the sack and surprisingly rich.

  I’m still working on that last one. Right now, in fact.

  —

  “Oh dear Lord,” Shay says when I open the door of our hotel room we have to share for the night. “It smells like ass in here.”

  She wrinkles her tiny nose, pushing her red old-lady glasses up as she peers inside, but doesn’t move. I inhale deeply, noticing the assy scent, but even that can’t wipe the smile from my face.

  Because I’m getting laid by the end of the week.

  “I call the left one,” I say, dragging my carry-on bag across the room and claiming the bed by the window. The hotel room isn’t much, but it was this or a motel, and that one letter makes a whole lot of difference.

  “That’s the one I want,” she says.

  I knew she’d argue with me. Enter in Shay…

  Character bio: Shaylene Kwak (aka: Agent from Hell; aka: Buzzkill; aka: Miss Very Unlikely Love Interest)

  An organized, short, and oddly dressed Korean girl. She can dish out as much shit as she can take. Fun to mess around with, but not in the sheets.

  I tilt an eyebrow at her suggestively. I’m already pushing my shoes off with my toes. “We can share. I don’t mind.”

  Her tiny nose wrinkles again. “How did I know that would be your response?”

  She plops her giant purse on the right-hand bed and blows out a large sigh. Shaking my head, I grab it by the strap and set it on the bed I clearly called dibs on.

  “You can have it. I don’t want your mood to affect my buzz.”

  She crosses her arms over her high-collared blue shirt. Shay’s always tried to give off the vibe that she’s commanding and intimidating when really it’s hilarious as hell.

  “How can you be happy right now? Our flight was delayed. We should be in Alabama schmoozing up to Carletta and the casting director.”

  Ah…Carletta. That’s why I’m happy right now.

  Carletta Ocean is famous, and not just for her acting. Rumor has it that she sleeps with every actor who plays opposite her, but just while shooting. She said in an interview once that it “helps create authentic chemistry.” Then, after however many months, it’s done. Clean-cut, no-mess sexual arrangement.

  Those lucky bastards.

  See, I haven’t been able to score with a woman in over…ah, hell, I don’t even like to think about it. Let’s just say it’s the driest of spells. It’s like the sandman has crash-landed in my shorts, and he’s taking forever to recover. That’s a plot twist I’m trying to straighten out. Damn screenwriter thinks he’s a funny guy. My balls have turned so blue, Smurfs look pale in comparison.

  My last conquest, Chantal, and I slept together the whole time we shot the low-budget movie. My best buddy, Landon, got a grant from a film festival he’d won a few years before that, and he needed actors willing to work for pretty much nothing. I was for sure going to help out, but Chantal thought we should get something else out of all the hard work in case the movie didn’t sell to any studios. The terms were beautiful. No one was gonna find out, and we weren’t gonna keep it up when filming was over. It was the cleanest “breakup” I’ve ever had.

  It was magnificent.

  And Shay, my brilliant—yet pain-in-the-ass—agent, landed me an audition for the next Carletta movie.

  “Hey, the audition’s not till Friday,” I say, plopping down on the bed closest to the door. I tuck my hands under my head. “We got time.”

  She dives into her bag, the only
luggage she packed. Her tablet catches a glare from the setting sun as she pulls it out, and it hits me right in the eyes.

  “Please tell me you’re not going to make me work.”

  Her face lights up as the screen turns on. “You can’t mess this up like you did the last audition.”

  “That wasn’t my fault.”

  “You mooned the casting director.”

  “He wanted a butt double! What kind of messed-up shit is that?” I flip around. “Look at this ass. It’s glorious.”

  She pushes her lips together, holding back her laugh. Her eyes are definitely checking out my ass, but she neither confirms nor denies its glory.

  “I’m going to see if the front desk can print out the script.” She tries to shove the tablet into her back pocket but it doesn’t fit. So she leaves quickly…probably so I don’t have the chance to make fun of her for trying to fit a square peg in a round hole.

  As soon as the door clicks behind her, I reach over and mash the remote till it hits something worth watching. The TV is always on no matter where I am. I call it research even though my friends call it laziness.

  Neil Patrick Harris is first up on the entertainment news of the day, and I toast with my coffee mug to the acting god himself. It’s because of his genius character on How I Met Your Mother that I strive for my life to be legen…wait for it…dary.

  Along with The Playbook, I’ve taken what I call the “Stinson Approach” for all decisions. Quick background: Barney Stinson is a character on that brilliant show who achieved the thing I didn’t know was possible. He went through his entire life sleeping around, different woman every night, rarely the same woman twice, and was easily the happiest character on the show. It’s because of his elaborate schemes that I majored in acting.

  My life might not be legendary yet. But it will be. I think I’m almost at that place where I can really embrace my inner Barney Stinson. See, Barney has one thing going for him that I don’t.

  Money.

  Struggling actor = broke.

  Broke = less women.

  Less women = can’t be picky.

  So I thought that when I caught my big break, the women would flock to the cash flow. Then I realized that there was no cash flow, and what little I did make from the small-screen movie went straight into Grandma’s bank account for the house I’m trying to buy her.

  The brunette hosting on-screen switches topics, and I sit up at the mention of Carletta.

  “Turns out Carletta Ocean’s new film might be delayed, costing the studio a large sum of money. Up-and-coming actor Ian Ritter walked off set and away from his leading role playing opposite Carletta after a heated argument about the cat she kept on set. Ian’s highly allergic, and when Carletta refused to keep the feline in her trailer, Ian hit the road. Now producers are searching the globe for a leading man. The only qualification they seem to be looking for came from screenwriter and producer Killion Jacobs, who says, ‘He better be comfortable with partial nudity.’ Whether he’s talking about in the film or behind the scenes is another question.”

  “Oh, I’m comfortable with it,” I tell the TV, grinning like a buffoon and grateful Shay has left the room. The brunette keeps talking about how open auditions will be held in Alabama next week, but she’s gotta check her sources. Because Shay called up the casting director this morning, sent in one of my tapes from the Syfy movie I was the lead in, The Walking Stiff. Not three hours later, Carletta was inviting me to an exclusive screen test. Not even a read first. Hells yeah.

  “Prepare yourself, boys,” I say to the Smurfs out loud because I’m just that damn happy. “You’re in for a color change.”

  10:29 P.M.

  Shay perches on one of the chairs by the window, red-rimmed glasses sliding from her nose. Her body is so short and small, she can fit a leg under her and plant the other on the edge so she can rest her coffee on her knee. Her mouth is moving, muttering Korean unintelligibles under her breath. She has a frantic look as she moves things around on her schedule, her black hair pushed up into a messy bun that’s held together only by pens and pencils. She did that in school, too.

  “Yeah…if you’re gonna do boring shit, I’m leaving.”

  “Well, I love you too,” Shay says—it’s our shared sarcastic phrase—then waves me toward the door. I grab my swim trunks, since I’ve got about half an hour before the pool closes, change in the bathroom, and head out. Shay doesn’t look up from her tablet once.

  The indoor pool has wall-to-wall glass windows, and since it’s raining, the fog from the heated water makes it impossible to see outside. There are three other people there: a couple who are not afraid of public displays of affection—and have bright, shiny rings on their left hands—and an old lady who looks dead in the hot tub. I stare at her for longer than is considered normal to make sure she’s breathing. Is she breathing? The couple doesn’t seem to notice, but they are kind of groping each other. I ease forward a step and the old lady’s mouth drops open and she lets out an enormous groan, making me just back away with a laugh. Good…I don’t remember what the proper mouth-to-mouth etiquette is.

  I slip into the shallow end and start a lap because if I don’t do something I’m just the creepy twenty-five-year-old guy hanging out in the pool with the honeymooners.

  When I pop out of the water after two or three goes, I wipe my face off and notice the redheaded female honeymooner staring at me. I dart my gaze somewhere else, but there’s nowhere to look other than at the old lady in the hot tub, who would still look dead if she wasn’t groaning like a mutated Budweiser frog every few seconds. I consider hoisting myself out and heading back upstairs, but given the choice between here and the room, I’ll take awkwardness with the newly married redhead over listening to Shay nag me about the dos and don’ts of screen tests.

  “An ass double, psh,” I whisper to myself, squirting water across the pool with my hands. The redhead’s stare is burning a hole into my temple. Yeah, I’m talking to myself, but didn’t anyone ever tell her only to stare if she’s flirting? Lady, your husband is right there. And I’m only interested in ménages of the 2:1 girl ratio. Call me a prude.

  I dive back under the water and swim two more laps, but since I’m more or less doggy-paddling, I stop and float, until a splash across my face sends me upright, and I run my hand over my eyes before opening them to the couple.

  “Dude, what the hell?” I ask the guy, who obviously sent water my way to get my attention. He smiles and jerks his head toward his girl.

  “Sorry. Settle an argument for us?”

  I raise an eyebrow, considering just leaving the pool in case the dude is some psycho sent to get me right before I catch my big break.

  “Are you an actor?” the redhead (aka: Miss Staring Married Woman I Should Not Be Checking Out) asks.

  My neck jerks back a little in surprise. “Uh…yeah.”

  She turns to her husband. “Told you.” Then she swims to the edge of the pool and hoists herself out. It takes me five seconds before I realize I’m checking out this guy’s wife’s ass right in front of him. Man, what did I just tell myself not to do? Come on, Jace, you’ve got one day and you’ll be with Carletta Ocean, pinking up these balls. You can make it.

  “We caught The Walking Stiff last night,” the dude says, not fazed by my wandering eyes. “Hilarious stuff, man.”

  “Oh…yeah, thanks.”

  “You do autographs?”

  A smile tilts my lips. I’ve never been asked for one before. The dude nods at his wife, and I check her out again while she towels off her chest. It’s an involuntary twitch caused by Sandman Pants.

  I clear my throat and force myself to look at the dude. “Uh, hell yeah, I do autographs. You got a pen?”

  He laughs and calls out, “Hey, Linds, go see if they have Sharpies at the front desk!” She nods, a blush spreading across her cheeks as she hurries off.

  “Sorry, first time we’ve met a celebrity,” the guy says, then pushes himself up on t
he edge of the pool.

  “I was on the Syfy network,” I say with a chuckle, pulling myself up to sit next to him, keeping quite a bit of distance between us. “Not really anything to freak out about.”

  “I don’t know.” He stares at the foggy glass wall. “Most of the acting on that channel is…well…”

  He makes a face, and I laugh, coughing a bit from the chlorine in the air.

  “You were better, though,” he adds.

  “Good to hear.” Though the acting was supposed to be a bit exaggerated.

  “I’m Travis, by the way,” he says, extending his hand. I grab it and shake hard.

  “Jace…on. Jason.”

  “That your real name or did you change it?”

  I smirk at the water. “Yeah, I’m still getting used to it.” Good thing he reminded me. I would’ve signed the name that’s not going to be famous.

  A tremor rolls through my arm, making my right hand shake against my leg. Damn it. The anxiety before writing (or reading) anything is premature this time. I grip the edge of the pool to steady it.

  “Dig your ink,” he says, nodding to the Wolverine tat on my ribs. “You get it done here in LA?”

  I grin, silently thanking the Screenwriter of the Universe for a distraction. “New York. Freshman year of college. Needs a touch-up.”

  “Been thinking of getting one, but the artists I can afford kind of suck. So I’m waiting on it.”

  “Smart. My bud Landon has a tat on his ass from one of those ‘artists.’ He keeps talking about getting it removed.”

  He laughs, and “Linds” comes back, nearly dry everywhere but her hair and bikini. She bites her lip and kneels between us at the edge of the pool. Travis puts his hand on her shoulder.

  “Just your name is okay, if you don’t mind,” she says, setting the Sharpie in my hand. I wait for a shirt or a pad of paper or something to sign, but she pushes her chest at me, and I laugh as I raise an eyebrow to Travis. He waves his hand, like, “Go for it.”